there's nothing half so pleasant [dean]

He’d booked a Muggle plane back to Ireland so last minute that it’d had to be at the worst time possible; eleven bloody hours in the air and 5am arrival time. Now he wished that he had just gone to MACUSA and gotten them to set up a portkey-- it’d have been boring and taken forever, too, but he wouldn’t have been stuck in a chair for hours with his seat belt digging into his stomach, no clue how to loosen it, too awkward to ask the nice couple next to him who were asleep anyway, too worried that he’d die in a crash to unbuckle it.

His first step getting back to Ireland had been to hug his mother, which was just common sense. He’d not seen her in months. His second had been to have a sandwich. His third had been to flop in bed with his shoes still on and sleep for six hours. His fourth had been another sandwich, after which he’d fessed up to himself that now he was just putting off the inevitable.

Sooner or later he’d have to tell people he was back, and the first person he had to tell was @Dean Thomas .

He had done pretty much everything he’d done in the last seventy-two hours on impulse alone, so to keep the streak he hadn’t bothered to call ahead to let Dean know he was dropping by. Which, he realised as he stood on Dean’s doorstep moments before knocking, had been monumentally stupid. He didn’t even know if he was home.

This was the sort of uncomfortable reminder that had driven him mad when he’d just moved out of Dean’s place, remembering that he didn’t know his best friend’s daily schedule anymore, the same way he didn’t know all of Dean’s friends anymore. And he hated it. Life had been so much bloody easier when they lived in a castle together and got told what to do all day long.

He knocked anyway, loudly and sharply, since there was only one way to find out if Dean was home. Unless he Apparated himself in-- but he had his dignity still, did Seamus Finnigan.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he’d gotten himself all the way here, gone to all this trouble, and Dean wasn’t home? He was nervous enough to think so.

Dean had woken up late on his day off. He’d gotten into the habit of waking later than many on most days, to be fair—tattoos tended not to be a bright-and-early industry. But it was past his usual start by the time he got out of bed on that Saturday. He preferred trying to sleep off hangovers instead of potions or wizardy tricks. Maybe he just liked having an excuse to sleep in.

It was usually Fridays that Dean didn’t work, but he’d shifted around his schedule for a client that was leaving town tomorrow—no, today. And then he’s had two days of actual weekend in front of him. Drinking felt like the right thing to do. He’d stopped keeping liquor in the house after @Dennis Creevey had gotten into it, so he went out, and then took the Knight Bus home because he only had sickles and galleons on hand, and threw up like he always did because he was an idiot and thought he wouldn’t. At least he had been smart enough not to have plans this morning.

After getting up, Dean made himself coffee and lay right back down again, on the couch this time. He turned the television on. For a little while he lay there, and then there was a knock at his door and his chest froze up.

Dean’s first thought was Dennis. Of course it was, with his history of showing up unnannounced after months of radio silence, even though the last few times it had been his landlord or a delivery man with the wrong address instead. Tentatively he approached the peephole, expecting that thin teenage face—but it wasn’t. And it wasn’t his landlord either. Dean’s sigh of relief came out as a cheerful laugh.

He pulled out his wand to unlock the door and swung it open. “What?” Dean just grinned at Seamus for a second, and then remembered to act like a normal person and clapped him on the back. “Is it my birthday or something? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He beckoned Seamus in, closing the door and wandering off into the kitchen to clean an extra cup just in case. “Christ, I’ve still got a phone, you know. Nobody uses it but my parents and you...”

Dean’s train of thought jumped the rails abruptly, and he looked at Seamus again. There was apprehension on his face. Or Dean thought there might be—his mind could have been playing tricks on him now that he’d let it touch on a worry. It was a reasonable one in the first place. Seamus was sometimes impulsive, true, but Dean didn’t think of him as likely to just turn up—unless things were out if the ordinary. “It’s nothing bad, is it?” he asked. “You’re alright?” No one’s died? he wanted to ask, but if no one had he didn’t want to be too easy to make fun of.

