allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

"Humans have an inherent need to name things." It's a truth he knows better than most, having been born of them time and again. It's a complicated topic for him.

"Those are fer love magic." He explains without strong affect. If the Frenchman is trying ta cast some bullshit, she should at least know about it.

"Love magic?" She looks up at him, still running her fingertips along the petals. "What d'you mean?"

Sweeney doesn't think it's that complicated.

"Like...usin' them ta make ya fall in love with someone." What else would love magic be?

"But..." she looks at the flowers. "You mean he wants me to fall in love with him?"

"Fuck if I know." There's only the faintest edge of bitterness to the words. After all, it's his fucking body that Frenchman's been wandering around in without so much as a by your leave.

"Just know they're good fer it." Sweeney shrugs and takes a drag. "Yer the one that's seen him of late." He rolls his eyes beneath their lids before they settle back on her.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," she says, bewildered and now a little frightened for Sweeney. "I don't think so. He thinks you're hurting me, maybe he just wants to 'fix' that?"

Sweeney frowns. He hates himself plenty without this cockwobbler adding to the pile. He taps his ash and turns to her, stepping so they are within arms's reach while his expression smooths. His focus drops to her, his head cocked a touch.

"You think he's tryin' ta make me fall in love with ya?"

She gives the flowers a wary look. "He can't though. Right?"

She knows the reason Sweeney has his rules around sex is to avoid catching feelings, and she knows that like a cold, feelings spread once they take hold somewhere. This is the worst place imaginable for that.

Now that is a fucking terrifying proposition.

Sweeney's lips flicker tight before his tongue slides between to ease them. He looks up past her to the flowers down the way.

"Fuck if I know." He tries to sound like he's not too concerned. "Does lots of things he shouldn't. Ne'er been in a situation like that."

"But you know magic," she insists. She shifts her weight, subconsciously trying to draw his attention back to her. "Love magic is fake though, right? Just flowers aren't magic."

He shrugs. All of those things are true, and yet don't make the whole of the picture.

"An' a Bible's just ink on paper. Fuck--dollar bill is too." An example for a more secular mind. "Somethin's just 'til it ain't." This is not helping. "Belief. Intent. Makin' things real 'cause they are when you believe 'nough."

Sweeney takes a drag and looks back down to her.

"You tell me. How'd they make ya feel?"

"Surprised." That's the first reaction. "I've never got flowers from anyone before. So I felt special and then when I saw it was him I felt guilty."

The beat is fleeting but noticeable.

"Who'd ya think they were from?" There's no accusation, surely she had no reason to suspect they'd be from some fucking ponce without a body of his own. He's just genuinely curious.

She shakes her head. "I thought they were for Godric at first." Not that it's something she pictures Archer doing, but at least Godric has someone who would leave gifts.

Right. The boyfriend.

Sweeney does his best not to roll his eyes.

"So yer not used ta gettin' gifts from fellas, or just not flowers?" It'd make sense if she's not into romance. Kinda wasted if yer just looking for a good fuck.

"Both?" Unless one counts scoring meth or heroin to share, gifts aren't something she's had a lot of either. "Plus it was around his birthday, so I just thought..."

This isn't the point. "Have you lost more time since then? Like, woken up somewhere you didn't go to sleep, that kind of thing?"

The line of thought is freed by her dismissal, and he steps back to turn to the flowers again. Sweeney takes a long drag and twists to flick the butt off into the distance behind them.

"Maybe. Not somethin' I can e'er speak ta with full certainty." He shrugs, studying the blossoms. "In my cabin more than I mean ta be." Not that that'll inherently bad, just unexpected. Still plenty logical that would be a place he'd return to, even without the fucking Frenchie.

"Well, we can't figure out how much he's around if we don't know where you go and what you're supposed to remember," she says thoughtfully. "And you probably don't want other people to know about him. So maybe we should just come hang out here at night, see what you can remember about the day."

"Just a check in, right?" His brow lifts, playfully dubious. "Ya ain't lookin' ta spend e'er night with me or anything." There's an implied question.

That'd be bad for several reasons.

"Who, me?" Giving him her best playful, mock-innocent smile. "Would I do that?"

They can't get into too much trouble here in the Greenhouse anyway, it sees too much traffic.

His tongue rubs against the roof of his mouth. He most certainly would not give enough of a shit about getting caught.

"I know what ya would do is dance 'round the fuckin' question." Sweeney's tone remains light, but it's clear he still expects an answer.

Her eyes sober; there's still a small smile, though. "If you want to spend the night with me I won't say 'no'." He could pull her behind that bush over there and she might nudge him to take her somewhere with a door, but it still wouldn't be a 'no'.

"But if all you want to do is a check in, that's all we'll do. It's your speed."

Sweeney accepts her answer readily, the ease of his expression speaking to it. It still takes him a moment to consider, although he knows it shouldn't.

"I think...spendin' the night together's likely ta lead only one place," he answer soft but with some amount of resolve.

"Don't s'spect I'd be able ta keep choosin' ta be a good man." Part of him still can't believe he's saying the words out loud. Not when he still wants her. Not when he knows the comfort it'd bring bein' inside her.

"I think we both know that." The observation is gentle, one of empathy and not chastisement. They're together in this boat.

He has to give other things a chance to work, or he'll never be anything better than what he is.

"It would," she agrees, with a little bit of regret. She's never seen much point to self-control, which is why the only thing keeping her from taking him back to her cabin is that he wants to try something else.

She licks her lips, draws herself up a little taller. "So, a check-in. We'll have a smoke, we'll talk. And then we'll go back to our own places. ...God this rationing thing is going to kill me, I have to get back down to one cigarette a day."

"Can't 'magine Connor'd complain," he offers wryly. Such a strange man.

The topic is moved past without hesitation. "Seems a good course. Not sure it'll do much good, but s'ppose it don't hurt ta try." Something occurs to him, and he's quick to make an addition.

"An' you'll let me know if that cunt keeps sendin' ya shit." Not so much a question as a confirmation.

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