"Guises", Susan/Seamus 3/13

[thanfiction.livejournal.com]

Title: Guises
Pairing: Susan/Seamus
Prompt: Theories to the side
Rating: PG-13 (brief language)
Word Count: 2,010 (sorry!)
Summary: Who you are is often a surprisingly difficult question to answer.
Author's Notes: Set in the DAYDverse, uses the canon of Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness and the sequel novel, Sluagh. Will not make sense without them. Both stories, as well as the rest of the 'verse, can be found here
Link to Prompt Table: On my LJ, here

OOO

 

It was disturbingly like preparing for a strike.  The ones he had targeted had been far too street-savvy to merely follow a stranger into a secluded location, so he had learned to earn their trust.  While Seamus knew he lacked the kind of intelligence that scored well on tests, he did possess a remarkable amount of raw cunning when the need presented itself, and he had presented himself to his victims in a hundred guises, approaching each one from angles carefully chosen so that eventually, it was always they who came to him.   

If he were going to get close to Susan, he knew he needed first to earn back her trust in him, and so he had forced himself to begin working towards actual recovery, refusing to allow himself the easy shadows of his room in favor of increasing labors in the broad, sunlit fields of the farm, swallowing the hearty meals that he still didn’t really feel any hunger for, separating body from heart as he had long learned and demanding the former back to the illusion of health.  To his own surprise, the results showed quickly, the initial horrific crimson that resulted from a sheltered Irish complexion being re-exposed to sunlight having peeled away to the beginnings of a proper tan beneath the freckles, his face and body no longer quite so gaunt in the mirror’s pragmatic reflection. 

But the real key, of course, was Cecily.  Everyone had a weak spot, a shortcut to their most tenderly kept secrets, and Susan’s scurried around the farm every day in a tiny whirlwind of dark pigtails and eager babble.  It was still strange to have a child take to him so easily, but he hid any sign of discomfort as he set out to win her affections with a determination no grown witch had ever elicited. 

As the days, then weeks past, he knew that “Mr. Seamus” was quickly becoming her favorite, and if he had been willing to admit it to himself, he was coming to find her more than an equal delight.  Her boundless energy and untarnished innocence was like the touch of water on things he never knew parched as he shared his own childhood fairy tales in the sing-song cadences of the brogue she found so fascinating, let her trace her fingers over her own last name in its cross on his right shoulder, knelt after dinner to play the nameless games with dolls and blocks, even, as his strength began to return enough to allow it, swept her high in gales of ringing laughter to the jigs and reels that came over the wireless and were close enough to his native airs that his feet could follow well enough for a four year-old’s satisfaction. 

Summer soon came in all the heat that was so astonishing after the bitter chill of the spring nights, and the fire was no longer lit in the evenings, but the braided rug had become their customary place for games before the little girl’s bedtime, and tonight she had brought a handful of bright ribbons and a brush, announcing cheerily that he was to do her hair. Seamus hadn’t hesitated, bowing deeply.  “’How d’ya want it?” 

“Fancy braid,” she declared after a moment’s consideration.  “Like Mummy does.” 

Susan winced, opening her mouth to try and suggest something else, but he nodded agreeably, already running the brush gently over the glossy waves to separate out the first sections.  “Ribbons worked in, or tied ‘round the outside?”

“Dunno,” Cecily shrugged.  “Pretty.” 

“Aye, Banphrionsa.” She didn’t squirm as much as he had expected, and it only took a few moments of uncertainty with the change of angle before his fingers were speeding confidently to weave a tight, intricate braid, incorporating the ribbons in a relatively simple but impressive-looking – and he hoped, suitably ‘pretty’ knotwork pattern throughout.  He could feel Susan’s gaze on him as she leaned forward in her chair, but he carefully showed no sign that he had noticed the change until she couldn’t contain herself any longer. 

“Where in Merlin’s name did you learn that, Mr. Finnigan?”

He shrugged lightly, his hands never pausing.  “Nothin’ like yours, but had long enough hair meself for a while, I did.  ‘Bout halfway down me back, and while I didn’t go puttin’ ribbons in it, there were times I couldn’t afford none gettin’ out, and puttin’ the knotwork through it with a bit o’ blue or silver cord were somethin’ done for…” now he did hesitate, wondering how to explain the fashion of bronze-age Celtic warriors without coming off even more barking than they already thought him.  “…special occasions.”

Susan seemed to understand his implication, but Cecily herself had no compunction about twisting to fix him with a befuddled scowl.  “Why’d ye have long hair?  Long hair’s for lassies.  ‘Cept Uncle Bill.  And ye’s not Uncle Bill.”

“True that,” Seamus chuckled, “but it were…sorta a bit o’ a costume, ya might say.  I were makin’ meself look like somethin’ out o’ the old stories, same’s why I drew on me face.”

The scowl had vanished t a look of fascinated curiosity.  “Is that when ye was the Sluagh?”

Susan sucked in a quick breath, and he could hear her stiffen abruptly, but he didn’t look up from the child’s hazel eyes.  “Now where did ya hear that word?”

“The hands,” she answered breezily.  “They said ye used to be a Slaugh, and ye fucked people up.  What does that mean?” 

“Cecily!” Susan yelped.  “’Fucked’ is not a word we say in this house!”

“Sorry, Mummy,” Cecily amended quickly, blushing.  “But I wants to know.”

“Your Mam’s right,” Seamus replied carefully, “’tis a very naughty word, but ‘tis fair’s well for ya be wantin’ to know.  Ya know about the war, do ya?  ‘Gainst Riddle, afore ya were born?” 

