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Seamus is sore all over and his muscles would be screaming obscenities at him if they could speak, but he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up with his eyes narrowed.
"Arís," Seamus growls. Again.
"Seamus. I think that's enough."
"Let me be the judge of that," Seamus nearly growls again, leaping to his feet and bracing himself. Next time he has to remember that Dean knows his weakness. He always jabs left first -- it's his strongest side -- but Dean has yet to let a first punch get through. He has to start off differently.
Seamus tries again: right punch, left kick, then punch-punch-kick, left-right-right. Dean blocks nearly everything, and drops Seamus to the mat with a grunt of concentration and triumph.
A spot under the back of his ribcage is aching and Seamus never knew that there was a spot on his body that could hurt like that. Kidney, he thinks, but Neville's the one who knows anatomy -- anatomy as well as plants -- and Seamus isn't quite sure why he's letting his mind wander now because he knows he needs to focus and-
Bollocks.
He let his attention wander again.
Dean's on top of him and they're struggling: sweaty-wet, curse-filled, eye challenges that slide across the divide between them until neither will give up unless the other does first.
They'd all come back to Hogwarts in September of their seventh year with a quiet, determined rage. Challenge, disquiet, and a muddled hint of near-despair hovered around everyone. It infused classes, meal-times, and even the occasional pick-up game of Quidditch.
No one could quite put their finger on it, but even the good times had felt oddly overshadowed with something larger. Neville had once said he felt like they were being watched, to which Dean responded that Neville was just being paranoid. Seamus wasn't so sure, though.
And then the Order had started drafting individual students, one by one.
They wanted Dean first because he could recreate nearly anything with his quill, could easily take care of himself, and didn't need a whole hell of a lot of guidance or mentoring. Seamus came later. Before they'd murdered his mam, he'd had no idea that he was such a whiz with code-breaking, but he'd come upon the new ability when he received a note via owl-post that had looked to everyone else like crazy gibberish.
He couldn't read it at first, but a few moments later, with the parchment open on the table below him and Seamus's attention back on Dean (as it usually was), he caught sight of several images, words, and charms that were familiar. When he glanced down, it didn't make sense, but as soon as he held his hand up to get Dean to stop talking, his mind blanked and Seamus could read it.
A member of the Order had sent it to Seamus -- nothing more than a note of condolence over his mam -- and Seamus hadn't thought too much of it right then, because he'd had other things on his mind. Moody told him later it had been calculated -- there were suspicions from watching him that he might have some untapped talent. That had earned him a good week of Dean taking the mickey out of him about other untapped talent. Seamus wasn't able to have a shower, take a piss, have a wank, or even attempt his homework without Dean showing up inquiring about any special abilities surfacing. So, Seamus convinced Romilda Vane that Dean's love of West Ham was actually a coverup for his obsession with her. After he showed her a West Ham logo, transfigured into her family's coat of arms, she spent a good portion of her time following Dean around.
Dean finally shut up after that.
As a child, codes had been like puzzles to him -- intricate, interlocking webs that he'd work to pull apart, plug away at with talent and insight and sometimes (he suspected), just a bit of luck, until the code was broken and he could put it all back together in a way that made sense. It was sort of that weird balance he'd always had to strike between the Wizard and Muggle kids in his parish. He'd figured out early that there was something different about each of them, and succeeded quite easily in navigating the different groups successfully.
Seamus believes, though, that his talent with codes started with his da's unhealthy obsession with crossword puzzles. It used to annoy his mam to no end ("Your da's off with 'is puzzles again and I can't get in a word around them.") and was really the thing she ended up blaming for their divorce.
It wasn't easy for him, certainly, but about the only thing apart from Quidditch or shooting down whiskey that he'd take seriously. He and his da had exactly three things in common and this was one of them, so Seamus had always treated it with proper respect.
After that note of condolence from the Order member, everything Seamus had been able to do before became magnified. He was finding things, solving thing, seeing codes and solutions everywhere... so much so that he was no longer paying attention in his lessons and starting to fall behind.
When the recruitment invitation from the Order came at the end of their seventh year, inviting him along with Dean (and various other students) to an undisclosed location a fortnight in the future, Seamus had accepted without question.
Now, there is no code he can't break. Something about the loss of his mam broke the barrier he used to have. Now, it's almost... natural.
Now he can look at something -- whether it's written in human hand, carved into stone or flesh or bone -- and it makes sense to him. Seamus lets his eyes slide out of focus, lets his mind go slack, and characters and symbols shift and twist and change in front of him -- like pieces on Ron's chessboard -- and then he can read it.
The longer they're with the Order, training, the more they realize that there's something missing in both of their abilities. Moody has told them both -- flat out -- that if they don't fix the weakness, they'll never be able to help in the way the Order needs them.
