Where do I come up with this stuff?
My mind is a pool of weird, endless plotting. It just keeps getting odder.
I don't know where this came from or where it's going.
Seamus cursed under his breath. Even through the heavy sheets of rain he recognized the black barrels of the guns, and he was probably imagining the resonating clicks of them cocking, levelly trained, since the cascading water was a muted roar in his ears, but. He slowly lifted his hands out and away from his body. “Hands up, Nev,” he said to the man standing next to him, frozen in palpable nervous fear. “This is not a good day to die.”
“Is there ever one?” Nev joked weakly.
The guns seemed to be getting closer, and Seamus blinked rapidly to keep his gaze relatively clear, the rain drowning his skin, plastering his canvas clothing to his body. They’d only been out there for three days, and Seamus was so unprepared and so terminally wet that he felt like his pores would break open and he’d melt into the black, rich soil.
Shit. If by some freakish chance they got out of there alive, Snape was going to kill them.
The first thing he noticed was the man’s cold scowl. All right, honestly, the first thing he noticed was the man’s clinging black t-shirt, but the second thing he noticed was the man’s scowl, and the reflection of it in his eerie green eyes.
“Dr. Neville Longbottom?” he growled.
“Yes,” Seamus said hastily, ignoring the sharp look Nev sent him and resisting the urge to send a commiserating one right back at him. Way to be obvious.
The man’s gaze narrowed, flicking between the two muddy, bedraggled men, and in that moment Seamus knew he didn’t believe him, wouldn’t have believed him even if he was the best liar in the world.
“Dr. Longbottom,” the man said again, more firmly, turning towards Nev. “Come with me.”
Another cold glance towards Seamus told the Irishman that they didn’t really care about him. No way was he about to leave Nev alone, though, even if he thought he could make it through the forest by himself. Which he held no illusions about. Nev was the one who knew all the flora and fauna. Seamus was just a useless mouth and steady support.
“Seamus,” Nev whispered hoarsely, eyes wide and dark on the rigid… soldier? in front of them.
He groped towards him with an open hand and Seamus caught his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not leaving you, Nev,” he said fiercely, because damn it. Nev was the closest thing to family he had.
***
Seamus had been a skinny preteen when he left Ireland and his father’s heavy fists, and a scruffy, lean-hungry teenager when Nev had found him curled up in his Gran’s shed. He snapped when Nev pet him, a wary, shivering mess of hurt and loneliness and bone-weary fear.
But Nev was persistent, if fidgety with nerves, and Nev’s Gran was a force of pure stubborn energy, and Seamus didn’t stand a chance. He was clean, dry and well-fed within the space of mere hours. And within days he was tamed and in love with a sixty-year-old woman and a plump boy with a hiccupy stutter and a tendency to weather his peers’ taunts with all the bend and sway of a young sapling.
So Seamus, more brain than brawn - and even that was debatable according to Gran - fought back for Nev with his tongue, lashed out unashamedly and more often than not got beat to a bloody pulp for it, but Nev’s rueful smile was worth everything; every bruise, every cut lip, every pinch-mouthed tsk from Gran.
They were brothers in every way except blood.
***
“Seamus?”
“It’s all right, Nev,” Seamus assured him, walking as close as he could to him as they stumbled after the men with the guns, conscious of even more men with guns stalking behind them. “Everything’ll be fine.” Of course, he didn’t know that. And Nev knew that he didn’t know that, that he was talking out of his arse - like usual - but it didn’t matter. Nev wasn’t asking for the truth.
Seamus curled his fingers over Nev’s wrist and held on tightly.
***
Gran’s death had been like a kick in the teeth, because neither of them had been expecting it. Sixty-eight and still flashing her ankles at all the bachelors in town, still mowing the lawn behind Seamus’ back, still cooking and driving and laughing and doing all the sorts of things that were supposed to stop first. Stop before her heart gave out, stop before she grew cold in her sleep, stop and give them some sort of warning, sign, anything.
Seamus didn’t cry at the funeral, but Nev did. Hard, frame-wracking tears that were plentiful enough for both of them.
Gran had left them the house jointly and they sold it along with her ancient rabbit auto, then they got the hell out of town. Nev took a laboratory job in Brazil, head botanist for an experimental firm, and Seamus didn’t hesitate to go with him. He held his own degree in journalism, squeaked by at uni, and he was relatively good with languages, so Dr. Severus Snape - a hook-nosed, dark-eyed man that Seamus didn’t trust as far as he could spit - agreed to give him a chance in research. Seamus was willing to do almost anything to keep close to Nev.
But they shouldn’t have been out in the rainforest.
They shouldn’t have stepped out of the lab, even though Nev had been openly hurting and raw and shocked.
Seamus hadn’t been. What else could they have been doing, secretive and covert in a lab no one knew existed? Biological warfare or something very nearly like it. It’d torn Nev up inside, and though Seamus didn’t particularly care one way or the other, he’d followed Nev blindly out into the lush tangle of lianas, out into the unforgiving, dense and deadly landscape.