He could swear he heard Dean laugh just before he swung the door open, and at the sight of his friend Seamus felt a bit of his gut lurch in relief. He and Dean stood grinning like idiots for a moment before Dean ushered him in, chattering with the scatterbrained enthusiasm of the pleasantly shocked. Seamus followed him into the kitchen, glancing around: as long as it’d been it was so familiar still.

Some things didn’t change, and he was grateful for that. No matter how long it’d been, at least he and Dean weren’t the sort to be weird about that. And at least he hadn’t come by while Dean was busy or had company or wasn’t home.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and as Dean continued on about how he still had a phone, you know, Seamus interjected “I just had that thought out on the step, y’know! Should’ve called ahead, asked...”

But Dean had cut himself off and stopped to study Seamus, which set him immediately back on edge, worrying either he or Dean had somehow fucked up and reminded them both of everything that’d gone weird between them since they’d stopped living together. “It’s nothing bad, is it?” said Dean, “You’re alright?”

It was just concern then, and not discomfort, thank God. “No, I’m fine! Just America-- y’know, it was--”

This was the exact bullshit he’d cited when he’d moved to America in the first place and they would both recognise it, so he rushed through the rest of his explanation: “I couldn’t stand it there anymore, was all. And I missed-- you know, everything.”

He hoped fervently that Dean would recognise his own inclusion in that. They weren’t really the sort for sappy reunion confessions, but if they had been, he’d have just been in one, and Seamus wanted Dean to know that. And not make a big deal of it.

“So I’m back! For good, this time,” he said. “New leaf, and that.”

Dean sighed again, breath wavering out in a light chuckle. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just—you never know, yeah.” He let the implication of wartime trauma fill in the gaps as he gave Seamus an apologetic, twisted little half-smile and fidgeted with his wand. That would do. Dean didn’t want to get into anything else. Didn’t want to say it was odd that Seamus would come here for no reason, even if it was. They never really acknowledged that their friendship wasn’t what it used to be.

“So, what?” he asked again. “Just too hot for you in California?” August had been brutal enough in London so far. From the look on Seamus’s face it was clear he had some real reason, but Dean wanted to give him an easy out, a ha ha yeah the weather’s miserable, if he wanted to take it. But he didn’t. He didn’t really explain either—but Dean got it anyway. He leaned his still-dully-aching head against the cabinet behind him and smiled. “No, yeah,” he said. “I get it, mate.” He’d tried to like being away from home. Always fancied being a cool expatriate in Paris, or at least a traveler. But even before his year in hiding had reinforced his need for stable lines of quick family-and-friends communication, he got homesick too easy. It was a nice feeling, to hear it from his old mate rather than his own head.

And then he jerked his head up and winced, as Seamus’s words, thrown out there in a way that might as well have come with halfhearted jazz hands, caught him by surprise.

“What, for good?” asked Dean, stupidly. “Are you serious?” He gave Seamus a bemused look that he quickly managed to turn into a bemused grin. “No, that’s great!” he said cheerfully, doing his best to banish concern from his voice. “Why wouldn’t you tell me, mate? I’d have—I dunno, done something!” Dean wanted to be supportive, he really did, but the suddenness of this was suspect. He wasn’t sure if any decisions made like this had ever turned out well for Seamus. Or anyone. But to be fair, leaving in the first place had been the same. Maybe this was just course-correcting.

“Well, here’s hoping this is the leaf, I guess,” said Dean. He raised his coffee cup a little in salute, and then remembered he’d forgotten to get Seamus one. “Sorry, you want some... Er, something?” He was alright at food transfiguration; he could probably make some half-decent tea out of the coffee he had at least. “Or we could go somewhere. It’s sort of lunchtime, right?”