Once Moody pointed it out, they could both feel it. Something about their presence in the Order gave them both a greater sense of their own magic. They'd spoken about it, late one night on Dean's bed, with the curtains pulled tight and their voices cast in whispers.
Seamus had initially thought that it was just Moody's way of getting them to practice more, but in the middle of a drill one night, when Dean had Seamus's arm twisted behind his back, and was about to twist it just far enough to break, Dean had hesitated. He confessed later that he saw the pain, then fear in Seamus's eyes and didn't want to hurt him.
Moody had laid into Dean about letting his emotions cloud what needed to be done. Next time, Moody told them, break his fucking arm.
It had been Dean's idea to start practising combat; they both had assumed that was where their weakness lied. Because, really, when had they needed to know how to beat the living tar out of someone else, anyway?
They're not allowed off base to drink, so Seamus conned Waldur Norbeck into transfiguring one of the large wooden crates into a makeshift pub. Seamus would have done it himself, but his skills tend more toward the smaller end of things, and Norbeck's skills are quite notable. Seamus might have had to let Norbeck ogle his arse a bit in the shower, but it was a small price to pay, really.
What no one knows (save Dean, of course) is that Seamus had actually been able to perfect his 'water into rum' transfiguration while back at Hogwarts and has since gone on to expand the art to include both whiskey and vodka.
So he supplies the little makeshift pub with liquor, Neville keeps it decorated with various odd plant species, and Dean paints the walls, changing them often enough so that when they're there it feels like they might just be having a regular night at the pub with mates, the way they'd always imagined.
Like, if they'd all had a normal life.
One of the things that Seamus can't get used to is this: they know any moment can be a test.
It's Moody's strategy, and no one seems to question it -- at least not outright -- though Seamus has some of his own disagreement with it. Moody wants their training to be as much like the real thing as possible. So far, only Neville has been tested and had it turn out to be the real thing so now they're all slightly petrified that it'll happen to them.
With Neville, it had been a small scale thing, a kidnapping of two Order members, but just as important nonetheless. Neville had followed protocol so close to the book that even Moody couldn't find fault with him, they'd rescued both Order members, and now Neville had a story to tell at dinner parties.
Well, if they ever had dinner parties.
It's a wonder they can even keep up the façade of normalcy, but they do. They do because... because, god, they have to.
There are only about seven of them that come to this little pub -- one, because they're too anti-social to make friends with a lot of the newer, younger recruits (god, have they really been doing this for years now?), and two, because Norbeck still hasn't been able to figure out how to make the damn place larger without fucking up the concealment charms that keep it hidden.
Seamus isn't quite ready to have Moody discover this place and tear them all a new arsehole for drinking and not maintaining the 'constant vigilance' Seamus is certain he shouts in his sleep (if he actually sleeps at all, the intimidating old git).
There are only five of them here tonight (there's some weird training mission that has been kept all hush-hush), and Seamus pours whiskey into their glasses with a practised hand. Neville gets oddly philosophical after two drinks and tonight is no exception.
"Do you ever wonder about it?" he asks.
"What, mate?" Dean says, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
"That... well, that this is sort of our job?"
Seamus nods. He really has thought about it. A lot actually.
"You mean," Seamus starts, then takes a swallow before he continues. "That, maybe, all the nights we spend here is like if we all had normal lives and met at the pub after work before going home?"
"Yeah," Neville says. "Yeah, like that."
Dean doesn't say anything, just looks thoughtful, but Mortimer and Dakin frown.
"We are at a pub," Dakin says.
"He doesn't mean that, though," Seamus says. "Neville's talkin' about this life: workin' for the Order, training and fighting and planning intricate strategy -- all this is our 'normal life.' It's what we do."
"Oh," Dakin says. He thinks for a moment, then says quietly. "Not really what I'd planned on, actually."
"Me either," Neville agrees. "I always thought I'd work in a Greenhouse and have a special species of plant named after me."
"Or shag someone different every night," Mortimer says, grinning.
"You could be doin' that now, lad," Seamus says. "If only you weren't so damned ugly."
They all laugh. Dean looks thoughtful and Neville asks him what he might be doing.
"I don't rightly know," Dean says. "Someone said I should have been doing art of some sort, but then I'd... have to do it, instead of doing it for fun."
They're all silent for a moment before Dean catches Seamus's eye and holds it for a long moment. "What had you planned on doing, y'know, if you weren't doin' this?"
Seamus snorts, "Probably running a pub and serving me own brand of liquor to a bunch of lushes like yourselves."
When Seamus awakens that night with a start, he knows immediately that something is wrong. Not only is Dean's bed empty, but he can smell something burning and that is never a good sign.