And now they were caught, well and good, and even if the men weren’t drug runners or guerillas, even if they weren’t mercenaries sent out by Snape, they had guns and knew who Nev was, and the outcome wasn’t likely to be pretty.
***
Nev and Seamus had been wandering around for days, packs heavy and minds weighted with dread, so it didn’t surprise them that the men with guns made them stop just before nightfall. They set up camp, efficiently, silently, and Seamus stood next to a shaking Nev until the first man, the man with the cold scowl, came up and forced them apart.
It was a smart move, Seamus acknowledged. Neither of them would try to escape without the other.
The man was looking at him speculatively now, probably because he knew it’d been worth it to let him tag along. Worth it to keep the doctor in line. Briefly, Seamus wondered if it would’ve been better to have hung back, swooping in and snagging Nev from under their noses during the night. He doubted, though, that he could’ve gotten in and out of the camp alive.
Seamus was loud, not stealthy. He was brash and lively and was possibly the worst person to have near in a crisis.
He vibrated with the effort of holding his tongue in front of the man. Nev needed him whole and thinking, and that was just about the only thing that could ever shut the Irishman up.
“You’re Seamus Finnigan,” he said, and his voice was smooth, cultured, English.
A shiver spiked up Seamus’ spine, because that probably meant Snape, and Snape was not going to be happy with his little rogue scientist and comedic side-kick.
“Yes,” he answered thickly, trying to swallow his heart back down his throat.
The man lifted a long-fingered hand and skimmed it over Seamus’ left brow, over the curve of his cheek, the scar at the corner of his lower lip he’d had since he was eight, and the gentle exploration belied the impassive set of his mouth and the ever-present coldness in his eyes. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Seamus blinked. “You. What?”
Weird turn. Utterly odd turn. Hadn’t they wanted Neville?
The man cleared his throat, dropped his hand abruptly and said, “Seamus Daniel Finnigan, son of Cara Elizabeth Bannon Finnigan and Daniel Joseph Finnigan of Kenmare, Ireland.”
“I don’t.” Seamus paused, eyes darting around, instinctively trying to search out Nev.
“Finnigan,” the man barked, and Seamus’ gaze flew back to his face, something jittery and panicked rabbiting about his stomach, “we’re taking you home.”
If Seamus had eaten anything at all substantial in the past three days, he would’ve vomited all over his boots.
head to part two
I don't know where this came from or where it's going.
Seamus cursed under his breath. Even through the heavy sheets of rain he recognized the black barrels of the guns, and he was probably imagining the resonating clicks of them cocking, levelly trained, since the cascading water was a muted roar in his ears, but. He slowly lifted his hands out and away from his body. “Hands up, Nev,” he said to the man standing next to him, frozen in palpable nervous fear. “This is not a good day to die.”
“Is there ever one?” Nev joked weakly.
The guns seemed to be getting closer, and Seamus blinked rapidly to keep his gaze relatively clear, the rain drowning his skin, plastering his canvas clothing to his body. They’d only been out there for three days, and Seamus was so unprepared and so terminally wet that he felt like his pores would break open and he’d melt into the black, rich soil.
Shit. If by some freakish chance they got out of there alive, Snape was going to kill them.
The first thing he noticed was the man’s cold scowl. All right, honestly, the first thing he noticed was the man’s clinging black t-shirt, but the second thing he noticed was the man’s scowl, and the reflection of it in his eerie green eyes.
“Dr. Neville Longbottom?” he growled.
“Yes,” Seamus said hastily, ignoring the sharp look Nev sent him and resisting the urge to send a commiserating one right back at him. Way to be obvious.
The man’s gaze narrowed, flicking between the two muddy, bedraggled men, and in that moment Seamus knew he didn’t believe him, wouldn’t have believed him even if he was the best liar in the world.
“Dr. Longbottom,” the man said again, more firmly, turning towards Nev. “Come with me.”
Another cold glance towards Seamus told the Irishman that they didn’t really care about him. No way was he about to leave Nev alone, though, even if he thought he could make it through the forest by himself. Which he held no illusions about. Nev was the one who knew all the flora and fauna. Seamus was just a useless mouth and steady support.
“Seamus,” Nev whispered hoarsely, eyes wide and dark on the rigid… soldier? in front of them.
He groped towards him with an open hand and Seamus caught his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not leaving you, Nev,” he said fiercely, because damn it. Nev was the closest thing to family he had.
***
Seamus had been a skinny preteen when he left Ireland and his father’s heavy fists, and a scruffy, lean-hungry teenager when Nev had found him curled up in his Gran’s shed. He snapped when Nev pet him, a wary, shivering mess of hurt and loneliness and bone-weary fear.
