Summary: Sean is rescued, and the gang celebrates his return the only way they know how - drinks all around.
Warnings: Lots and lots of canon-typical alcohol consumption/drunk people, Irishisms, toxic relationships, strong language, impressive levels of emotional constipation/repression
Word count: 1,716
A/N: Sooner update than anticipated tbh!! Chalk it up to grief being weird and making these silly little characters do silly little things being infinitely preferable to reality lol 😬 Hope you enjoy, and as always thank you so much for the kindness and love this story has received!!
Series masterlist • AO3
—
Sean is welcomed back into the fold in the golden haze of early evening, crowing excitedly from his place behind Javier’s saddle before they even reach the clearing. You’re not sure what else you expected. Charles shoots an exasperated look, but even he can’t hide the smile on his face.
Sean leaps from Boaz’s back with a flourish. He grins, showing off those missing teeth, and throws his arms wide with a laugh from deep in his belly.
“What’s the craic you sorry bunch of cunts! Who missed Uncle Sean, hey? Who’s got some love for Dead Eye Macguire now he’s back in business?”
He’s met with a chorus of cheers and groans in equal measure, which only makes him beam all the brighter.
“Son!” Dutch calls out with a smile that curls triumphant around the edges of his mustache. “You made it! Now this, this calls for a celebration.”
“We’re having a party?” Jack asks, hopeful.
Dutch looks down at him with kind eyes. “Maybe, just a little one.”
You smile. If you know Dutch - if you know Sean - it’ll be anything but.
—
Arthur rides in about an hour later, while Pearson and Grimshaw and the girls are still in the throes of party prep. You’ve lent a hand setting crates of beer where they ask and chopping extra wood to keep the campfires going all night. John is less helpful but far more enthused about the party. Or maybe just the drinks. He and Abigail have gotten worse, if that’s possible, and he tells you loud enough for anyone passing by to hear that he’s long overdue for a night of drinking.
“Sure,” Arthur sneers. “Lord knows you need a break from all that hard work you been doin’. Oh, wait. You ain’t done shit.”
“Shut up,” John bites back, but Arthur has already moved on. The unimpressed look he throws over his shoulder is reserved mostly for you. You just roll your eyes at the both of them and snag a beer from a nearby crate. If anyone needs it, clearly it’s you.
—
By the time the sun has just about finished setting, the party is in full swing. Sean has given a speech already, just as obnoxious as you’d expect, and now he’s making the rounds individually.
“If it isn’t the spookiest gunslinger in the South!” he exclaims when he sees you. He stumbles over - unsteady already - to greet you. You clasp the hand he offers and pat his shoulder in a brief hug, smiling in spite of yourself. “How the hell are ya, Ghost?”
“Better’n you, I imagine,” you say, head tilted and hands on your hips. “Heard our old friends in Blackwater weren’t real hospitable.”
Sean scoffs. “They got nothin’ out of me, I tell you that. And sure, what’s a little torture compared to Pearson’s cooking?”
“Got me there,” you laugh and clink your bottle to his before taking a drink.
He pats your shoulder once more and then heads off towards Karen, roguish grin fixed on his face. He says something about youthful vigor and you shake your head. A nearby tent pole is unoccupied, so you settle in against it to watch the merriment unfold.
Happy chatter choruses over the clearing while Dutch’s gramophone plays a soft, familiar tune. He sways along to it with Molly in his arms. She’s smiling up at him with her red painted lips like he hung the emerging stars in the night sky. Mary Beth calls Arthur over to dance, too, smiling wide when he accepts and wider when he’s brave enough to twirl her out or dip her low. Hosea bows formally before Ms. Grimshaw, who allows herself this brief moment to let some of her cares fall away to the sound of nostalgia - one of Dutch’s longtime favorites that underscored easier days.
When Mary Beth curtsies away to meet Tilly by the drinks, Arthur lingers on the outskirts with you for only a moment before squaring his shoulders and seeming to make up his mind. You smile, surprised, when he comes back holding Abigail’s hands in his own. Her eyes shine up at him, fine china blue, and she smiles as freely as you’ve seen in weeks. Arthur, too.
It looses a sigh from deep in your chest. You love to dance, but more than that you love when things are like this at camp. Happy. Hopeful.
Then, of course, John storms over at the sight of Arthur with his woman.
He pauses next to you, bristling. “The hell is he playin’ at?”
“Dancing?” you offer.
He glares at the deliberate ignorance in your words. “It ain’t funny. He’s always so interested in my life - why can’t he bother with his own?”
“Jesus, the pair of you,” you say, shaking your head. “You know what you need?”
“What?” he snaps.