He rolls out of bed and into clothing like it was already laid out for him. In less than twelve seconds, he's fully dressed with his wand tucked into his sleeve. Before he leaves, Seamus grabs a dagger and glances down at it uncertainly. He's only trained with it on two occasions, but he feels safer with it.
What he sees when he exits sends his heart into overdrive: smoke, bodies littering the ground, fire, blazes of light shooting through the air. The edges of his vision are fuzzy, like an artist didn't quite finish their painting, but he ignores everything else when he sees a figure at the centre of a ring of hooded figures.
Dean.
Stepping quickly behind a barrier, Seamus glances around. He doesn't see any members of the Order yet, either no one knows or they've all been killed. Quashing that thought, Seamus looks intently at Dean. He seems out of it, his head lolling down toward his shoulder as though he's been given a strange potion. Seamus feels the draw of something and lets his eyes fall out of focus, seeing strange runes floating above Dean, a clear sign that they've got him fastened there with several different spells.
Letting his mind go slack, Seamus concentrates on the runes, feeling them sweep toward him and fill his bloodstream, travelling around as they start to speak to him, to fill him until it all starts to make sense.
He has one chance, he knows it, but he's not willing to let Dean stay there for much longer than he needs to. And it's not as if anyone else has shown up to save him.
It's up to Seamus, and Seamus alone.
After a few moments, Seamus's eyes focus again, and he looks up at Dean. He knows how to break the spells surrounding Dean. It's going to take a lot -- and he's going to have to figure out a way to distract all of the Death Eaters surrounding him, but he can do it.
God, he has to.
He scans the scene in front of him, looking for something he could use to create a distraction. His eyes alight on two trees situated just beyond where Dean and the Death Eaters are. Summoning his strength, Seamus points his wand and murmurs, "Incendio."
Instantly, both trees are aflame and he watches the Death Eaters one by one notice what's going on. They turn as a group, and more than half of them hurry toward the trees, leaving only three still guarding Dean.
Stepping out of his hiding place, Seamus runs toward Dean, holding his wand out and beginning to start the counter-curses to break him free, while he holds his dagger out in the other hand. He stuns two of the Death Eaters before they can react from their surprise, and turns to the third.
The Death Eater rips off his mask and glares at him, lifting his wand. Seamus can see his lips starting to form, "Avada Ke-", but he disarms him, and in the rush of adrenaline-laced confidence, Seamus turns to Dean and speaks four of the seven counter-curses to free Dean before he feels a sudden shock to his system and the world around him fuzzes into blurred colours as he loses consciousness.
When he comes to, he's in a bed with four people watching him. Seamus thinks: "Fuck."
One is a Healer, two are part of the Magical Illusion Squad (MIS), and the fourth is Moody's second in command, Sean-Michael Mordecai.
Moody tears into the room (which should be physically impossible with Moody's wooden leg) and Dean follows him, a strangely anticipatory look on his face.
"You failed," Moody says.
Mordecai nods solemnly and indicates the members of the MIS. "They've reviewed your actions and will be convening later to recommend a course of action."
Seamus scowls. He'd never liked Mordecai. Who could trust an Irishman with three first names, anyway?
"I nearly saved him, though," Seamus says quietly.
"Doesn't matter," Moody says. "You missed three very important features. One, you didn't recognize that it was an illusion. Two, your first reaction was to go alone rather than call for back up. Three, it was a suicide mission to try to rescue him."
"But I saw the runes!" Seamus protests. "I knew how to save him!"
"You're letting emotion cloud your judgement again, Finnigan," Moody says.
Dean protests as well: "Sir, with all due respect, you're forgetting that Seamus is my best mate. Of course he would try to save me."
"Exactly why he should be more thoughtful in a case such as that, Thomas. The two of you are useless to our cause unless you figure out how to do what needs to be done, rather than thinking with your hearts."
Neither of them says anything after that.
When Moody limps out, Seamus thinks he has completely misunderstood what they've been talking about.
Three days later they're back in the training room, swearing as they trade punches and trying not to let the other one knock them down.
"Back off!" Seamus growls, then lunges at Dean, capturing him around the middle and tackling him to the ground. They struggle, and Dean grunts when Seamus catches him unintentionally in some sensitive soft parts, but neither of them stop.
They roll around together on the floor, throwing punches and grasping for purchase so as to gain the upper hand. Dean can't get the best of him this time -- Seamus won't let him -- but Seamus can tell he's not done trying.
Seamus pins him, arms above his head and his ankles awkwardly angled to keep Dean's legs down as well. He's never, never been able to pin Dean before, which he realizes as they glare at each other through Seamus's sweaty fringe.
"Why can't you leave it?" Dean gasps, his eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"We have to let this go -- we can't be this anymore!"
Seamus is completely confused and wonders if this is why things have recently felt that much more precarious between them recently. He tries to stop thinking, not letting go of Dean's hands as he frowns back.
