"Hmm." Sweeney mulls on the dilemma, his gaze focusing on the ceiling. He thinks for almost half a minute. Then his attention turns down to her.
"A'right, I'll make ya a Deal. The book," he starts, his fingertip tracing feather-light over the page it's open to. "For a bottle and five cigarettes."
Sweeney's attention shifts down the nearest path before returning to her. "After port, ya bring me a loaf of sweetbread ya make yerself fer 'nother bottle." His voice is firm in his clarification.
"A whole proper loaf. None of this mini ones or muffins or shit like that." His brows lift, putting the ball in her court. He almost never looks to set terms himself unless the deal is mutual.
Her smile is warm. "I can do that. A whole loaf, for you." With a little 'S' carved on it, too, she thinks.
"It's just...you know how we all get accused of being alcoholics? This guy actually is. I can go without booze if I have to but he'll literally die. And," a small, shaky breath. "I can't let him die. So. You're gonna get the best fucking sweetbread you've ever had."
"Thanks." She holds it to her chest and watches him a moment. "Have you had more blackouts? Besides," a wave, indicating the one where she took Gerard to see her surfing all of a half hour ago.
His hand is already back in his jacket, but he slows and stares down at her.
Are you fucking kidding me? Hell of a way to ask for a favor.
Sweeney knows damn well that being around her is a risk for inviting that fucking Frenchie, and he doubts talking about him is going to do any favors in that department.
"Fuck if I know." He pulls out a small tin. Inside is a package of tobacco and some papers. Sweeney starts to roll the first cigarette.
"Ya lookin' ta fuck me in the grass or somethin'?"
"Yes," she says, a little smirk at the corner of her mouth, but oh she does mean she would do it. "My last bruise went away two days ago. I came here to smoke and just ended up smelling the trees, the air...imagined the smell of your sweat with the cleanness of the grass grinding into my back..."
She pulls her lower lip through her teeth as she considers that, decides that if anyone did walk in they're just as likely to walk out...or to watch, like he said. It's not like there are cops around. Well--one. But she doubts Ortega would care enough to do anything about it.
"Oh," she reaches into her shirt and pulls a small bag of weed from her bra. "For you. For a cigarette." Which gives him the option of smoking it on his own, too.
He's already curled the paper for the third, readying it to be filled, when she makes the offer. Sweeney's not expecting it, and there's a moment when he stares at the bag with a little too much focus. Is this something he really wants? That's blurring some lines he's not sure he wants to cross.
"You sure 'bout it?" It seems like a lop-sided trade if it's as rare as he's been led to believe.
"Of course." She'd had him in mind when she took the stash from Tess. She's never forgotten what he'd said about the quiet, or the very brief relief he'd seemed to have the first time he'd fucked her. If anyone needs to have a respite from the world, it's him. "I haven't had a smoke today and I'm dying for one."
Sweeney's not going to point out that she's about to have five in her fucking hand. He doesn't point out that she could just smoke the fucking pot. She's offering, he's accepting.
He holds his hand out flat for her to deposit the bag.
She gives him a crooked smile, gives him the bag, and then pillows her head on her arm to watch him. As talkative as she usually is, he's one of the few people she can sometimes just sit with quietly.
Although around the fourth cigarette she murmurs, "I'm worried about you."
"We've got a lot of floods and breaches ahead." And maybe that's why she's watching him now, studying the way his hands move, the expressions he gives her. "I don't want you to lose yourself."
More than he already has over the years. But the problem is she also doesn't want Gerard to lose himself. "Am I making it worse?"
Sweeney's long since accepted what being here means for his condition. He hates it without question, but if it's that or Hell or not existing, he's ready to try. He doesn't want to explain to her that he's already lost himself many times before he got here. So he moves to the other question instead as he sets the fourth cigarette in the lid and picks up another paper.
"Well, it wouldn't hurt fer ya ta not talk 'bout him when I'm tryin' ta fuck ya." He'd think such would be obvious, but at this point, he feels it needs to be voiced directly.
An apologetic smile. It's tricky to both want to have him hilt-deep in her, breathing hot against her skin, and also to try to figure out how to help him keep his mind together.
"I promise," she nods. Both for the sake of a good, hard fuck, and in the hopes it will help him.
