The glasses were discarded quickly; drinking directly from the bottle gave them both a camaraderie and added familiarity as they talked. They talked for hours and each time the bottle lowered to a certain level, one of them reached for Susan's wand and refilled it. They passed the bottle back and forth and they chatted – both serious and mundane – about growing up in Belfast compared to Portsmouth; her parents' time in the Order; his mother, whom Susan had gotten to know during her visits here over the past three years; Druim Cett and Loch Cibeirdraoid. They talked about Ernie and Cecily and at some point, Susan was crying. And then it happened. Seamus was on his knees, holding Susan and comforting her.
Ernie was her first love and she missed him, but more than that, she was sad at what he was missing. She was so many things and as she leaned on Seamus, she realized in all her sadness, her grief and her guilt, she'd never mourned him properly, what with their daughter, the survivor's fund, the farm. She had never moved on. And she could never let him move on when she was thinking about all that he missed.
Seamus ran his hands up and down her back, along her shoulders and the back of her neck. He whispered comforting words, slipping occasionally into Gaelic, which came so naturally to his tongue. Susan couldn't understand, but she still knew what the words meant. There were other things that she was feeling now as she heard the concern, the caring in his lilt; his gentle touches. It had been so long since she was touched by a man. And Seamus wasn't like the men that Fiona had encouraged her to date. Those men were so much like Ernie; too much like Ernie. Seamus was just…different.
He was smaller, his hair straight and longer, his touch soft and gentle; healing. And as she was pressed against him now, she fit. She fit into his embrace. Her head fit against his shoulder; in his neck. Her arms went easily around his waist and up his back, just broad enough, strong enough, just right. A moment later, their cheeks touched and they both stopped as if realizing that they had to stop. In that pause in time, their eyes met, and she could see her own need reflected in his, and she was lonely and tired of waiting for him not to be so gallant. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. He said something; she didn't know what. He may have been trying to say 'no,' but she ignored that thought, and she pressed her lips just a bit harder in the same corner. His head wrenched back, but she refused to let him go, and then her mouth was on his and he was surging forward instead of pulling back; his hands now wandering in less familiar places, cupping her curves and holding her tightly against him.
Susan heard herself moan as her shirt was opened and the sounds she had made for only one other man seemed to spur Seamus on. For a second, she was afraid of what would come in the morning; after, but she knew in her heart that she was Seamus' now, even if neither of them had said the words, and now it was time to stop wasting time. She was weeping and he hesitated as his own shirt was thrown to the ground. He looked down at her, and her eyes met his. Her fingertips gently traced over the scar, fully healed, but still raw and vivid that split the living memorial filling his torso in its two halves; the forty-seven Celtic crosses, honoring the DA. She reached up on his shoulder, running one finger sadly over her own last name, saying goodbye; finally.
He was balanced on his knees, hovering over her, his skin prickly from the cold draft of the February night. His eyes followed her hand, seeing where it rested on his body and his shoulders dipped down, Susan realizing that he was regaining control of himself. He ran his hand through his hair and he made to move off of her. Without saying a word, she covered his arm with her small hand, bringing his attention back to her. Her hands ran over the images in his skin, but looked at his face. When her hand reached his neck, she pulled his head to hers and kissed him again. His eyes closed, but popped open with a look of surprise that nearly made her laugh when she unfastened his trousers and slid them over his hips.
He met her smile with his own and covered her body with his. Their skin touching was met by a groan from them both; the anticipation being so much less than what actually was. They fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle waiting to be joined. The salt of his skin mixed with the cider still flavoring her tongue; the smell of his sweat mixing with the fresh straw that made their bed. His breath in her ear; the guttural sounds that were coming from both of them; each clenched muscle, each scraping of fingernail, each hot breath on cool skin.
Her mind and body moved together, growing closer to the woman she'd become and further away from the girl she had been. When at last, the only movement was their heavy breathing, he still lying on top of her, their legs tangled, his fingers raking through her hair, his mouth resting on her neck and she was sad and happy all at once, but for the first time in a long time, she knew it was all right. Seamus told her that it was all right and he made it all right. The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was Seamus' whisper against her skin. "Taim I ngra leat."