"I dunno what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," Dean rolls back and forth underneath him, trying to escape, and they glare at each other across a wide chasm that has somehow opened up between them.
They struggle again; Seamus tries his best to keep the upper hand, but when Dean arches against him, Seamus feels something entirely new and he shrinks backward in disbelief. He freezes and stares down at Dean. Time has slowed into a parade of embarrassment because in all the times they've done this, Seamus's body has never reacted like this. Dean rocks once, upward, and it feels really, really good. Seamus hears Dean grunt and echoes it himself before the sound brings the world back into dizzyingly real time again and Seamus is mortified. How can he have just--
Ohgodohgod.
After they both pull away and rise, glaring at each other as their chests rise and fall with heavy breaths, Dean narrows his eyes, turns on his heel, and stalks out.
It's not until after Dean leaves that Seamus realizes they both were hard.
"So, tomorrow, then," Neville says, looking down into his glass and sighing.
"Yeah."
"Yes."
"Fuck."
Mortimer says it, but everyone is thinking it, so they all chuckle and shake their heads. It breaks the tension a little bit, and they all drink heartily.
Seamus keeps glancing over every few moments, but Dean still hasn't looked at him.
"Anyone know Charlie Weasley, then?" Dakin asks.
Seamus, Dean, and Neville all nod.
"Went to school with his brother, Ron," Seamus explains. "We knew him as Ron's older brother that worked with dragons."
"He's a good bloke," Dean adds quietly. "Tough, loyal, and too smart to let himself make stupid mistakes. They captured him because they wanted him for something."
"Plus," Dean keeps talking, "He doesn't seem to have a problem with those younger than him being capable and important members of the Order."
Seamus nods. "Yeah. Charlie was the one who welcomed the lot of us when we joined. He gathered us all after Moody had given us a long talk to and about scared the fuck outta us--"
"I was so convinced that we were going to be attacked at any moment," Neville snickered, "I didn't have a wank for nearly a fortnight."
"As opposed to Finnigan who all but pulled himself off during Moody's talk," Dean said.
"Which you'd know, mate, with your eyes always on me cock."
They all laugh, but Seamus sees Dean stiffen. It's almost undetectable and would be if Seamus hadn't known him for over a decade, but it happens nonetheless. Seamus looks at him but it takes Dean a good half-conversation before he looks back. Seamus raises his glass slowly and is relieved when Dean raises his in return.
"Cheers, Finnigan," he says with a small smile.
Seamus keeps his own smile slightly measured as well. He picks up the bottle and looks around at the rest of them.
Dakin's still a bit twitchy and he keeps glancing around. They all know he's mentally going over the mission they're headed out on tomorrow -- it's his first and he's sort of a wreck about it. Seamus rarely drinks before a mission, but something about Dakin's nerves had made him suggest that they have a bit of a 'nip' before they turned in for the night.
The longer they hang out, the more convinced Seamus is that it was a good idea. If the mission goes wrong, they're sort of screwed.
And not in the good way.
The morning dawns brilliantly, bright and cold enough that they all feel energized. Every step of the morning goes exactly according to plan, and they're starting to feel just confident enough as they head into the dangerous area.
Dakin smiles around at all of them. "I had no idea missions were like this. We'll have to go on more of them!"
When Seamus wakes in a dungeon it's that statement that echoes tauntingly in his head. His hands are shackled and his body pressed firmly against a dank wall. Seamus moans roughly, but stops when his head protests. It's thick with pain and detached memories. He struggles to hold onto what's going on, but pain mingles with his weakened system and he passes out.
When he wakes again, his mind is slightly clearer and he has a vague recollection of leaving on a reconnaissance mission, but no idea how he ended up here.
"Why can't I have a normal life?" he sighs aloud.
A weak laugh echoes in the damp air and Seamus looks around in surprise; the voice is weakened and rough but recognizable.
"Charlie?"
"Yeah. Finnigan, I've been asking myself the same bloody question for four days now."
Six days later, Seamus and Charlie have tried everything they can think of to get out. There are spells and runes surrounding them, keeping them prisoner, but something is blocking them and Seamus can't see them. He has no idea what's blocking it -- but it must be some sort of magic he hasn't yet figured out how to tap into.
Charlie's a much funnier lad than Seamus ever would have imagined, telling him stories about getting the best of the twins before they'd come to Hogwarts and started to come into their own magic-wise. When Seamus explains about the mission, Charlie is highly impressed that the five in Seamus's rescue party got far enough past the warded, curses barriers in the first place.
The Death Eaters have mostly left them alone here, which is exactly what Charlie said happened the four days he was there before Seamus was captured. Charlie tells Seamus that he thinks the Death Eaters are busy in too many other places to really mistreat them.
