allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

Sweeney's still firm in his opinion about the man being a prick. Annie is too kind to everyone.

But when the talk turns to music, he offers a gentle smile. "I'd like that." His eyes slide up playfully.

"An' maybe I can tell ya how e'ery Irish songs 'bout drinkin'."

"Just about drinking? I heard Ireland's also got lots of sheep." Which might, from someone else, sound like a jab. But she's a wolf. "I always wanted to run through a herd of sheep. I almost did once, on my way through Mexico? But they talked me out of it."

Since a wolf running through a herd is going to end with a whole lot of bloody wool.

His laugh is sharp, like a scoff that kept going.

"Got me there," he concedes with a smile and roll of his eyes.

"We also sing 'bout fightin' an' fuckin' an' war." Sweeney's eyes slip a bit distant for a moment. He hadn't been there, not when the modern were born, of course. But it doesn't mean the subjects had changed or the acts that inspired them. His people's people's people are still fighting and still dying.

That fucking Christ cunt.

"There's a band I heard a couple times, from Ireland." She bites her lip against a smile. "Funny lyrics, and real good barfight music, man. I should find some for you to hear, if you want."

"Sure." He seems vaguely indifferent, but still amenable. Not like he's going to be finding a real bar fight soon, especially after his conversation with Tim.

There's a moment's pause.

"You wanna start lookin' at names? 'Cause I'm guessin' ya might be needin' some fer tryin' on in a bit." He tips is head.

"If ya want." There's no obligation. Not like it's going to stop him from fucking her.

"Think we can find a couple between now and dawn?" A raised eyebrow. "Just in case."

She figures he's the resident expert on Irish names, but she's more than willing to sneak into the library to grab a book. (Well, mostly willing. Leaving this room right now is something she does not want to do.)

"Fuck, woman."

He gives an exasperated sigh with a touch of an eye roll, even though the suggestion had obviously been his. It's still a lot to ask from his body.

"I'll do what I can, but ya best make them count. I ain't a fuckin' machine."

Sweeney's lips slide into a smirk. "Ya lookin' fer a proper name, or just words in general?" Because obviously the latter has more options, especially ones that don't refer to God with the capital G.

She laughs. "Okay, okay, we should come up with some for another time." She's happy just laying here with him. More happy than she really wants him to know.

"Give me some of both. I like the idea of being able to call out your name but, y'know, a couple good curse words for flavor."

Sweeney licks his lip and smirks. "Ya know I ain't gonna give you a proper name, right? Yer stuck with Trouble."

He takes a slow breath to consider it. "So what sorta name ya want? Lookin' fer a particular meaning or just one that's easy ta say?"

"I like it," she says, trying to play it cool but with a little color in her cheeks. What she'd said about pack and new names was true. What she hadn't told him was that sometimes they name each other. It's like this with him often: he brings out the wolf in her but more than that he sifts out the best parts of being a wolf from all the murkiness her pain has caused.

"What's a name that means... clever?" She could have gone for something more playful, a direct translation of Irish Sexy for example, but cautiously she wants to try for something more earnest.

His smile curls a bit at the threatening blush. It's nice to see it; it lets him know he's doing something special.

"A given name fer it, or just the word?"

She pushes her hair back, a tic she resorts to when she's feeling too vulnerable. But she soldiers on. "Whichever one is less weird for you to hear."

"Lotta Irish names gotta deal with church shit that I rather not. But I'll certainly give it a think. The word would be 'glic' (pronounced glick) or 'cliste' (k'lishta)."

Sweeney closes his eyes to sort through more traditional names.

"Yeah none of that Church shit," she grimaces. "Cliste." Glic, she decides, isn't quite versatile enough.

Sweeney doesn't assume that's a final answer. "Lotta names are 'bout who yer da is too. Lots'a 'son'a some prick'. But I ain't got one of those either."

Something catches in his mind and he laughs. It sharp and clear, but promptly truncated with a shake of his head.

Fathers, in her experience, aren't deserving of much besides perhaps a bitter thought or two on birthdays and holidays. And the idea of including his dad--if he'd had one--in this search for a name is a further discomfort.

Then he laughs and she sits up on an elbow. "What? What've you got for me?"

"Somethin' inappropriate," he assures her with another shake of his head. Sweeney' smile lingers though.

"Conrí." (KAWN-ree) He casts his smirk up and askew. "Means 'wolf king', 'king of the hounds'." His brow bounces in amusement, knowing damn well when too far is too far. Still funny though.

"Oh you're sittin' here acting like I won't use it," she retorts. She lowers herself close to his ear and breathes, "Conrí..."

Too far is too far, or rather just far enough to tease.

He can't help resist a faint shiver, if only because of the warmth on his skin. Sweeney nudges at her with his cheek.

"I ain't lookin' ta be. Ain't mine fer the takin'," he offers, almost assuring her. "F'gure that should be Godric's if anyone's."

"We don't really have kings." And Godric is pretty tired of being in command. She knows this, which makes her all the more guilty for letting him run things. But either he runs it or it falls apart, so things are what they are.

"Sometimes I feel like I should explain how things work but...if it was a wolf pack I wouldn't have to explain. You know? So it feels weird talking about it."

Sweeney cups the other side of her head with his hand, pressing his lips against her.

"Ya don't hav'ta talk 'bout it," he says gently. "I just know yer the Wolf Queen." He nuzzles her softly without letting her go. "Not lookin' ta disrespect that or make light of it."

On a good day she might feel like she could hold together a very strong, stable group. Most days there is no part of her that feels like a queen.

"Thank you," she says softly, because knowing at least one person believes it's still in her keeps her trying.

"Course," he replies, lowering his hand but keeping close.

"Ya can give me the name ya want," he assures her. "But ya know how they can mean shit. So I wanna make sure ya can decide b'fore ya decide." Sweeney's smile curls.

"That ain't ta say I don't enjoy the sound of it on yer lips."

"You never know," she smiles. If she chose to shrug on a sheepskin now she'd have a joke ready, she'd push for something that did give him more license over her.

It's impossible to do that with him looking at her, with them relaxing on a bed of grass surrounded by all the things he has done for her.

"What about names that start with S?" There's some tactical thinking here; it can help her stop thinking of him as Sweeney.

"I will offer ya S ones," he promises. "But I want ya ta have a couple others first." His lips press, the words clearly having more meaning than just explanation.

"Conmac, means hound-son." A name, a name that is his. Or was.

"Or Failinis." There's a moment where he shrugs in realization. "Though he's also Ṡalinnis. Or Shalinnis, if yer lookin' at S's."

His mind starts to wander to other S names.

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