He paused. “Hold on, were you planning to stay here, here? Like—“ Dean gestured around his flat. “Obviously you could, but I don’t know if I’ve—got the space, y’know—and I haven’t heard from Dennis—“

Dean had always been so decent at negotiating their weird conversations-- since back in Hogwarts, even-- and Seamus was as always grateful for his efforts, the half-hearted jokes in case they decided that they weren’t up for a serious talk. If Seamus weren’t on a not-being-Seamus kick just now he’d have taken the little excuses, but instead he sucked it up and he tried, awkwardly, to be a little honest.

Sure, California weather had been a big change from Ireland, but Dean deserved a better explanation than that at this point. Not that Seamus was much for good explanations yet. 

Dean seemed to wince at Seamus’s next words-- that he was back for good-- and at first Seamus’s heart jumped a beat before he realised Dean had probably just smacked his head back into the cupboard behind. “What, for good?” Dean repeated. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Seamus. “I mean-- I never really wanted to be an American, anyway.”

Dean was putting on a good show of enthusiasm, even though he was clearly tired or hungover or stressed out: Seamus wholeheartedly appreciated it. “Sorry,” he said again. “Don’t worry-- I mean--” This next would certainly make him seem even more impulsive and unstable than he must already be coming off, but “I decided to come back less than a week ago. Just called my mam. You know-- to make sure she hadn’t rented my room out or sold my things or anything.”

This was an even more half-hearted joke than Dean’s crack about California weather, but Seamus had decided that he didn’t want to debate the wiseness of these impulsive cross-Atlantic jumps. Luckily Dean didn’t seem keen on that either, and offered Seamus a drink instead, then suggested that they go out and have lunch.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” said Seamus. He’d had a sandwich just before he’d come here, but probably saying so would be pretty rude and besides, he could still have lunch. And he kind of wanted to spend as much time with Dean as he could wring out of this one meeting: he hadn’t seen him since he’d been back for Christmas. 

But Dean had paused, as though settling on some other thought: “Hold on, were you planning to stay here, here?” He gestured around, making vague references to the space, to Dennis Creevey.

“Oh no,” said Seamus, realising only after he’d said it that it might have hurt his friend’s feelings. “I’m living back at home ‘til I figure something out. Though-- maybe once I’ve got a job,” he added hopefully. But Dean had made another excellent point: Seamus had no idea anymore what was going on with Dennis Creevey. Privately he thought that nobody really did, not even Dennis himself.

Dean laughed, quickly but in earnest. “Your mum would never.” He hadn’t considered Seamus’s parents, but doubtlessly they’d be thrilled to have him back in the country. His mother especially. Dean had always known Nora Finnigan as a worrier, and the war hadn’t helped it any. It was a wonder Seamus had gotten to America in the first place.

“Lunch,” said Dean. “Brilliant. The place around the corner, have you been?” He couldn’t remember if they’d ever gone for a meal while he’d lived here. “Or one of the old standbys,” he added in case they hadn’t. “We can apparate, I always forget.”

He set down his coffee to go get his shoes, but before he could start Seamus hurriedly replied. “Oh, yeah, definitely!” said Dean, hoping he sounded genuine. He truly was. Living alone had never suited him, but at the same time the thought of Dennis coming back to find Seamus as a new roommate worried him. Their friendship had always been too fragile for any outside variables—his friendship with both of them, actually. “I’m not married to this place,” he said anyway, because it was sensible and Seamus was the one standing in front of him. “I’d find a larger flat if you’d split the rent.”

Dean retrieved a button-down from a kitchen stool and shrugged it on over his t-shirt. “But in the meantime, don’t worry about Dennis,” he said. “He hasn’t written in months; God knows if he cares about the couch.” Of course, this was exactly the time to worry about Dennis, but Seamus shouldn’t have to. Dean wished he hadn’t brought it up at all. He wasn’t sure why he had. It wasn’t as if other people didn’t sit there while Dennis was gone, opening the bed out was no real difference, was it? “Though if he does care—we are wizards, of course, aren’t we?” Dean flourished his wand before tucking it away to open the door. “I reckon I could transfigure an alright camp bed if I needed.” A memory struck him as he said it, and he grinned at Seamus. “Or we could just throw all the pillows on the floor and have a proper sleepover, I guess.”

