I wrote this a week and a half ago, but I wanted to post it on St. Patrick's Day, so… yeah. There are some references to Fires—a oneshot I wrote on how Maggie was changed—here. Yup.

St. Patrick's Day shenanigans, whoo. Happy St. Patrick's Day, all.

"Alright," Seth said slowly, "run that by me again?"

The petite red-haired girl standing next to him rolled her eyes. "For the seventh time, Seth: Erin. Go. Bragh." The last three words were enunciated very slowly and clearly.

"And it means…?"

"Ireland forever."

"And you say that to people on St. Patrick's Day."

"Yes."

"In Ireland."

"Yes."

"And it's… Gaelic?"

"Yes." Maggie thought a moment, then added, "It's a phonetic version of the phrase 'Éirinn go brách,' which means the same thing, actually."

"Okay." Seth reached a hand up to his hair and pulled a finger through a few strands. "So could I say 'Maggie go bragh'?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "And what's your reasoning behind that?"

Seth grinned, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin, and if Maggie had a beating heart, it would have jumped. She loved his dark skin and dark hair, much more than her own red curls and cursed pale skin.

"Well," he explained, "it means 'Ireland forever.' And 'Erin', I assume, is 'Ireland,' since it sounds like it, and it's like a name, Erin, I mean, so if I—"

"You're rambling, Seth," Maggie told him. In the two months or so since she'd known him, she'd noticed he did that quite a lot.

"Okay," Seth said, throwing his hands up in the air, "basically, it means 'Maggie forever.' How about that?"

She did curse her immortality sometimes—not often, because it had saved her from death by cholera during the potato famine, but still—but there was no way she could do so right now. After all, if she'd died over a hundred years ago, she would never have met Seth. "I am going to live forever," she pointed out.

"And I'll be there with you," was his prompt response.

Maggie studied him: his dark, cheerful eyes, his smiling mouth, his long, lanky body and big hands. He was one hundred percent serious. She still couldn't believe it.

"In Ireland," she informed him, "there are parades and celebrations for days. Festivals. People get drunk."

Seth looked a bit confused by the abrupt subject change, but went along with it. "Did you ever get drunk?" he asked.

"It's impossible for vampires," she reminded him.

"Us werewolf shape-shifters, too." He nodded. "But did you ever get drunk as a human?"

Maggie was suddenly very interested in her sneakers. "No."

Her sixth sense, the one that always told her when a lie was uttered, tingled. It worked even when the lie was coming from her own mouth.

Seth grinned, and Maggie found it hard to believe that he didn't have the same talent that she did. Or perhaps they just knew each other that well. "You're lying!" he crowed, gleefully. "When did you get drunk?"

Maggie sighed and picked at a red curl. "When I was twelve," she admitted. "Connell and I got into my papa's whiskey stash. It was not a pleasant experience."

She glanced up at Seth's face, expecting amusement, but was surprised to find a scowl. "What?"

His eyes shifted away from hers. "Who's Connell?" he mumbled.

Maggie laughed. She couldn't help it. "A childhood friend," she said. "Don't worry, I don't even remember what he looked like. I don't remember what my papa looked like, either…" Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at her feet again.

Seth said nothing, just put one warm hand on her cold ones, and she had to smile again. If he'd said "I'm sorry," she would have been slightly upset, because he hadn't even known Connell, or her papa, but Seth always knew what to do. It was one of the many things she loved about him.

"Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig ort," she said.

"What?" He blinked, startled again by the randomness.

"It's a St. Patrick's Day blessing."

"Then how would you say 'Happy St. Patrick's Day'?"

"Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Duit. Only if you're addressing one person, though."

"That's cool," Seth said. "You should just find a four-leaf clover now, and wear some green"—she was decked in a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt—"and then I can say that. 'Cause, y'know, it doesn't really feel like St. Patrick's Day right now. Rainy Forks. Bo-ring."

"Tabhair póg dom, táim Éireannach," Maggie continued, deciding not to point out that she didn't find Forks boring, because he was there. (She had time for that later; forever, to be specific.)

"What?" Another blink.

"Kiss me, I'm Irish," she translated.

A sly smile curled Seth's lips. "On second thought," he declared, pretending to ponder the matter, "you don't need a four-leaf clover." His hands inched towards her waist.

"I don't?"

"Nope." He grinned then, and suddenly, his mouth was this much closer to hers. "After all, you're already about to get lucky."

I repeat, I wrote this about a week and a half ago, and it seemed /so/ much better then. It seems sort of lame now. Oh well. -posts anyway-