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"Hey. Hey." You say softly, stopping her again and cupping her face in your hands. You try to reassure her as best you can. "I love you. You've got me."

She pushes away from you, making her way down the front steps, outside into the fall air.

"You think you still love me now, and you say you always will... but that's just because when you look at me you see who I used to be. A few years later, the memory won't be enough for you, and you'll come to resent me, but you're a good guy and won't leave me because I'm basically crippled, so you'll just let yourself die inside. I won't be the one who brings you down, I won't be the one who kills you, I can't - "

"Shut up."

And she looks at you with anger and confusion in her eyes, and you know she's in pain, so much pain, and you don't know if you can fix it. But god dammit she can't leave. You won't lose her again.

"Do you ever think I would have been able to live with myself if you had died? I was supposed to protect you. And I failed. But somehow, by a miracle, I got you back. I'm not fucking letting you go again. Not now, not ever."

She says nothing, but you step up next to her, pulling her down into a kiss. And she clings to you, letting her silent tears wet the front of your shirt.

* * *

You open your eyes blearily as she traces invisible patterns across your chest. You shift, and she looks up at your with her deep brown eyes. Sun shines through the cheap curtains in your room and makes her blond hair look weightless.

You've finally got all the time in the world, just to lay in a warm bed with her on a Sunday morning, lay for hours and breathe. Your hand trails over her bare shoulder and then up her neck. She tilts her head up and kisses you lazily, a change from the hungry, frantic kisses from late last night.

"Hi." You whisper.

"Hi." She whispers back, kissing your collarbone.

Her blond hair drags across your chest as she rises, wincing as she stands up.

"What's the matter?" You ask worriedly, reaching out to steady her.

She only smirks at you. "Nothing. Just a little sore, you know, from last night."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." She replies. With a cheeky smile, "It was brilliant."

You grin arrogantly, leaning back with your hands over your head. "Oh."

She falls back onto the bed, hitting against your chest. "Shut up." She kisses you chastely once, twice, and then pulls away again.

"I'm going to take a shower."

"Want company?"

She says nothing, so you jump out of bed and follow her into the living room (well, if the room that isn't yours or Dean's can be called that), tackling her on her way past the couch.

"Seamus! Bugger off!"

* * *

It's been a year since she came back to you. Her limp is gone, the shallow cuts closed up. Most of the scars, though, won't heal.

You take her to the seaside for a week during the summer. You hear her saying that she always wanted to go when she was younger but her parents never took her. It takes a significant chuck out of your savings, but it's worth it.

And she's lovely. She blossoms here. She runs across the long, gray, sandy beach chasing the seagulls. Her bare feet barely touch the sand as she sails after them, just for the hell of it, just to run. Her gold hair splashes color against the landscape.

And you run after her, like you always will be, chasing her. And you're both laughing, really laughing, for the first time in a while.

And then you sit together, squeezed into the same beach chair, the cold ocean coming up to bite your toes. But you don't mind because she's breathing steady and she isn't wearing a million layers and you can see her skin and she smells like flowers and salt and the sea.

"Don't you wish you could just go back?" She suddenly whispers. "Back to when we hadn't lost _anything_?"

"Yeah. But we can't." You say.

"Everything is gone now. Lost."

"No. Not everything."

"I know. But rebuilding hurts." She says. "Hold me, will you?"

"'Course." You wrap your arms around her.

"And... thanks, Seamus." Her head leans against your chest.

"For what?"

"For not letting me run. And for taking care of me. And for loving me." She says against your neck.

* * *

(Lavender Brown)

You stare at yourself in the mirror every morning now. Analyze yourself, every single line and flake and crinkle and scrape... and scar. You focus and refocus your eyes back and forth, hoping to stop noticing them, but you can't.

You can see Seamus watching you in the morning while he gets ready for work, looking at you with concerned eyes.

You know he was hurt by the war as well. He's got permanent markings and scars that will never heal, just as you do. He has nightmares too.

But you can't talk about it with him. Maybe you're too afraid, maybe it's too painful, or maybe you're afraid to crack the precarious, fragile life that you've lived ever since you woke up in that hospital bed.

He lets you stay at his flat. You're got nothing, no money, no job, but he says nothing.

A nagging voice says it's because you're crippled, and who's going to kick out a cripple?

* * *

It takes you two months and twelve days to get outside.

Seamus forces you.

You plead "Don't make me."

"Come on, fresh air is good for you. Sunlight. Other people." He pushes gently.

He helps you down the stairs, because you can't even fucking walk normally. You'll never wear high heels again, much less strut the way you used to. You would be angrier, but his gentle grasp on your elbow is too calming.

