Bloody hell. It was only Tuesday and he was already exhausted. Ron sat at his desk with his head resting on the table. How much longer until the weekend was it? Far too long. Feenster had really gotten on his and Harry's case today, promising a hard week ahead.

Feenster had received an anonymous tip-off about some shady dealings going on inside a warehouse. The warehouse was situated in an abandoned shipyard a few miles away from London. Feenster had dispatched Ron, Harry, a female Auror called Jane 'Blackie' Blackwood, and Felix Brooks, a Junior Auror, to investigate said tip-off. Things had gone (stake out, getting into the warehouse) smoothly until one of them (Felix) had knocked over an empty oil drum. The clang reverberated around the empty ground alerting everybody within a 500 metre radius of their presence. So much for the element of surprise. Harry and Ron had jumped up at the same time and shot stunning spells at the scattering group of wizards, each of theirs finding a mark. Blackie and Felix had taken off running and burst out of either end of the wall of cargo crates and added more red jets of light to the mix. Ron had vaulted across a crate and shot another spell at a witch, with the build of Goliath, who deflected it. She countered with a jet of purple that managed to scratch his cheek and leave a gash on his left shoulder. Bugger. He sent several stunning spells her way in retaliation until one of them hit her straight in the face. He stumbled over to her and prodded her with his foot. "Take that, bitch," he spat and then winced as he felt his shoulder give a twinge. By now all the others that had made up the original shady group had Disapparated save for the stunned ones. Ron turned around to find the rest of the team who were nursing various injuries. None of them had escaped unscathed; Harry's robe was badly singed and he sported a lovely black eye; Felix was nursing a burned arm; Blackie was bandaging a gash on her thigh and had a bloody scratch across her forehead. Bloody hell, we're a mess. Fuck. Feenster's gonna kill us for this.

Upon getting back to the Ministry with the five suspects they did manage to apprehend, they were met by a livid Feenster. He lectured (or rather yelled) at them for an hour, wondering how on earth morons like them had become fully fledged Aurors and what the hell had possessed them to try and take on a group of 20 individuals with only a team of four, one of them being a Junior to boot. Through his tirade Ron and Harry listened with bowed heads, eyes looking at the hems of their robes. They had worked with Feenster long enough to know that only gave lectures like these when he was scared. Any one of them could easily have met their demise in that warehouse. Chancing a glance at the rest of the group, Ron noted that Blackie looked mutinous, her face like a storm cloud, and Felix seemed to be on the verge of tears. At last the older Auror sighed and turned around. "You're dismissed. Have a Healer check your wounds at St. Mungos and then report back to me." With a ragged chorus of "Yes, sir," they left for the Floo grates. This incident meant a shit ton of paper work for all of them, something none of them liked. Ron's main Healer was Andrew Kirke. They had had several (many) encounters over the years since Ron had become an Auror.

"Hello Kirke," Ron greeted as Andrew stepped behind the partition. "Long time no see."

"It's been what, a month? I think that must be a record for you sir," the Healer replied dryly with a shake of his head. "So what happened this time? Robe off please."

Ron shrugged his robe off and hissed as he moved his left shoulder. "A job gone wrong," he replied as Kirke examined his shoulder more carefully. "The four of us ended up dueling a group of twenty. One of them, I swear she must've been half-giant, managed to cut me with a spell before I could stun her." He grimaced as Andrew applied a poultice to his cut shoulder, causing a sharp stinging sensation.

"I see. Luckily she didn't cut through your muscle completely. It will heal in a couple of days but you'll experience a constant dull ache until then," He finished bandaging Ron's shoulder and stood back to admire his handiwork. "There, done. Now, I don't want to see you for another month, preferably two," he said briskly before pulling back the partition. "Now get dressed and leave me be, I'm a busy man," Andrew teased.

Ron merely nodded before leaving. Being an Auror was risky business, anything could happen at any given moment.

With that thought in mind, the freckled Auror sat up straight and winced. Merlin's hairy balls, his shoulder was really annoying him and on top of that he had to write a bloody report for bloody Feenster. There was so much paperwork involved in this occupation, something Ron hadn't counted on when he had applied. Over the years he had gotten used to it, but he still disliked it. His report lay half-finished on his desk, mocking him. Fuck finishing it now, I'll take it home and do it there. It was already seven o'clock, which meant Seamus was already at work. Merlin's tits, he hated their work schedules. Ten minutes later he was sitting on their couch in front of the TV. The apartment felt so bare without his boyfriend around. He sighed and opened his report grudgingly. It was going to be a long night, so he might as well write.

Seamus had been working since six o'clock that evening at The Flying Hippogriff. The pay was mediocre, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He was a talker and being a bartender definitely catered to his needs. Talking to drunken people was one of his favourite pastimes, the things they would say amused him to no end. His Irish Charm could work wonders as well, with both women and men, so he was the go-to when dealing with tricky customers. Sure, the hours weren't ideal, but they could have been a lot worse. Besides, he got Mondays off, how great was that? Not many people had that claim to fame.

So far it had been a quite evening, not too many people out on a Tuesday night. There had been the usual influx of 'after work' people, many whom he was acquainted with. They were a motley mixture of booksellers, shop owners, merchants, apprentices, interns, and whatever else you could think of. By seven-thirty they had dispersed and left a lull in the pub until nine when the late night regulars started coming in. There was Tim Doherty, an artist who specialized in magical portraits; Patricia 'Trish' O'Leary, fellow Irish and a Ministry witch; Jacob Rawly, a young up and coming new reporter for the Daily Prophet, and Albert Rutherford, a retired Professor. Yet again this was an eclectic mix of people, but they got along quite well surprisingly.

It was a quarter past nine before Trish came into the pub and sat down on a bar stool, shoulders slumped.

