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.
"I was fourteen," she scoffs. "I was dumb. There's no way I would've really done it. Luckily for me. Can you imagine? But the first time, first person, changes things."
Sweeney doesn't remember. He certainly can't imagine. There's never been any part of any life where he can place that moment. That feeling. That first.
He picks the bag up off the grass and tucks it in his pocket before pulling a cigarette down for himself. He takes the time to light it, pausing after the first drag to look down at it.
"Do ya wish I was more like him?" he asks simply, though his voice has lowered a touch and he hasn't looked at her. "The Frenchie."
"No." Because it's almost impossible not to see them as different people. "If I didn't like you, as you are, I wouldn't spend so much time around you. I don't know if he's part of you, or what. But I'm not sitting here wishing you were someone else."
"There aren't. But there are some." She's fucked several of them. She grins, nudges his foot with hers. "You're the best lay I've had since I got here but c'mon that's not all you are."
"I can't wait for port. Just to stretch my legs and breathe air that isn't full of everyone else's scent. I'm going to try to hunt for everyone..." A faint grimace. "Or do something useful."
Sweeney understands that she's had a rough time with all of this, feels the guilt of not pulling her weight. Maybe it'll change how she approaches life going forward. He kinda doubts it, at least in the long-term. Which is fine, it's in her nature. Wolves aren't exactly known for squirreling things away.
"Four. I can't do much on two legs but I'm a beast on four." There's a touch of confidence as she says it that she simply doesn't have otherwise. "I'll at least make sure none of us starve."
'Us' meaning pack. She cares about the Barge, but pack are a tier of their own.
It's a trivial question; meat is meat when it comes down to it, but there's no reason not to inquire. He's going to have to find room to store it, if nothing else.
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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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He picks the bag up off the grass and tucks it in his pocket before pulling a cigarette down for himself. He takes the time to light it, pausing after the first drag to look down at it.
"Do ya wish I was more like him?" he asks simply, though his voice has lowered a touch and he hasn't looked at her. "The Frenchie."
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"An' here I was thinkin' I just had a leg up 'cause I ain't a fuckin' pillow biter." Sweeney sighs with a dramatic air.
"Heard there weren't too many gents 'round here lookin' fer female companionship."
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"Where else ya gonna get yer cigs an' whiskey?" He takes her meaning, if not the compliment. Not directly anyways.
He doesn't want to dwell too much on what else he is to her. That's how poetry ends up in the mix and he wakes up to dirt under his nails.
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"I can't wait for port. Just to stretch my legs and breathe air that isn't full of everyone else's scent. I'm going to try to hunt for everyone..." A faint grimace. "Or do something useful."
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"On four legs or two?" he inquires casually.
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'Us' meaning pack. She cares about the Barge, but pack are a tier of their own.
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It's a trivial question; meat is meat when it comes down to it, but there's no reason not to inquire. He's going to have to find room to store it, if nothing else.
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