The sun beats down on you. It's too light here, everything too visible. You're withering, every step you take, you feel worse and worse.

Seamus doesn't let go of you, though, even when he has to lean back to lock the door.

You try to focus on him, and how the sunbeams get stuck in his fly-aways or the way he squints his eyes to look up at the sky.

But then, suddenly, everyone is staring at you. Every kid they pass points, every parent steers their child away. You're disgusting. You're a public menace, about to be arrested for disturbing the peace. Ugly things should be locked away.

"Lavender." He speaks softly into your ear, but you can't, you can't do it, and you break away from him, pathetically hobbling away as fast as you can, back to the flat, and then you reach the door and you realize that you don't even have the fucking _key _so you can't get in, and you stand there like an idiot waiting for Seamus to catch up with you.

Your back hits the door and you slide down into a ball, under the partial shade coming from the ledge above.

* * *

You grit your teeth and force it down, making yourself smile up at his hopeful face.

But he sees right through you, and you hate that he knows you so well.

"It's shit?"

You put your fork down, saying, "No, no, it's... well, yeah, it is."

His shoulders droop, and he moves around the kitchen table to lean against the counter, his back to you. You feel a little like a bitch, that you couldn't lie well enough.

You're touched that he even tried to cook dinner for you. You stare down at the burnt steak in front of you, and feel yourself smile a little.

So you creep up behind him. He's wearing his ratty Kenmare Kestrels t-shirt, the tag sticking out the back, with a pair of ripped jeans he must have changed into after work. But you like him this way just as much as you like him in a tie. You like him always, actually.

You hug him from behind, your body pressing against his, and you bite his shoulder playfully, smiling when he turns around and kisses you.

You kiss him back, and he picks you up, hands gripping your ass and shoving you onto the counter, attacking your neck with his lips and he drags his teeth along your skin, giving you shivers. You hook your legs around his hips, and it makes you shiver when he drags his fingers down your thighs.

And it's ok that you'll have to eat the leftovers in the back of the fridge that have probably been there for weeks, because he tastes better than anything.

* * *

"Um so... so..." He gulps. "Sorry, I'm nervous."

Your heart is pounding, you can't breathe, and he's holding your hands and gathering up his courage. You're standing outside the flat (after a walk - you can make it three blocks now, a small accomplishment), going to grab your keys, when he stopped you and took your hand.

It's early morning on a Saturday, and he's still got bed head (there's a piece of his hair that, no matter what, will always stick up in the back - he has to comb it down). He looks panicked, and you just want to hug him because his voice is almost trembling.

"I'm not great with words... but I guess you know that."

You breathe a laugh, and his laugh follows.

"...so...so I'll just ask."

He takes a deep breath and your throat is almost closing up and you might cry and your emotions are everywhere, the way that only he has the power to induce. He's the only person that could ever do this to you because you care about him _so much_, and you want to spend the rest of your life with him.

"Lavender Brown, will you - "

"Yes!"

"- marry me?"

"Yes, yes, of course Seamus, of course - " He cuts you off by smashing your lips with his and it's all toothy and messy but it doesn't matter because your head is screaming and you can't remember the last time you were this happy... ever.

* * *

(Seamus Finnigan)

She's gorgeous.

Her blond hair is combed all to one side, threaded with tiny white flowers to match the white lace of her dress. She wanted to wear a long-sleeved dress, but it was summer, and he insisted he wanted to be able to _see _her. You wished she wouldn't cover up.

And she didn't. The sweetheart neckline of the dress fits her perfectly, and she's captivating as she walks down the aisle on your da's arm. You feel like you can't breathe, like her short walk from the back of the room to where you are is a mile.

But then she's here and you're holding her hands as she smiles back at you.

And you can't believe that she's yours.

The priest is dithering on about something, and then she looks at you expectantly, and a moment passes.

"Oh, sorry, yeah, 'course I do."

The guests laugh, but you only care about her next words.

"I do."

"You may - " And before the priest can even finish his sentence, you're sweeping her up in your arms and kissing her. Kissing your _wife, _and you're alive and she's alive and you're together.

* * *

The porch chair creaks back and forth. Ice chips clink in a glass of whiskey. Lush, green hills sprawl out in front of you, dotted with trees in the distance. You stretch your arms over your head and your legs out in front of you, closing your eyes and feeling the warm sun on your face.

"This is the good life."

"For _you_ anyway. This little bugger is insuring me that I can't have _any _fun." Lavender quips, looking sidelong at the glass in your hand.

You glance down at her humongous stomach. She's been ready to pop for ages, and you're impatient. You want to see your baby!

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fat."