"No, not August," she says quickly. "I'll think of something. Maybe I'll just spring it on you."
Some day not so far. Some day they have an actual chance of seeing together. She was willing to hold out for a day special to him, but without that she can't stomach the thought of counting on the future.
Sweeney feels like he did something wrong, even if it's for the right reason. He isn't sure how to feel about it, because when it comes down to it, he's spend a huge amount of time not wanting to feel anything about anyone else.
His thoughts shift, trying to settle. Something clicks.
"How ya feel 'bout the end of May?" he asks, cautiously optimistic, but understanding it's going to be a complicated subject in general. "The twenty-sixth?"
"Wait. Spring. Let's do spring! First day of it if there is one? New beginnings or, y'know, celebrating getting stronger and sunnier." She loves symbolism. It's part of what had made this so perfect. She sits up on an elbow, waggles her eyebrows at him. "And it's not real far. Right?"
Similar complications, if less dangerous ones. Still sharing holidays. But he's willing to compromise. Instead of the equinox, the day after. A spring forward.
"March twenty-first do ya, then? Give ya the first day the sun's out longer." His brow lifts knowingly.
"Though--an' I know it's a hell'uva lot longer--but..." Sweeney reaches his arm above his head, pulling something from the grass. He tucks it against his chest so it's in front of her.
It's the flask she'd etched for him, one side flipping one finger, the other flipping two.
It takes her a moment to figure out what he means. She hadn't forgotten she made it for him, but given his utter lack of enthusiasm about it and the fact she never saw it again, she hadn't thought he'd kept it.
"We can have both," she offers, gaze never quite leaving the flask. "Not like I'm going to get tired of you."
"Just more work fer you," he reminds her with a grin. "Yer the one wantin' ta plan e'erythin'." With a good-natured chuckle, his eyes find the ceiling.
"Not like I can keep stealin' this much dirt e'ery couple of months."
He sets the flask back on the grass above him, and offers a good-natured shrug. Sweeney's smile is encouraging.
"Luv, I've spent most of my existence survivin' on offerin's an' belief. It ain't 'bout what it is. It's 'bout the intent."
With a playful roll of his eyes, he leans to kiss her hair, then speaks against it.
"Ya could just not fuck me fer a month, an' I know how much of a sacrifice that is." It's cheeky, but also bluntly honest.
"I look forward ta seein' what ya come up with. That sorta thing isn't somethin' that folk do fer me." He's lucky enough to actually get to celebrate the Holidays.
She likes the warmth in his voice. She likes knowing she's earned it from him, and likes knowing that what she comes up with will put it there again.
"People should do it for you more," is her honest assessment. "But I don't hate that when I get to do something for you it's special. Instead of it just being like 'oh I got that same flask from Jane last week'. I like knowing that I can still do new things for you."
Sweeney takes a slow breath, releasing it as a comfortable sigh. "It might be a complete surprise if ya don't give me any hints. Least you knew that was comin'." He traces a finger over her Mark. "I ain't gotta Pack ta get all fancy fer," he remarks with a tip of his head.
"When we go to ports and things... you're okay if like, Connor checks up if I'm stuck in a coma again, right?" She looks up at him. "Not because I think you need our help. It's just- if I wake up and something's happened, something bad, I just want to know everyone made it out okay. And that someone made sure you weren't just left to deal with it all alone."
The day to days of the Pack aren't his problem, but she's uncertain where the lines do exist.
His lips thin slightly, unsure exactly what she's asking. A silence hangs before he seeks clarification.
"You askin' me ta take care of them? Or ta accept them lookin' ta me ta take care of you when shit like that happens?" The answers clearly may be different.
She chews her lip. "I guess what I'm asking is what you're comfortable with them wanting to do to help you, or asking you to do to help me. So that if I'm death tolling or in a coma or something no one has to wonder if I'd want you there; now that you're pack they'll already know I do."
He's still not 100% on the expectations, but he's doing better.
"I'm here fer you. I don't expect them ta do fer me, like I ain't lookin' ta do fer them. But when it comes ta you..." Sweeney sighs. "Course they can come ta me." His gaze dips for a moment to her neck and back.
"Hope it ain't gonna be a secret that ya'd want me there."
"But it ain't like ya don't occasionally come home smellin' like fellas ya ain't lookin' ta bring with ya." There's no criticism; she should fuck who she wants. It doesn't mean he's not going to poke her about it in jest.
"Good, upstanding men," she jokes. Her type is rough around the edges but in practice she tends to end up with men who treat her delicately. "A whole platoon of 'em. They'd never dare tear me out of a dress."
"Well, I would be up-standin', but ya keep fuckin' it out of me."
