RP: Full of It
Date: 11 March 1999
Characters: Seamus Finnigan, anyone else
Location: Hogsmeade
Status: Public
Summary: Seamus is back from the head-healer, or whatever.
Completion: Incomplete
At the Three Broomsticks, Seamus set his glass on the bar and tossed a few sickles onto it as payment before he got up from his stool and headed for the door. It was cold when he went outside, and he welcomed the snap of wind in his face and through his hair. He felt like his first week off since his internship had ended was off to a shite start, indeed.
This afternoon had been his appointment with the Healer Flannery, the therapist his regular Healer had referred him to. He'd been bloody nervous about it all weekend whenever he allowed himself to think about it, and honestly hadn't the faintest clue what to expect -- would this bloke be able to fix whatever was wrong with him -- and if so, how? And how long would it take? Still - with all the anxiety and uncertainty he'd felt about it all, there'd been a bit of hope, and a feeling like he was finally doing something to get better.
Well, so much for that.
It had been the most ridiculous song-and-dance Seamus had ever experienced. It'd been utter shite -- the biggest racket he could've imagined. Just what the hell? Flannery hadn't even done anything! Just fucking well sat there in his chair, staring at Seamus and looking smug. Asking vague questions, making Seamus 'elaborate' on this, and 'expand' upon that. Plus, he wasn't even touching on the impotence thing, or the dreams; just mundane details about his childhood and whatever. What the hell was Flannery being paid for if Seamus was to be doing all the bleeding talking?
In the end, Seamus had got tired of talking about dumb shite, had thrown his hands up and left. He could bloody well handle it on his own if all it took was talking to himself, for fuck's sake. Frustration clawed at him walked along High Street, jamming his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed against the card that Flannery had patiently handed him on his way out. On it were some book recommendations (books? what the hell?) as well as the name of his receptionist so that Seamus could schedule another appointment.
Whatever.
He'd think about it, and at the very least, the next time he saw the tosser he'd damn well demand that he actually do something. Because if that was all there was to it, maybe Seamus ought to look into that profession. Easiest way to make money doing absolutely nothing at all.
Characters: Seamus Finnigan, anyone else
Location: Hogsmeade
Status: Public
Summary: Seamus is back from the head-healer, or whatever.
Completion: Incomplete
At the Three Broomsticks, Seamus set his glass on the bar and tossed a few sickles onto it as payment before he got up from his stool and headed for the door. It was cold when he went outside, and he welcomed the snap of wind in his face and through his hair. He felt like his first week off since his internship had ended was off to a shite start, indeed.
This afternoon had been his appointment with the Healer Flannery, the therapist his regular Healer had referred him to. He'd been bloody nervous about it all weekend whenever he allowed himself to think about it, and honestly hadn't the faintest clue what to expect -- would this bloke be able to fix whatever was wrong with him -- and if so, how? And how long would it take? Still - with all the anxiety and uncertainty he'd felt about it all, there'd been a bit of hope, and a feeling like he was finally doing something to get better.
Well, so much for that.
It had been the most ridiculous song-and-dance Seamus had ever experienced. It'd been utter shite -- the biggest racket he could've imagined. Just what the hell? Flannery hadn't even done anything! Just fucking well sat there in his chair, staring at Seamus and looking smug. Asking vague questions, making Seamus 'elaborate' on this, and 'expand' upon that. Plus, he wasn't even touching on the impotence thing, or the dreams; just mundane details about his childhood and whatever. What the hell was Flannery being paid for if Seamus was to be doing all the bleeding talking?
In the end, Seamus had got tired of talking about dumb shite, had thrown his hands up and left. He could bloody well handle it on his own if all it took was talking to himself, for fuck's sake. Frustration clawed at him walked along High Street, jamming his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed against the card that Flannery had patiently handed him on his way out. On it were some book recommendations (books? what the hell?) as well as the name of his receptionist so that Seamus could schedule another appointment.
Whatever.
He'd think about it, and at the very least, the next time he saw the tosser he'd damn well demand that he actually do something. Because if that was all there was to it, maybe Seamus ought to look into that profession. Easiest way to make money doing absolutely nothing at all.