Seamus laughed with Dean too, half because he was right-- his mam would never have rented his room out, he could be fifty and she’d still have it ready in case he needed it, ever-- and half because it’d been so bloody long since he could remember this kind of easy companionship. You didn’t get that in America, or maybe you just didn’t get that in America if you were a shut-in who didn’t know anybody. As Dean suggested the place around the corner Seamus had to pause and rack his memory.

He was never much for remembering particulars, so he shrugged helplessly as Dean continued. Seamus could have probably remembered anything but what restaurants he’d been at. What gossip they’d had, what he’d had to complain about that week, that sort of thing.

“Anything’s good, I mean it,” said Seamus, and he couldn’t resist adding “Leave it to you to forget you’re a wizard.”

To his relief Dean wasn’t obviously repelled at the idea of living together again. Actually, he seemed kind of keen, and Seamus grinned with relief. “Yeah!” he said. “Once I get a job, y’know-- I’ll figure something out and we can go from there.” Maybe he was relying too much on the idea that he could keep living his life with a let’s just see what happens philosophy, but who cared? They weren’t so old yet that they needed to know everything they wanted. Or, if they were, they at least weren’t the only ones who didn’t.

Dennis Creevey not having written in months was news to Seamus; that seemed to scream that “don’t worry about Dennis” was not their best course of action. However, Seamus-- at least for right now-- didn’t want to worry about Dennis, so he let Dean open the door for him and stepped back out onto the step and laughed shortly as Dean made a quick crack about a slumber party.

“We’re not twelve anymore,” he said, for appearances’ sake. Then, in case Dean didn’t realize this was a joke-- “We can call your sisters up to yell at us to go to sleep.”

“It’s alright if you haven’t got Muggle money on you,” said Dean as they left, remembering suddenly. More often he found himself out without a sickle in his pocket, but most of the places where that became an issue were an alley’s walk from Gringotts. “I can treat,” he said. “Not too much after this, though.” He chuckled and grinned back at Seamus. “Maybe once I’m not paying full rent anymore.”

Dean could feel himself getting a little giddy and tried to smile less widely to offset it. Seamus’s sudden appearance had done more for his mood than anything lately. Even if they hadn’t been as close these last few years, Seamus was still the closest friend he’d ever had. If things were going to get stressful he could bloody well wait for them to.

“I dunno what kind of job you’re be looking for,” he said. Seamus was a stand-up bloke, obviously, but he wasn’t like Dean, didn’t have an obvious skill to exploit. “Could see if Greg needs a receptionist,” he said with another laugh. “He’s got a second shop in Hogsmeade now, maybe I could talk him into opening another one in Dublin or someplace. I could run it. Paint it less horribly.” He paused. “Shame I couldn’t change the name, though... God, maybe I should just start my own.” The thought was ridiculous, of course. There was no way he could run a successful wizarding tattoo shop by himself while a pioneer like Greg was still in the British Isles, but it didn’t hurt to dream. “Anyway, I’m sure every other shop in Diagon Alley is hiring,” he continued. “You could look in at Weasley’s. See what any other people we know are doing.”

“You should call my sisters,” added Dean as they left the building. “Might be glad to hear you’re back in the country. Always thought Beth sort of fancied you, at least.”

"Oh," said Seamus, who hadn't remembered that Muggle money existed until Dean had brought it up. "I'll get it next time," he promised.

