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Seamus Finnigan (openbottle) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

"It'll get better," Seamus said - more hopeful than certain. It was what he personally clung to when it all got to be too much for him. The war was over, and though they were still suffering the after-effects at least they weren't adding more trauma on top of it anymore. Mostly. "In a few years it'll all be a decade ago. Then two, then three. And one day we'll be old and grey and wrinkly and we'll have been safe for longer than we were in danger." And that had to fix it, right? Seamus wouldn't still be having nightmares when he was in his 70s. Or maybe he'd have new nightmares where Dean died of old age and left Seamus to carry on alone... It didn't bear thinking about and Seamus tugged his shirt down and draped his arm across his stomach.

Dean brought the bowls over and Seamus took his with his free hand, cradling it against his chest while he fumbled with the spoon. "You're too good to me," he said, smiling at Dean as he squeezed himself into the space beside Seamus. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite pin down the reference. "What's that science-y thing about..." But the words wouldn't come and the soup smelled pretty good. Seamus dipped his spoon into it, blowing carefully across the surface before bringing it to his lips and sipping. The warmth was good, even before he could really taste anything. "I was going to say something incredibly intelligent about you being like... my shadow or negative space or something," he informed Dean before taking another spoonful. "But I can't think. Maybe it's not even science. Maybe it's art and I picked it up from some poncey artist that I know." He nudged his toes against Dean's calf to hammer home who this statement was referring to.