But Nev was persistent, if fidgety with nerves, and Nev’s Gran was a force of pure stubborn energy, and Seamus didn’t stand a chance. He was clean, dry and well-fed within the space of mere hours. And within days he was tamed and in love with a sixty-year-old woman and a plump boy with a hiccupy stutter and a tendency to weather his peers’ taunts with all the bend and sway of a young sapling.
So Seamus, more brain than brawn - and even that was debatable according to Gran - fought back for Nev with his tongue, lashed out unashamedly and more often than not got beat to a bloody pulp for it, but Nev’s rueful smile was worth everything; every bruise, every cut lip, every pinch-mouthed tsk from Gran.
They were brothers in every way except blood.
***
“Seamus?”
“It’s all right, Nev,” Seamus assured him, walking as close as he could to him as they stumbled after the men with the guns, conscious of even more men with guns stalking behind them. “Everything’ll be fine.” Of course, he didn’t know that. And Nev knew that he didn’t know that, that he was talking out of his arse - like usual - but it didn’t matter. Nev wasn’t asking for the truth.
Seamus curled his fingers over Nev’s wrist and held on tightly.
***
Gran’s death had been like a kick in the teeth, because neither of them had been expecting it. Sixty-eight and still flashing her ankles at all the bachelors in town, still mowing the lawn behind Seamus’ back, still cooking and driving and laughing and doing all the sorts of things that were supposed to stop first. Stop before her heart gave out, stop before she grew cold in her sleep, stop and give them some sort of warning, sign, anything.
Seamus didn’t cry at the funeral, but Nev did. Hard, frame-wracking tears that were plentiful enough for both of them.
Gran had left them the house jointly and they sold it along with her ancient rabbit auto, then they got the hell out of town. Nev took a laboratory job in Brazil, head botanist for an experimental firm, and Seamus didn’t hesitate to go with him. He held his own degree in journalism, squeaked by at uni, and he was relatively good with languages, so Dr. Severus Snape - a hook-nosed, dark-eyed man that Seamus didn’t trust as far as he could spit - agreed to give him a chance in research. Seamus was willing to do almost anything to keep close to Nev.
But they shouldn’t have been out in the rainforest.
They shouldn’t have stepped out of the lab, even though Nev had been openly hurting and raw and shocked.
Seamus hadn’t been. What else could they have been doing, secretive and covert in a lab no one knew existed? Biological warfare or something very nearly like it. It’d torn Nev up inside, and though Seamus didn’t particularly care one way or the other, he’d followed Nev blindly out into the lush tangle of lianas, out into the unforgiving, dense and deadly landscape.
And now they were caught, well and good, and even if the men weren’t drug runners or guerillas, even if they weren’t mercenaries sent out by Snape, they had guns and knew who Nev was, and the outcome wasn’t likely to be pretty.
***
Nev and Seamus had been wandering around for days, packs heavy and minds weighted with dread, so it didn’t surprise them that the men with guns made them stop just before nightfall. They set up camp, efficiently, silently, and Seamus stood next to a shaking Nev until the first man, the man with the cold scowl, came up and forced them apart.
It was a smart move, Seamus acknowledged. Neither of them would try to escape without the other.
The man was looking at him speculatively now, probably because he knew it’d been worth it to let him tag along. Worth it to keep the doctor in line. Briefly, Seamus wondered if it would’ve been better to have hung back, swooping in and snagging Nev from under their noses during the night. He doubted, though, that he could’ve gotten in and out of the camp alive.
Seamus was loud, not stealthy. He was brash and lively and was possibly the worst person to have near in a crisis.
He vibrated with the effort of holding his tongue in front of the man. Nev needed him whole and thinking, and that was just about the only thing that could ever shut the Irishman up.
“You’re Seamus Finnigan,” he said, and his voice was smooth, cultured, English.
A shiver spiked up Seamus’ spine, because that probably meant Snape, and Snape was not going to be happy with his little rogue scientist and comedic side-kick.
“Yes,” he answered thickly, trying to swallow his heart back down his throat.
The man lifted a long-fingered hand and skimmed it over Seamus’ left brow, over the curve of his cheek, the scar at the corner of his lower lip he’d had since he was eight, and the gentle exploration belied the impassive set of his mouth and the ever-present coldness in his eyes. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Seamus blinked. “You. What?”
Weird turn. Utterly odd turn. Hadn’t they wanted Neville?
The man cleared his throat, dropped his hand abruptly and said, “Seamus Daniel Finnigan, son of Cara Elizabeth Bannon Finnigan and Daniel Joseph Finnigan of Kenmare, Ireland.”
“I don’t.” Seamus paused, eyes darting around, instinctively trying to search out Nev.
“Finnigan,” the man barked, and Seamus’ gaze flew back to his face, something jittery and panicked rabbiting about his stomach, “we’re taking you home.”
If Seamus had eaten anything at all substantial in the past three days, he would’ve vomited all over his boots.
head to part two