"Which means it's working, then," Seamus muses.
"Yeah. If we've got them defending themselves on many different fronts than it's going to be too hard for them to be organised."
"And they don't organise like we do. They just have the Dark Mark that calls them for orders, whereas we have tactical teams, dozens and dozens of members, and some of the smartest people in the Wizarding world working on this."
Charlie nods. "Wish the Death Eaters could pay attention to us, though. I could use a bit of food."
Seamus has noticed Charlie looks a bit worse for the wear. He's always had a different build than Ron: more stocky and muscled, and ten days with very little proper nourishment has left him looking almost gaunt.
"Even that crap broth they served two days ago?"
"Hell, Finnigan," Charlie quips. "I'd about fight you for two bites of that drivel right about now."
About twenty minutes after they'd discussed every fantastically orgasmic meal they'd ever had, the door to the dungeon bangs open and a Death Eater is pushed in roughly, his mask off and face pinched and angry.
A robed figure steps out from behind their captor and lowers his hood.
"Dean," Seamus breathes.
Their eyes lock and Seamus feels a surge of gratitude; he could probably break down his shackles with the feeling, if not the entire cell. He sees concern and something else flicker behind Dean's eyes, but it is gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
"Open the cells," Dean commands.
The Death Eater laughs. "Which one?"
"Both of them."
Another laugh rings out, chilling the dungeon even more. "Oh, pretty one, don't you see? My key works only for one cell, then it self-destructs. The Dark Lord can't take his chances that any of us will get power hungry and try to release all of the prisoners at once."
He laughs again, and spreads his arms wide. "Their cages bind them to this dungeon with runes and curses that you know not. They're invisible. Unbreakable, except by the darkest of magicks, dear boy, and though your skin is dark, your heart is obviously not. Now, how ever will you choose?"
The Death Eater glances between Seamus and Charlie, then looks back at Dean.
He grins widely, his blackened teeth shining in the dim light. "I see your eyes flickering to the Irishman most inappropriately. Tell me, is he your lover? Will you choose him and fall back into couplings both fierce and immoral as soon as you've escaped?"
Seamus can see Dean's jaw is set and he's not listening to the jailer at all.
"Are you quite done, then?"
The jailer laughs again, "Others of my kind are on their way, and yet you cannot choose. Perhaps they'll get here and you still will not have made a decision! This key will only make the runes visible for an instant -- it'll only work once. You must choose!"
Dean looks at him coldly. "That one," he says without hesitation, pointing to Charlie.
There's a flash of light, a brief click before a pop, and then Seamus is bathed in darkness.
He strains his senses to reach out and see if anyone is left, but after a moment, Seamus realizes everyone else has gone and he's by himself in the increasing silence.
He's never felt so alone.
When Seamus wakes in the morning, the light seems to play with his mind -- and he has the strangest sensation that Dean has been here.
Yeah, right, Finnigan, he tells himself, closing his eyes again. Keep dreaming.
Seamus's mind flashes briefly to a dream he'd had, where Dean had saved him, where their bodies had met and brushed and found each other in spite of what they've been ignoring. Dean's eyes had been wide and trusting, following Seamus as he touched the valleys of Dean's skin with a light touch. His dream had uncovered words like 'bliss' and 'finally' that Seamus hadn't realized he'd been thinking. He feels his face heat and he shakes his head to clear his mind. This is really, really not the time to start thinking such things about his best mate.
At least, not after he's been abandoned by said best mate to rot in a dungeon.
Seamus crawls over to the bars of his cage to look and see if they've left broth or food of any sort. On his way, he feels a strange tingling warmth flow through his left shoulder and he pauses, extending his arm outward and feeling it spread through his arm as well. Curiously, Seamus inches to his left, then suddenly sees a flicker of something in front of him and moves more rapidly until his entire body is throbbing with the warmth. A feeling of deep, incontrovertible trust fills him and Seamus looks around the dungeon.
Oh, god.
Oh fuck, he can see the runes and the curses surrounding him. He can see them. They're different somehow, as they seem frozen in stopped time somehow, not living, flickering, pulsing feelings like he's used to seeing, but he doesn't care.
He's going to get the fuck out of here.
Oddly, Seamus makes his way out with little incident -- even without his wand. The counter-curses to get out of the dungeon are all verbal and he speaks them with no trouble. It's as though the Death Eaters put all their energy into keeping the prisoners in, they haven't prepared for the possibility of someone actually escaping. Seamus takes small comfort in the disarray he leaves of the dungeon when he leaves: who creates binding hexes that only bind to a cage, rather than a complete building? As soon as he breaks the curses, the walls dissolve around him and he walks out, watching the walls build themselves up behind him.
