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Seamus Finnigan (openbottle) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

This week, Seamus woke early from disorientating dreams. Not nightmares, thank Godric, but not too dissimilar. He was running, from something, turning blindly down streets, pursued by he knew not what. At least he wasn't looking for Dean's body this time. He wasn't hungover, but his surliness still simmered as he greeted the other battle veterans. The weather was turning cool and he'd pulled a comfortable muggle hoodie over his t-shirt, grateful for the extra layer but simultaneously thinking he could catch people looking disapprovingly out of the corners of their eyes.

He didn't say much. He couldn't, when he knew Dean was sitting and listening. Seamus wouldn't blame Dean for the sudden increase in his nightmares, or the fact he'd had to spell the mirror in his bathroom into a state of permanent fog just to bring himself to shower in the mornings. Nor would he mention them in Dean's hearing when he knew Dean would blame himself. Fortunately, 'fear' was a sufficiently broad topic that people had plenty to talk about.

The meeting seemed to drag on, and Seamus busied himself with the others leaving so he wouldn't have to notice when Dean fled. Finally, after directing people to the usual Sunday roast on the specials board, Seamus dragged himself back up the stairs. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he knew something was different. After a moment, he traced the source of the smell to counter. His first thought when he unwrapped the cake was to wonder if Aunt Rose had gotten engaged. He couldn't think of anything else special enough for the Thomas family to break out their special occasion cake. He took a pinch of cake with his fingers and transferred it to his mouth while he unrolled the scroll.

He had to read it three or four times. It didn't make any sense. For a start, Dean didn't need to apologise - but if he did... he was apologising for the wrong thing. Surely he knew he didn't have to say sorry for touching Seamus? He touched Seamus all the time, almost on a daily basis. Or he had. Now, apparently, he would endeavour never to do it again. Though he couldn't say it surprised him, the thought still hollowed Seamus out. Seamus crumbled another corner of the cake away, dabbing his fingers in the crumbs. Obviously, they needed to talk.

He grabbed a pen and a relatively-empty page of a weeks-old Daily Prophet and stuffed both into the big front pocket of his hoodie, then apparated to the studio - hoping against hope Dean was there rather than in his flat.