Kearney was twitchy. Oliver recognized that jumpiness, the eyes darting from corner to corner, the tension of muscles poised to leap away at the first sight of danger. He kept his motions smooth and let Kearney put his back to a wall in the corner. He’d regarded Ryan with barely concealed suspicion, and Oliver had noticed Kearney’s other hand lingering at his wand when he’d shaken Ryan’s. It was infuriating, agonizing, to see one of the best men he knew reduced to pure survival. 

Padma was gracious, accepting Oliver’s orders for the table and welcoming Kearney with soft words. His knuckles were white as parchment, and Oliver found himself glancing over his own shoulder. It was like he was back in the war, like nothing had changed. Oliver shook his head to dispel the thoughts. He needed to stay grounded. He needed to be the rock.

“No,” Kearney said automatically. He tensed, and then slowly unclenched his fist. “I mean—I don’t need one, I was seen—“

“Kearney. She’s one a’ th’guid ones,” Oliver said in a low voice. Kearney met his gaze, searching for a moment, before his shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

“I…alright. It’d—if it’s not a hassle,” Kearney relented. Some of the tension had drained out of his posture, and he leaned back against the wall. After a deep breath, he offered a wan smile. “So…what’d all I miss?”

“Whaur tae start?” Oliver offered a bark of laughter, launching into the lives and drama of the team, grateful for the chance to fill his friend in on their misadventures. Food was served as Oliver recounted how Martins had managed to set himself on fire at Manpreet’s welcome home party, leaving Kearney snorting in derisive pleasure.

Kearney ate like he’d never eat again, and sometimes Oliver could see his old Chaser in those gaunt cheeks and empty eyes. It was a start. Kicking back in his chair, Oliver linked his hands behind his head, a fond grin on his face.

It was, all in all, a damn good day.