You extend a hand and a smile that’s enough of a challenge to make him pause. “A dance. You’re awful cranky for a party.”
He looks at you, half-irritated and hackles raised, but accepts the invitation quick enough. You lead him into a gentle waltz. With each swayed step the furrow in his brow smooths. Eventually he stops staring over your shoulder at Abigail and Arthur and starts looking at you, a little like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothin’,” he says, too fast.
Your lips purse, disbelieving, but you don’t push it. Not when he’s finally relaxing into the movement, and there’s a hint of a smile pulling at his scars - still puckered pink and fresh, but healing. His dark lashes cast shadows that curve across his cheeks. Freckles span the bridge of his nose where the sun has pressed a series of soft kisses. His hair is long and unruly - in need of a wash, always - and framing his face. There’s a stray curl you long to brush aside. You’re close enough that you could.
You spin him out, instead, and the surprised laugh he lets out is a sound you’ll covet close to your chest for weeks.
“Almost forgot me and my two left feet are dancing with a professional.”
“Hardly,” you snort. “Just better’n you, is all. Ain’t a high bar.”
“Real nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
John ducks his head to laugh at your shitty grin, and when the music stops he lingers in your arms for just a moment longer.
“Thanks for the dance, partner.”
“Any time.”
He offers a parting nod and wanders off - probably to find more drinks. You smile after him, looking like a hopeless fool, you’re sure. When you look over at Arthur he’s no better, looking down at Abigail hopelessly. Something fragile reflects back in his gaze with the lanternlight. Hosea catches your eye and lifts a single, knowing brow. Discomfort burns up your neck and settles high on your cheekbones. You turn with hunched shoulders to find another drink.
—
It’s late. The sky is impossibly dark above, save the stars that shine down in their pale blues and whites and whisper pinks. Alcohol buzzes pleasantly through your veins, making everything feel lighter and heavier at the same time, somehow. You’re sat at the old round table across from John and Bill, not listening.
They’re having a discussion - something about Dutch, maybe - but you’ve tuned it out in favor of staring distractedly at the unbuttoned collar of John’s shirt. Shadows dance across his sharp collarbones. Wisps of dark chest hair peek out. You force yourself to look away from the bob of his Adam’s apple every time he takes another generous swig of his drink, thankful for low lighting that hides the embarrassed burn that feels like it’s overtaken your whole body.
You should just go to bed, at this point. You don’t. Instead you laugh along when his chest expands with good humor. The sound is high up and wheezy like it gets when he’s too many drinks in. You missed the joke, but that hardly matters.
It’s just funny.
Abigail finds it considerably less so. She walks by with a withering glare on her way to their tent for the night.
“Pathetic,” she snaps at the lot of you, but mostly him. “Genuinely pathetic.”
“Come here, my sweet!” John calls after her. Even drunk, sarcasm stains the syllables. Then he giggles some more. You and Bill do, too.
“You’re a rotten liar, Marston. Everyone knows,” Bill says between wheezes, “the only one you’re ever sweet to is Ghost!”
John bursts into even more laughter. “I guess you’re right, ain’t you? What do you think of that, Ghost?”
“You ain’t sweet,” you snicker, “you’re drunk.”
The three of you dissolve into still more laughter, even as John tries to get up. He sways on his feet so you move to help him stand. You’re both unsteady and too warm. Wildfire floods your veins where he touches.
Then John bares his teeth over your shoulder at someone, the kind of grin that usually means he’s about to start a fight. “You got your chance, Arthur. She really hates me now.”
You look back to see a dark look on Arthur’s face. You’re too drunk to know what it means, but you usher John stumbling on his way before any real fighting starts. He takes all the laughter with him.
Before you can sneak off the hook as well, Arthur catches your arm and fixes you with that same stare you can’t place.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” he asks lowly.
“We’re friends,” you insist. “What else?”
He looses a single, disbelieving laugh. “You ‘n me is friends. Whatever you got goin’ on with Marston ain’t that.”
Your arms fold, defensive, as you watch his mouth draw into that familiar, grim line. “The fuck does that mean, Morgan?”
He just shakes his head and places his other hand on your shoulder, heavy. “Be careful, Ghost.”
Your face scrunches between emotions. It’s like you’re a scolded teenager all over again, Arthur warning you with sad eyes while John ran off with Abigail. Only now can you see it was never just for you. Only now can you see how deep the grave has been dug for all four of you.
Muggleborn was able to capture photographs of one of the new transfer students, Henry Evans, curb-stomping a lil Slytherin. The other transfer student, Theodore Rowle, is not happy but has refused to comment. Unspeakable Rookwood was blindsided and was not impressed with A) picture quality and B) Evans conduct.
