Chapter Text
Shaine could not believe the fucking day that they had been having. They couldn't have even written this level of fuckery if they'd tried. It was truly like a comedy of errors, except that Shaine was not laughing.
First, they'd ripped their best pair of work trousers straight up the arse while putting them on in the morning. Great start. Terrific.
Then, the kitchen of the hotel that the company had booked them had had a small fire, so the complimentary breakfast that they had been counting on had been unceremoniously nixed, and they were forced to go to the work conference with an empty belly. Grand. Just fucking grand. By this point they were irritated, but only just, and if that had been all that happened, they could have still had a cracking day, but no. Oh no, not by a long shot.
No, next, they got a taxi, and the driver took them to The Queen's Tower Inn, instead of Queen's Tower Offices, where their conference was being held. The inn, it turned out, was quite conveniently located nearly clear across the borough. Needless to say, by the time they made it back to the other side of Manchester, Shaine was late. Nearly 45 minutes late, and this led to the absolute delight of their vigorously researched, meticulously planned, and well earned presentation being given instead by Stephen fucking Markham. Cunty, laddy, oily feckin prick. They would call him their nemesis, but that would be offering far too much credit and consideration to a man that deserved almost none.
They could smell the smug off him when they walked in the door that morning. It was pungent, standing there with his greased back hair and his beady feckin eyes. The only small comfort they were allotted, was getting to correct Stephen on the information a few times as he ‘bull in a china shop'd his way through their hard work. Although to call it a comfort would be an overstatement.
Truly the insult to injury on top was that throughout all of this, the chairman saw fit to endlessly misgender them, despite the GIANT feckin name badge listing their name and pronouns as well as the multiple verbal corrections they offered. Each of their corrections was met with not but a blank stare, if it was even acknowledged at all.
By the time the conference had concluded at half eight that evening, Shaine was emotionally drained and was then further chagrined to learn that because of their tardiness, they had been volunteered to input the meeting minutes, proposals, and data into the system and format it for everyone back at the office in Ireland. Absolutely feckin perfect.
They hadn't even wanted to come to these damn conferences in the first place and had only signed on so that they could get the trip to Manchester.
It was now nearly half eleven, and Shaine was just stepping out from the stagnant office and into the cool, early June air. They were weary and exhausted, and a tiny flicker of indignant fury was smoldering within them that they knew only a tall pour of whisky could quell.
Most of the pubs in this neighborhood closed around 10 or 11, and the few that would be open late on a Wednesday were not places that they'd prefer to be. Luckily, they knew there was always The Harp and Thistle. It was a bit further of a walk and, admittedly, the pub did also close at eleven pm, but that was no matter. Martin, the owner, was always holding court after hours, and he'd never turned Shaine away from a lock-in.
When they had fled to Manchester from Belfast for a spell, over ten years ago, Martin had looked out for them, and, though Shaine had been only sixteen at the time and Martin had clocked their fake ID almost immediately, he turned at least mostly a blind eye. He had allowed them to sit in the pub, read their books, and drink a few beers, though he drew the line at serving them hard liquor.
Shaine had only stayed living in Manchester for that one year, but they had stayed in touch with dear old Martin, and had come back for the summer a few years when they were in university. Since then, every time that they happened into town, they showed up on the doorstep of Harp and Thistle and surprised Martin who always greeted them with the utmost warmth; so off they went in the direction of The Harp, letting the walk in the night air soothe their ragged nerves.
When they arrived on the quiet side street in front of the pub, it was just past the hour. The main door was shut and locked up just as they had expected, but light and the faintest sounds of laughter and music still drifted out from the single stained glass window. Staring at the green, white and amber colored glass, with the golden harp settled in its center warmed Shaine to their core. It had truly been too long since they had returned and they couldn't wait to be settled back on one of those green leather bar stools.