Inside he was thrilling a little at all of this: that Dean seemed excited too at the prospect of picking themselves back up together. Or at the prospect of Seamus picking himself back up, but with Dean's help. As much trepidation as he'd had about showing up unannounced, he was glad he had. And glad that he'd come back here. Even in the first few months, he hadn't enjoyed America as much as he was enjoying these last few minutes-- and surely not after the excitement of someplace new had worn off entirely. There was still so much to figure out-- he didn't even have a job, he was living with his parents, he'd spent the last six months having to drag himself out of bed and still didn't know how to explain to Dean how bad it'd gotten-- but whatever. They were getting lunch, and Seamus's absolute lack of worth had no bearing on that yet.

He had never thought of himself as a receptionist, but he was in a good enough mood to laugh and say "Why not?"

"I'll have to call around and ask," he agreed, taking the stairs two at a time. "Sure someone will want me eventually. D'you really think Weasleys are hiring? Maybe DA credit is good for something." It was a halfhearted hope-- DA credit had gotten Seamus into the Aurors, and probably a few of his former classmates as well, just enough to show him that DA credit was a lousy reason to be in the Aurors. He hopped down the last few steps and glanced back at Dean-- "We ought to get everybody back together again anyway. You know-- it's been a while."

Seamus didn't actually know that it had been awhile; possibly he'd just been in America for the last meet-up. Couldn't hurt to see everybody again, though, could it? Maybe this turning-over-a-new-leaf thing ought to be on this sort of level, too, reconnecting with his old friends. Maybe they'd like to see him, too, some of them.

"Do you really think so? Beth?" He grinned. "I knew there was a reason I liked her best. Don't tell Liv that." He started down to the street before he remembered that Dean was the only one who knew where they were going, and stopped short to wait for his friend to catch up, scratched the side of his nose.

"I think my mam's still got their number written down at home, somewhere. Well-- your old number."

“Really, honest, I’ve got it,” Dean assured him, unearthing his Muggle wallet from under a magazine. He opened it and flicked through the crumpled bills. “But, yeah, don’t know if I could do dinner too, of course.” He’d been managing his budget mainly by having coffee for two meals a day. “Imagine your mum’s been keeping you well fed, though.” Dean’s own mother hadn’t not been enthusiastic about mothering, but he remembered being taken aback by Mrs. Finnigan the first time he’d stayed with her. Even when Seamus had lived with him she hadn’t ever seemed to be convinced they were taking care of themselves well enough.

Well, he would admit, they probably hadn’t really.

“I dunno, maybe they are,” he replied. “I’ve been in there a couple times, but it’s not like I really asked.” He paused. “Ron wanted to know how you were, though.” A lot of people asked Dean about Seamus. He sort of wondered whether people asked Seamus just as much about him—or whether he was just less of a mystery to people than Seamus was.

They emerged from the stairwell into the downstairs entryway. “Alright,” said Dean, squinting toward the summer afternoon outside the glass front door. “Should probably let you know I’m still a bit hung over. But so long as you don’t, I dunno, set off any fireworks, I reckon I’ll be fine.” Seamus chuckled at Dean’s mention of his sister, and he smiled in reply. “Oh, I dunno,” he said. “Maybe she just liked your owl.” Beth had been deeply disappointed when their parents had banned Seamus from sending owls to their city house in the middle of the day. The telephone was far less conspicuous.

“Glad you happened to come round today, by the way,” added Dean. The fortunate coincidence hadn’t really sunk in until now. “Normally I’d be headed to work around now, but this girl had some family thing—said I’d do hers yesterday.” He gestured to the left up around the corner ahead. “It’s this way.”

Though he was half grateful that Dean was picking up the bill, he was still half mortified; “Swear, next time,” he said again, though at this point he’d made his peace with Dean paying. He gave a short laugh to Dean’s next comment— “Oh, well, I’ve only been home for a day,” he said. “She hasn’t had much of a chance. I did have two sandwiches.”