It takes him three more days to get back to camp. He starts moving at dusk, using the low light to get his bearings and direction, then covers as much ground as he can in the dark. Without his wand, it's much slower going, but Seamus is amazed how much he's learned from Neville over the years. He recognizes the signs of disturbance and changes his course. Surprisingly, everything Neville's told him comes back to him clearly and he can distinguish poisonous plants from those that he can crush to get a small amount of sustenance.
When he finally makes it back to headquarters, he can't figure out exactly what to do: get food, visit the medic tent, maybe let someone know he's back? Urges and needs war within him until the desire to see Dean wins out and Seamus stumbles into one of the strategy rooms, seeing Dean at the helm, with the rest of his mates, Moody, Mordecai, and Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting around the table looking serious.
Seamus's name is on the strategy board and he feels a welcome sense of safety wash over him.
Dean rises and rushes toward him, "Seamus! You're-"
"I'm back," Seamus croaks, then collapses into Dean's arms in a faint.
Seamus wakes wearing very little and clearly surrounded by the sterile white of the medic tent. He pulls the sheet up to his shoulders and looks down. Christ. They couldn't have picked a sheet that made it more clear that he was nude beneath. Medic supplies here are basic, at best, but this sheet is threadbare and leaves nothing to the imagination.
Great. And it's not like he was well endowed to begin with. Nope, the Irish weren't known for their cock size. Guiness, yes. But, enormous dicks don't fall under their God-given bequests.
When one of the Healers comes by, Seamus tries to talk her into letting him go. She's not buying it.
"Sorry, Finnigan," Susan Bones says with a smile. "You're still under observation for malnutrition and any lingering effects of the curses they put on you. I know better than to let you out of here before they give you proper clearance."
Seamus eyes the crest embroidered in her robes and looks back at her. "But you have clearance to let me out."
She laughs. "Then I know better than to let you out of here before I give you proper clearance."
"Well, can you at least get Dean in here?"
Susan hedges. "Look, Seamus. He's no-" she appears to change tactic mid-statement and says, "Moody isn't letting anyone in."
Neville walks in just as she says this and Seamus eyes her curiously. She shrugs and then smiles shyly at Neville. "Two minutes, Longbottom. That's all."
Neville grins back, then blushes furiously. "Two minutes. I promise."
A few hours later, Seamus wakes from a light doze to see a shadow pass by the doorway of his curtained off area. There's something familiar about the square of the shoulders and Seamus feels warm relief settle through him.
He lights the lantern next to him, bathing he and the figure in sepia-toned light.
"Dean," he whispers, his heart suddenly in his throat.
They lock eyes for a moment -- Dean's glittering with every flicker of the flame -- and Seamus can feel the air settling down around them, feels something thicken between them, drawing them together.
Dean takes a step forward, then opens his mouth and tries to speak. His voice cracks on the single syllable, "I-" before his eyes widen swiftly and he backs up, hurrying out of sight.
Seamus stares at the doorway for a long time before extinguishing the light with a sigh. He rolls over to go back to sleep.
Seamus is still in the medic tent the following evening and he's about ready to claw his way out if he has to -- even in the nude. They're not big on offering anything with which to entertain oneself, and the only way Seamus has ever been able to entertain himself for long periods of time spent lying on the bed is one he's not really all that interested in doing when a whole host of people could walk in and catch him.
He's had no visitors and it's starting to become absurd how bored he is, so bored in fact, that when the sun goes down, Seamus doesn't even wait until a normal hour before he drifts into sleep.
He awakens in the middle of the night in a fright, sitting straight up and glancing around in the darkness for whatever woke him up. He spies something on the floor, crumpled in a heap, and he chances a whisper,
"Dean?"
The figure stirs and moans a bit, then rouses itself and moves to the edge of Seamus's bed, sitting down roughly.
"Y-you're really not d-dead then, then?"
"You're drunk," Seamus says.
"And better for it," Dean says. "But not really drunk."
"How much have you had?"
"I've only had--" he squints at the air in front of him, then lurches to the floor to pick up a bottle Seamus didn't see, "--a bottle and a half."
"How are you even alive, mate?"
"The half bottle part was empty."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Neither do you," Dean says, then crawls into bed with him. "I wanted to see you, but I cou-" Dean coughs. "But they won't let me. And I kept on drinking s-so I thought I'd just come when I was drunk and they were sleeping. But... then you were sleeping, too."
Dean's breath is heavy on his shoulder and Seamus tries to blame the night, the heat, anything, but it keeps coming back to this: Dean is in his bed.
"Look, mate, back off," Seamus says. "I'm naked under here."
"I can be naked, too!" Dean says brightly. He sits up and takes off his shirt, but then seems totally perplexed by his trousers.
Seamus grabs his wrist and sits up. "Dean. Stop."
Dean looks at him now, their faces are too close together and Seamus can't figure out how they got from alcohol to nakedness in fifty words or less.
