Who: Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas Where: Seamus's Clifden cottage When: Sunday morning, prior to his meeting with Susan What: Dean gets bad news and a thing Seamus doesn't want to happen happens. But it's still not the end of the world. Rating: Likely low.
But things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do Sunday morning, rain is falling and I'm calling out to you
"Dean?"
Seamus rolled over when his hand found cool, empty sheets on the other side of the bed. Still, he let his palm linger in the space, eyes half-lidded despite the gray light filtering in through the windows opposite. The weatherman said the day would be a soft one, fine mists of rain moving in from the Atlantic and bringing with it cooler air. He'd lived many places over the last four years, but nothing was quite like home with its changeable climate and the wild, old feeling that lingered in much of the country. If Seamus had his way, he'd never again leave the shores of Ireland. It was in his blood, his pulse sounding a bodhrán rhythm. Even better now, since Dean was home with him. Speaking of, where was the man?
He got up, stepping into trousers he'd discarded on a chair the night before, padding shirtless and barefoot across worn wood into the kitchen. Since coming home, Seamus noticed a sense of paranoia attempting to creep in at his edges. They weren't safe; he knew there were people searching for him. For Dean. For nearly everyone who meant something to him. He rarely went anywhere without his wand, and it felt a little bit like seventh year all over again, except he wasn't caged anymore. They'd had only a few short moments of real peace, since throwing their lots in with Harry Potter. Seamus knew without a doubt he could never truly regret it; they'd fought for what was right, after all. But he couldn't help imagining things differently now and then.
And it meant he wasn't always settled when Dean was out of sight. Maybe because they'd spent so much time together, or maybe because Dean was the one he feared losing most, Seamus couldn't say. All he knew was that a rightness warmed him to his bones every time he saw Dean - or any of his other friends, for that matter - safe, whole, still breathing.