“Oh Ron,” he added, rather than say anything of use or worth about it. He’d like to see Ron, too, but never felt like he had a good enough excuse. It was true that they’d been roommates for six years, but it was also true that Seamus was a little intimidated by any thought of talking to the old friends of his who’d saved the world and shit. What did he say, anyway? Hey, it’s been a while, how’s it going, I saw they’re building a statue in your honor.

Not that Seamus was reading the papers; they could have been building a Muggle theme park in Harry’s honor and he’d have no idea.

“Guess I should go ‘round and tell people I’m back,” he said, a little reluctantly. It was the proper thing to do, for sure, but it’d taken him hours to get himself to come ‘round to see Dean, and Dean was undoubtedly the most important of the people to tell. Seamus made a face at the prospect; going around and telling people felt like such a hassle, such a formal gesture. Probably better to just show up to the next event the DA went out for, and let people find out that way. Ginny’s birthday was coming up, if he remembered right.

Dean was squinting at the bright summer afternoon in a way that made Seamus suspect he was less tired and more hungover; his friend confirmed it a moment later. “Sorry,” said Seamus, only half apologetically; he pushed the door open and let Dean out. “Oh— Eithne,” he added— his mother’s owl had been very handsome and he remembered vaguely that Beth had liked him. He grinned more broadly. “Reckon I’d like to see your sisters, too— been a long time.” He probably hadn’t seen them since before he’d left the Aurors, honestly.

It was just a little too sunny outside to stand; Seamus shaded his eyes with one hand as Dean commented on his luck. “Right, sorry,” he said. “Sort of forgot when you worked.” Dean directed him to the left; he obediently turned and added “This place isn’t American, is it?”

It was so easy to be with Dean— easier than he’d have hoped for, even if he’d woken up from his nap intending to be hopeful about it— and even though he could tell there were a lot of things they weren’t saying he didn’t think, really, that they’d need to say them yet. Right? Things could wait, at least until they’d had lunch, and Seamus had a job, and they weren’t hungover or jetlagged. And if Seamus was back for good— no, since he was— then they’d have the time to get their diricawls in a row, or whatever. He scratched at his nose again and tilted his head at a few restaurants lined up, in case one of them was Dean’s— they could have lunch, that was step one (step five, maybe, if he included hugging his mum and two sandwiches) and then they could figure it out, and Seamus couldn’t honestly wait.

[out]

Dean knew what that look was on Seamus’s face after he brought up Ron. He tightened his mouth into an awkward grimace. Christ, why didn’t he say Neville or Parvati or anybody bloody else? Ron may have been the last one who’d asked him about Seamus, but he also felt like someone that you needed a reason to see. Dean knew Seamus had a harder time shaking that feeling off than he did.

Seamus seemed to feel that way about more people too, especially as the years went on. Maybe everyone except Dean. An honor, it felt like sometimes... But now he felt more inclined to worry.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Dean said, naturally. “Schedule’s probably changed three times since you’ve been gone.” He leaned to the side, bumping Seamus’s shoulder with his own. “I might’ve given it to you if you’d called first, of course.” The thought of Seamus waiting outside his door for hours was funny, but also somehow too sad to make a joke of, so he left the conversation there.

“Way I see it, no need to tell people unless you’re planning to drop in on ‘em,” said Dean. He knew Seamus would be relieved to hear that. Dean may have been more open with people than Seamus was, once he saw a reason to be, but both of them were private until then. Some sort of stupid masculine thing. No need to bring their life up unless it mattered. No popping in to update friends, not unless they were the only friend you didn’t need a reason to see.

They reached the corner diner, bells tinkling above them as Dean pushed open the door. “Had your fill of hamburgers and hot dogs, then?” he asked Seamus, flashing a teasing grin. “Well, you’ll find something,” he said. “Good breakfast, I dunno. I’ll get you a milkshake.”

He thanked the waitress who sat them and wondered vaguely if “Foxy” still worked here. Seamus pried apart his sticky laminated menu pages across from him with a grimace. Dean felt alright laughing at both of those things.

[end]