"I didn't save you," Dean says, pressing their foreheads together, so closely that Seamus can't breathe. "I wanted to save you."
"Dean."
Now they're just looking, foreheads pressed together, and Seamus has never realized how long Dean's eyelashes are.
"I wanted to save you," Dean breathes.
"You said that already."
"But I did."
"You were right to save Charlie. And you did save me. You made that portal, didn't you?"
"Yeah. But I di-"
"Seriously, mate, shut up about that already," Seamus says. Their foreheads are still touching, Seamus can taste Dean's breath against him, the sourness is strangely erotic. He can feel his nerves float to the surface of his skin, scratched raw and almost painful.
"Shay. I didn--"
Seamus pushes the two inches forward and presses his lips against Dean's to get him to shut up. It makes his stomach clench tightly and he steels himself for the inevitable punch to his jaw. When he pulls back, his heart his beating double time.
"There is no part of this that's a good idea," Dean says, then kisses him back. Seamus's heart stops, then starts again with the slow building pressure of lips against messy, wet lips.
Seamus kisses back feverishly, the spiralling wrong that they keep being accused of suddenly so far away from his plane of thought that it's possibly never even been a consideration.
When their lips pull stickily apart, Dean's still looking into Seamus's eyes. "I didn't save you," he says again.
"You did."
Dean reaches forward to touch Seamus's hip, then looks down at the sheet. "I want you to save me," he whispers, his voice raw and sexy.
Then he passes out.
When Seamus wakes in the morning, Dean is gone, and his own head is pounding as though he'd had a bottle of whiskey the night before. It can't have been a dream, though: the bottle is still on the floor, and he can smell Dean's soap on the sheet. He looks around the sterile looking room and a slow smile spreads over his face.
A few minutes later, Susan Bones brings him clothing and reminds him that he and Dean have a meeting with Moody.
"You comin' with, lass?" he asks her with a grin, not bothering to cover himself with the sheet as he steps out of bed.
"You're in a good mood," she says. "And, no. Why would I come to your meeting?"
"Well," Seamus says, pulling on his boxers, "I figure Moody can't be too pleased with us about the mission, so he's either gonna punish us or kick us out of the Order. It might help to have a pretty lass in there with us. He might go easy on us."
"You don't seem all that concerned about it."
"Nah," Seamus says, "can't say that I am."
"The jailer said, 'This key will only make the runes visible for an instant,'" Dean explains, and Seamus nods. It's two hours later and Moody has them in his office, just the two of them. It's stupidly awkward to be explaining this -- especially when he knows there are eight people waiting out in the corridor that want to know exactly what happened.
"As soon as I heard that, I realized I could use the spell we learned to stop time, then I could recreate the runes so Seamus could see them and escape himself. I had to save Charlie, because he wouldn't have been able to get out, even if he was able to see the curses and runes keeping them prisoner."
Dean glances over at Seamus, then back at Moody.
"I knew I only had a few minutes before it would start interfering with things in our present time, so I knew I had to work quickly, and I couldn't leave the runes visible for anyone to see. I had to make it so just Seamus could see it."
"You know there are punishments for using that spell, Thomas?"
"With all due respect, sir," Dean says. "I didn't give a flying fuck."
Seamus is sure he can see a hint of a smile in Moody's eyes, and he's impressed, really, hearing Dean explain all of this with such detail.
"And how did you ensure that Finnigan would be able to see these runes?"
"I made a Fiducia stasis."
Moody's magical eye whirrs strangely and he coughs. "A Fiducia stasis?"
Seamus can't quite hide the pride he's feeling over the fact that Dean was able to think of all of that in the middle of a fucking dungeon, and he smiles to himself.
"Exactly what made you think your magic -- and Finnigan's -- could sustain a Fiducia stasis?" Moody asks.
Dean shrugs, "Seamus trusts me."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Sir, what do you want me to say here?"
Moody's face reddens and he takes a deep breath. "Mr. Thomas. I want you to explain how you were able to create a portal of such advanced magic that it could sustain itself for hours without dissolving."
"Do you want diagrams and drawings, too?"
Seamus chokes a laugh into a loud cough and doesn't look at Dean. Moody rolls both of his eyes.
"Just an explanation will d--"
"You want I should hex him sir?" Seamus interrupts. "I know how."
"That won't be necessary, Finnigan."
"Like you could accomplish that anyway," Dean says. "Was I not just the one to conjure a successful Fidu-"
"Thomas!" Moody barks. "If you and Mr. Finnigan will suspend with this childish-"
"Flirting?" Dean finishes for him. "You should talk to him about that, sir. Seriously. It's embarrassing."