“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded sagely.  “Da died makin’ him go ‘way.  He was a bad, bad man, but he’s gone forever now.”

“That he is.  But a lot o’ other folk ‘sides your Da died stoppin’ him, and a lot o’ folk were hurt, some outside, and some in their hearts.” And now it was Susan’s horrified stare that he met, and he felt the familiar mix of thrill and fear as he knew exactly how thin the line was that he would have to walk.  “I were hurt in me heart, real proper bad, because me best friend got killed, and I thought it should’ve been me, because I liked him more than I liked meself and I wanted to trade.” 

“I wanted Teddy’s Kneazle,” Cecily reached back to pat his hand in all the very real sympathy she could know.  “Said he could have a Demiguise ‘stead, but ye can’t always trade.  ‘S bad.”

“It was very bad,” he agreed.  “So when I found out there was another bad man, I wanted to stop him before he hurt people, and he liked to play like the old stories, so I had to do the same thing.  A Slaugh….” Seamus hesitated, searching desperately for how to phrase the dark and complicated concept.  “It’s a kind o' soldier, and sometimes soldiers have to do bad things, and that’s what they meant by the naughty word.  That I did bad things.”

“’S that what gots ye in troubles?”

“Aye, ‘tis.  Because I broke lots o' rules, and I kind o' forgot that I were supposed to be playin’ fancy dress, and I let myself sort o’ turn into a Slaugh some.”  He glanced down at her rapt face, smiling slightly.  “Like when a certain wee miss forgets she ain’t true a princess and talks smart t’her Mam.” 

Cecily winced knowingly, then tilted her head, pointing to his head.  “Slaughs gots the long hair?” 

“They do,” Seamus tied off the end of her braid, then ran his fingers ruefully through his own short, sandy hair.  “But ain’t just them.  It sorta wound up different in the end, ‘cause by the time I did stop him, I weren’t tryin’ to be that no more, but it still meant the old stories, and a lot o’ the things I love the most ‘bout where I come from.”

“Then why’d ye cut it off?”

“When I were in trouble,” he explained gently, “they said I ought cut it because it’d look more like how I were before, and they didn’t want folk thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d done after – the bad bits, that is - but I’m gonna be lettin’ it come back, I am.”

Her eyes widened eagerly, and she sat up straighter, pulling the braid over her shoulder to squeal gleefully at the bright colors before looking to him again, her smile gleaming in the candlelight.  “Can ye show me how t’do your hair when ye gots it long again?” 

Susan smothered a giggle behind her hand, and Seamus was surprised to feel himself blush as he nodded, helplessly aware of what he’d inadvertently trapped himself into.  “’Course ya may, Banphrionsa.”

“Gonna show Papa!” Cecily hopped to her feet, scurrying off in blissful obliviousness with the end of her fancy new braid clutched tightly in one fist, and the sitting room door banged shut behind her with what seemed like far more force and weight than one small child should have been capable of as the two adults were left in the silence of her wake. 

He didn’t dare make the first move, and it seemed unbearable ages before Susan took a deep breath, getting out of her chair to sit next to him on the rug.  “You handled that very well.” 

“Thanks.”

Silence again, another eternity and a half, and there was something new now behind the cool shield of formality that those dark eyes had held since his first night there.  He couldn’t yet identify what it was, though, and he had no choice but to wait, hardly daring to breathe as she looked away, fidgeting now with the skirt of her robes.  “I’m sorry if I’ve been a hag to you.  It’s not fair after I’m the one who insisted on having you here, but those files the Minister showed me…I wasn’t exaggerating about the nightmares, Mr. Finnigan.  How could you…?”

She trailed off, shaking her head, but there was no need to finish, and there was no delay in his reply.  “Because the last time, good men died because the monster wasn’t stopped soon enough, and I was fool enough to think that if one man were willin’ to meet evil with evil same, it could end it quick.”

“But it didn’t.”  Her voice was almost a whisper.  “According to Neville, at least…just reading about Druim Cett…but what you did…what you were willing to….”  One small, white hand motioned towards his chest, and he nodded, touching his shirt where she had indicated above the blade’s heavy scar. 

“Dyin’ ain’t the hard part, Susan.”  He took a deep breath, and for the first time, he allowed his own shields to drop over what hadn’t begun to heal at all.  “It’s tryin’ to figure out why I keep bein’ chosen to live.”

She dropped the eye contact almost at once, and there was a false conversationality to her voice as she tried poorly to pretend that they were still just talking about him.  “I don’t think we can ever know that.”

“Fair.”  He let it drop, not pushing too much, not too soon, but he was surprised when she moved closer, having expected her to make an excuse to leave, not draw her wand, reaching for him with a strange expression in her eyes that froze him as surely as a hex.  The tip of the pearwood caressed his hairline, he felt the shiver of a spell, and then something brushed ever so gently against his neck and shoulders as she drew back. 

“You’re right,” she whispered.  “It suits you…but Solicitor’s theories to the side, it’s….”

He reached up in quiet shock, feeling the long, straight strands that he had thought would take years to properly return.  “It ain’t the boy ya knew.” 

“No…”  She hesitated, then very deliberately extended her hand to him.  “But I think I should probably get to know you, especially since I think you’ve already won over someone who happens to be rather dear to me…I’m Susan Macmillan.”

He laughed, shaking her hand as firmly as he dared.  “Seamus Finnigan.” 

The smile widened, still painted in ghosts but more genuine than he had yet seen from the stranger he had known since he was eleven years old.  “Nice to meet you, Seamus.”

THE END