"Hello, Trish, love," Seamus said cheerily. "What can I get fer ye tonight? A double Scotch perhaps?" he asked seeing her sagging posture.

"Would you? That'd be lovely dear," she murmured in her light Irish lilt.

"Here ye go, Trish," he said and handed her a glass half-full of amber liquid. "So what's eatin' yer?"

"Ah, it's nothin' really. I'm just overworked, reports and the like. Mind toppin' me up?"

"Sure thing, love."

"Thanks Shem. Oh yes, I have somethin' that might interest you, my dear."

"Me? Like what, a law that prohibits drinkin' afore ten in the mornin'?" he chuckled.

"No! Something closer to your heart than your drink, your red head, Weasley."

"Ron? What's he done this time?"

"I'm not sure, but Feester was apparently really letting him and Potter have it. Lots of shouting involved," Trish nodded and leaned in closer. "They were also covered in blood—"

"Blood?! What the feckin' hell happened?!" It felt as if Trish had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on his head. Blood. Was Ron okay? He needed to get back to the apartment as fast as humanely possible, but he still had another four and a half hours left on his shift. Fuck.

"Apparently their job went wrong and they had to duel. Nobody was seriously injured though," she added seeing his obvious disress.

"Fuck. I need to get back ter him, ter make sure tha' he's all righ'," Seamus muttered distractedly. Fuck it, he's make up the hours later. "Oi! Polly!" he called. A blonde woman popped out of the kitchen and walked over, a quizzical expression on her face. "Polly, me angel, I need ye ter cover the rest of my shift tonigh'. Please Pol, Ron's been hurt an' I have ter make sure he's okay."

Polly's eyes softened as she heard how worried he was. "Well, why are you still here? Go on, get!" she said and shooed him away from the bar.

"Thanks Pol, I'll make it up ter ye sometime!"

"Just buy me a few drinks and we'll call it even. Now go!"

Seamus blew a kiss over his shoulder as he exited the pub jacket in hand and Disapparated just outside the door. Please let Ron be fine.

He arrived with a soft pop outside their apartement door. Hastily Seamus fumbled with his keys and opened the door, practically flying into the hallway. He dropped his keys and jacket unceremoniously on the floor before calling out. "Oi, Ron, you home?" A startled yelp told him that the red head was indeed in, and in the living room. Quickly he made his way to their living area and found a confused Ron sitting on the sofa his mouth ready to ask a barrage of questions. The Irishman held up a hand to forestall the questioning as he sat down next to him. "I was working me regular shift at the pub an' then Trish, ye know Trish righ'? Well, she told me tha' you an' Potter had been dueling. I jus' had ter make sure ye were all righ'." His teal blue eyes focused on the cut across the red head's freckled cheek and then to a bit of white that stuck out underneath his grey t-shirt arm. Carefully Seamus cupped Ron's left cheek, thumb gently stroking the scratch on it. "What happened, love? Tell me."

Seamus' unannounced arrival home had nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. It was only nine-thirty, and if Ron was correct his shift didn't end for another four and a half hours. He turned around with a questioning glance mouth half open ready to ask him what the bloody hell he was doing home so early but he had to swallow his words as his boyfriend held up a hand. Listening to his explanation, Ron felt a little twinge of guilt. However much the Irishman tried to conceal the tremor in his voice, he could still pick it out. Ron hated making Seamus worry, or anyone worry for the matter. He was supposed to protect them, to make them feel safe, not to make them fret.

Seamus' eyes were the best and the worst parts. His eyes (even if he didn't know it) were expressive and conveyed every single emotion he felt, including the ones he tried to hide. Ron knew the Irishman was trying not to come off as frightfully worried, but his eyes said otherwise. The soft caressing hand made him close his eyes for a moment, enjoying the soft touch. The next question (or rather request) caught him off guard. Out of an old habit, Ron bit his lower lip and lowered his gaze. Did he really need to offload the whole story? He did owe it to his boyfriend, but…

"Nothing special happened. A job went slightly askew, s'all."

"Bull-fuckin'-shite Weasley. Tha's not the whole story. Goddamn, I'm yer boyfriend fer feck's sake, I deserve to know!"

"There's nothing to tell! A job went wrong and we ended up dueling with the suspects, the end."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"So then tell me the truth. Please, Ron."

"It's nothing really. Just drop it aight?"

"No, I won't. Yer a stubborn git but so am I. Now tell me or do I have ter force it out o' ye?"

"… Fine. Have it your way."

With a resigned sigh, he told him the story. Why did he need to know? It was nothing special really. He'd gotten hurt before doing his job. But I always told Seamus about it. He trailed off at the end and stared at the blank screen of the TV. As much as he didn't want to admit it, talking had eased his conscience. "I'm sorry Shay," he murmured. "I'm sorry for causing you worry. I didn't mean to." Ron shrugged with his good shoulder and then slumped back against the sofa. What kind of boyfriend was he? A shit one to say the least.

"Hey now, don't yer get all depressed on me, ye great lump," Seamus said teasingly as he watched his boyfriend withdraw into himself. Whenever he felt bad he visibly retreated and fell into his thoughts, quite a detrimental move. "It's been a long day fer ye I gather. Lets get ye into bed. Come on then." He poked and prodded the red head until he got up with a small smile on his face. "That's better. Smilin' suits ye better than mopin' aroun'." Taking his hand, he pulled him along to the bedroom.

"And I think ye should sleep with yer shirt off. Let the shoulder breathe an' all tha'."

"Is that the only reason Shay?"

"Of course. I have no ulterior motives… well, maybe I do."

"Just this once Shay."

"I'll change tha', you jus' wait. Soon you'll be sleepin' starkers."

"In your dreams. Now help me with my bloody shirt."

"Pleasure."