Seamus shakes with silent laughter. He's half convinced that they're about to get kicked out of the Order or worse, but he doesn't care. He hasn't laughed like this in weeks and it feels wonderful to do it again.
Moody looks between them and a look of comprehension passes over his face. "Why don't you pretend you're clever, Thomas, and it explain it to me, then. Use really big words if you've got 'em, and assume that I'm not going to boot the both of you out of the Order for your cheek."
Dean glances at Seamus for a moment, then looks back at Moody. He shrugs as if to say 'you asked for it' and launches into an explanation.
"Sir, I realize that you've been trying to quash all emotion out of us related to this job for over a year now. What I think you don't take into account, though, is that magic is all connected to our underlying emotion. I trust Seamus with my life, and he's trusted me with his -- God knows why -- on more occasions than I care to count. I could conjure the Fiducia stasis because of that. It fed on it and was able to sustain itself until Seamus sensed it, got inside and figured out how to save himself."
Dean looks at Seamus and smiles. "So, even if we take your advice and make decisions based on emotionless judgment the magic we do still relies heavily on our emotion, and I had to use that to save Seamus. Plus," Dean adds with a wink, "how else would I be able to conjure such advanced magic if not under the expertise of your tutelage, sir?"
Moody looks between the two of them, frowning slightly, but Seamus can see his eyes twinkling.
"Honestly, sir," Dean says quietly. "I think we're a pretty brilliant pair. Even if we don't always follow your orders to the letter."
Seamus nods, then grins. "Also, sir, you've got to take into account that if you do something too awful, Dean's a whiz with his pencils, and if he gets all pissed off at you, he might draw you doing something naughty and not feel a drop of remorse."
Moody laughs and throws pieces of crumpled up parchment at them. "Out of my office, you rotten buggers. And I don't want to hear a thing outta the both of you for at least a week!"
"I really had no idea you were so smart," Seamus calls into the bathroom while Dean finishes washing up. The rest of their dorm-mates have skived off for the night, and they've both taken long showers and are now getting ready for bed. "All that shite about emotion being the underlying key to all magic and how you used it to save me."
Dean walks in, wearing only pyjama bottoms and towelling off his neck as he talks. "It all came from Hermione, mate. Seriously. Do you ever even listen to her? Pretty fucking brilliant, she is."
Seamus tries to focus on what Dean is saying, but it gets harder the more Dean moves around, the low light from the lantern flickering over his body and bathing him in warmth. When Dean bends down to drop some things into his trunk, Seamus sucks his breath and knows that he will never, never be able to push emotion aside when it comes to Dean Thomas.
When Dean rises, they stare at each other, their breath strangely in sync though they're many feet apart. Dean swallows when he glances over Seamus's body, who looks down to see his pyjama trousers low on his hips and his arousal quite (embarrassingly) apparent.
Seamus blushes, then starts to move away but Dean is suddenly there: hands and mouth and all over touches that sear the little shocks of perfection into Seamus's skin. He grapples back at Dean, awkwardly, his hands slipping over Dean's back, but then things click into place around them, the world stops, and Dean's stomach brushes his own: hot and so fucking perfect that Seamus feels himself whine something unintelligible.
They're kissing now: wet and just the tiniest bit tentative, but somehow that makes it even better. Dean pushes the wet fringe out of Seamus's eyes, then goes for his neck but misses and gets a mouthful of hair.
Seamus pulls back with a grin and looks at Dean.
"It's been a while," Dean confesses. "I'm not really that good at this. No one usually-"
"I get that you're modest and all that shite, yeah," Seamus says. "But have you seen you?"
Dean blinks at him.
"Fuck it, Thomas. I'm not going to explain it to you. Just stop thinking."
"I've only really done this when I've been drunk."
"Well then, let's find out how you do sober. You do know it makes you come a lot harder?"
Dean smiles at him, a small private smile that puts the lantern to shame, and pulls their bodies together again. In a few moments, Seamus has forgot everything but what their tongues feel like when they touch: hot and slippery-perfect and altogether too good to be real. Their lips slide together, over and around until Seamus's body is thrumming with desire, but he can't think of anything he'd rather do than keep kissing Dean.
They back up slowly, until Seamus's knees hit the bed, and Dean reaches out to touch his hip and steady him. That slight touch brings the feeling of their kisses shooting through his body, as though Dean's hand has created a direct pleasure line from their lips and Seamus feels his body go slack with want.
"I don't want to stop," Dean whispers against his neck, pressing little soft kisses all along his skin as his hands breathe electric shocks everywhere they touch.
Seamus sits down and leans back, stretching out his arms and letting the rapture of everything he never knew he wanted flow through him. He tugs on the waistband of Dean's pyjamas, licking him full on the mouth and then smiling through the haze of want that has settled over them.
"Then don't," he whispers.
-end-
~thank you so much for reading! ♥