"I'll try not ta test ya too soon," he assures her. He figures the longer they can wait, the better his odds are of both the Frenchie being suppressed and that driving into her with enough need will push past him if not.
He pauses for a moment. "'less yer lookin' ta dig him up fer a chat."
Sweeney's quiet for a good while, focusing on rolling, then sealing. He sets the cigarette in the lid only long enough to scoop up the set together.
He keeps them in a gently coiled fist, holding them out as if to drop them in her hand.
"You f'gure out what he wants from ya?" He's still not convinced on the whole flower thing. The 'innocent' ones have a way of wiggling things to get what they want without the other party realizing it.
She holds out her hand to accept. "No. Except maybe just to socialize?" That was the word he'd used.
"I'm the first person he's fucked. Or I guess, since he wasn't, the first person he's come close to it with. And that can fuck with a person's head. First guy I was with I thought I'd run away with." When she was young and lonely.
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"A'right, I'll make ya a Deal. The book," he starts, his fingertip tracing feather-light over the page it's open to. "For a bottle and five cigarettes."
Sweeney's attention shifts down the nearest path before returning to her. "After port, ya bring me a loaf of sweetbread ya make yerself fer 'nother bottle." His voice is firm in his clarification.
"A whole proper loaf. None of this mini ones or muffins or shit like that." His brows lift, putting the ball in her court. He almost never looks to set terms himself unless the deal is mutual.
Let it never be said he's not merciful.
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"It's just...you know how we all get accused of being alcoholics? This guy actually is. I can go without booze if I have to but he'll literally die. And," a small, shaky breath. "I can't let him die. So. You're gonna get the best fucking sweetbread you've ever had."
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But he's working on not being a complete prick, and doing Annie some favors seems a reasonable place to start.
Sweeney reaches in his jacket and produces the bottle, offering the base to her.
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Are you fucking kidding me? Hell of a way to ask for a favor.
Sweeney knows damn well that being around her is a risk for inviting that fucking Frenchie, and he doubts talking about him is going to do any favors in that department.
"Fuck if I know." He pulls out a small tin. Inside is a package of tobacco and some papers. Sweeney starts to roll the first cigarette.
"Ya lookin' ta fuck me in the grass or somethin'?"
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"Change yer mind 'bout that 'out in the open bit', have ya?" Sweeney sets the cigarette in the lid of the tin and starts on the next.
She'd seemed keen on seeing the showers emptied before she'd want to fuck him there.
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"Depends. If someone shouts would you stop fucking me?"
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"What do you think?"
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Maybe join in, if that's her thing and it ain't a fella in the market for a deep dicking.
The second cigarette sealed, he rests it beside the first.
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"Oh," she reaches into her shirt and pulls a small bag of weed from her bra. "For you. For a cigarette." Which gives him the option of smoking it on his own, too.
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"You sure 'bout it?" It seems like a lop-sided trade if it's as rare as he's been led to believe.
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He holds his hand out flat for her to deposit the bag.
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Although around the fourth cigarette she murmurs, "I'm worried about you."
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"An' why is that?"
Sweeney lifts the cigarette to seal it.
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More than he already has over the years. But the problem is she also doesn't want Gerard to lose himself. "Am I making it worse?"
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"Well, it wouldn't hurt fer ya ta not talk 'bout him when I'm tryin' ta fuck ya." He'd think such would be obvious, but at this point, he feels it needs to be voiced directly.
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"I promise," she nods. Both for the sake of a good, hard fuck, and in the hopes it will help him.
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Sweeney starts on the fifth cigarette.
"I'll try not ta test ya too soon," he assures her. He figures the longer they can wait, the better his odds are of both the Frenchie being suppressed and that driving into her with enough need will push past him if not.
He pauses for a moment. "'less yer lookin' ta dig him up fer a chat."
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He keeps them in a gently coiled fist, holding them out as if to drop them in her hand.
"You f'gure out what he wants from ya?" He's still not convinced on the whole flower thing. The 'innocent' ones have a way of wiggling things to get what they want without the other party realizing it.
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"I'm the first person he's fucked. Or I guess, since he wasn't, the first person he's come close to it with. And that can fuck with a person's head. First guy I was with I thought I'd run away with." When she was young and lonely.
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"Would ya'd run away with him?" There's no accusation or disgust, just honest curiosity.
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