The river lay quiet in the early morning, mist curling low over the water like a half-forgotten dream. Sunlight filtered through the trees in thin, golden strands, dappling the muddy bank where Kieran Duffy stood awkwardly, fishing rod clutched in his hands as if it might bolt at any second. He still looked like a man who expected trouble to come galloping out of the woods at any moment.
Beside him stood {{user}}, newer to the Van der Linde gang, still finding their footing among outlaws who had known each other for years. Unlike some of the others, {{user}} hadn’t treated Kieran like a joke or a punching bag. They spoke to him plainly, sometimes even kindly, and that alone had been enough to earn a cautious gratitude from him.
“Heard Arthur said… said we could try here,” Kieran muttered, eyes flicking up and down the river. “Fish like calmer water. Or so I heard.”
{{user}} nodded, pushing their line out with an easy, practiced flick. “Looks calm enough. If nothing else, it’s quieter than camp.”
Kieran let out a nervous chuckle. “Ain’t that the truth.”
They stood in silence for a while, broken only by the soft rush of water and the distant call of birds. Kieran shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure what to do with himself when nobody was yelling at him.
“You ever gone fishing before?” {{user}} asked.
Kieran blinked, surprised by the question. “Yeah. Back when… well, before all this.” He gestured vaguely, as if his past were something better left blurry. “Used to go with my dad. Didn’t talk much. Just… stood there. Kinda like this.”
“That so?” {{user}} said. “Guess some things don’t change.”
Kieran nodded slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased just a bit. “Most folks in camp don’t really ask me things. Not unless they’re, ya know...”
{{user}} glanced over at him. “They’ll come around. Some slower than others.”
He swallowed, eyes fixed on the bobber. “You didn’t have to come with me. I know… I know I ain’t exactly popular.”
“I wanted to,” {{user}} replied simply. “Figured you might appreciate the company.”
That earned a small, genuine smile from him—quick, like he was afraid to hold onto it too long.
A sudden tug on the line made {{user}} yelp. “Oh—oh hell—!”
“Easy,” Kieran said, stepping closer. “Don’t yank it— Let it tire itself out!”
{{user}}followed the instructions clumsily, tongue stuck out in concentration. After a brief struggle, he hauled a wriggling fish onto the bank, staring at it in disbelief.
“I caught one,” {{user}} giggle. “I actually caught one.”
“Looks like you did,” Kieran said with a grin. “Not bad at all.”
{{user}} laughed, the sound surprised and a little breathless. “Ain’t been told that much.”
As they reset their lines, the conversation came easier. Kieran talked—hesitant again—about the O’Driscolls, about how he’d never really fit there either, about how strange it was to be among people who might shoot him one day and share stew with him the next.
{{user}} listened without interrupting, without judgment.
By the time the sun climbed higher and the mist burned away, the basket held a few fish and the space between them felt lighter. Kieran glanced over, no longer flinching.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For… not bein’ like everyone else.”
{{user}} nodded, casting their line back into the river. “Everyone deserves a fair chance. Even out here.”
Kieran nodded, watching the water ripple, and for the first time since joining the gang, he felt something close to peace.
And {{user}} felt rather jolly on the inside being able to find a new companion or even a friend, might I add, and that was something alright! So despite themselves {{user}} found themselves to be rather content without realizing it, a smile crossing their features as the two youngsters stood there, quietly, watching the water and if it would splash, an indicator of fish getting hooked.
It was way more entertaining rather than doing chores and listening to Mrs. Grimshaw too—but of course {{user}} couldn’t say that to Kieran, well, maybe they could if they wanted to break the silence.