He glances vaguely towards the dress and back to her.
"I ain't sayin' it should be anytime soon, but when the time comes, ya want me ta sew ya back in that dress, or just lend ya my shirt?" He makes a quick addition.
"Lend. Ya gotta give it back. I've only got the two."
"That's a hard bargain. If I go home in your shirt I'll fall asleep in your shirt smelling like you and..." How to explain to a non-canid? She steals things from her friends that smell like them, and stashes them in her blanket nest. Having a whole shirt?
"You might just have to let me find you a replacement shirt. I could even take you to that Wardrobe and I swear on my life I won't try to talk you into wearing anything dumb."
Sweeney shifts to push himself up. He brushes off his trousers and tussles his hair, loosening most of the grass he'd accumulated.
His first stop is to scoop up the dress, bundling it and sending it promptly to the Hoard. The next is his button-down and jacket. He slides the jacket over his bare shoulders and holds out the shirt to her in offering before collecting his tank.
She takes it but only buttons it half the way, leaving it open to the middle of her sternum, and open below the tops of her thighs. She winks at him. "Proper walk of shame dress, that's what this is."
He chuckles, his grin going wide as he looks her down and up again.
"Pretty sure that ain't shame," Sweeney observes with a cock of his head. "Edgin' a bit closer ta pride, if I do say so myself." He tucks the tank deep in his trouser pocket, but a chunk still hangs out.
Making his way back to her, he rests his hands on her hips, further looking her over. "Almost like someone provin' they could conquer a Leprechaun, fuckin' him 'til his knees give."
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Some day not so far. Some day they have an actual chance of seeing together. She was willing to hold out for a day special to him, but without that she can't stomach the thought of counting on the future.
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His thoughts shift, trying to settle. Something clicks.
"How ya feel 'bout the end of May?" he asks, cautiously optimistic, but understanding it's going to be a complicated subject in general. "The twenty-sixth?"
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"Wait. Spring. Let's do spring! First day of it if there is one? New beginnings or, y'know, celebrating getting stronger and sunnier." She loves symbolism. It's part of what had made this so perfect. She sits up on an elbow, waggles her eyebrows at him. "And it's not real far. Right?"
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"March twenty-first do ya, then? Give ya the first day the sun's out longer." His brow lifts knowingly.
"Though--an' I know it's a hell'uva lot longer--but..." Sweeney reaches his arm above his head, pulling something from the grass. He tucks it against his chest so it's in front of her.
It's the flask she'd etched for him, one side flipping one finger, the other flipping two.
"May twenty-sixth."
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"We can have both," she offers, gaze never quite leaving the flask. "Not like I'm going to get tired of you."
That much she knows.
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Sweeney concedes with a tip of his head.
"Just more work fer you," he reminds her with a grin. "Yer the one wantin' ta plan e'erythin'." With a good-natured chuckle, his eyes find the ceiling.
"Not like I can keep stealin' this much dirt e'ery couple of months."
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She strokes her hand over the grass. "Just don't get your hopes up too high. I don't think I can get an idea close to this."
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"Luv, I've spent most of my existence survivin' on offerin's an' belief. It ain't 'bout what it is. It's 'bout the intent."
With a playful roll of his eyes, he leans to kiss her hair, then speaks against it.
"Ya could just not fuck me fer a month, an' I know how much of a sacrifice that is." It's cheeky, but also bluntly honest.
"I look forward ta seein' what ya come up with. That sorta thing isn't somethin' that folk do fer me." He's lucky enough to actually get to celebrate the Holidays.
"So whate'er ya plan, it's gonna be special."
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"People should do it for you more," is her honest assessment. "But I don't hate that when I get to do something for you it's special. Instead of it just being like 'oh I got that same flask from Jane last week'. I like knowing that I can still do new things for you."
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"Pretty sure I don't know a Jane."
Sweeney takes a slow breath, releasing it as a comfortable sigh. "It might be a complete surprise if ya don't give me any hints. Least you knew that was comin'." He traces a finger over her Mark. "I ain't gotta Pack ta get all fancy fer," he remarks with a tip of his head.
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The day to days of the Pack aren't his problem, but she's uncertain where the lines do exist.
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"You askin' me ta take care of them? Or ta accept them lookin' ta me ta take care of you when shit like that happens?" The answers clearly may be different.
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"I'm here fer you. I don't expect them ta do fer me, like I ain't lookin' ta do fer them. But when it comes ta you..." Sweeney sighs. "Course they can come ta me." His gaze dips for a moment to her neck and back.
"Hope it ain't gonna be a secret that ya'd want me there."
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"But it ain't like ya don't occasionally come home smellin' like fellas ya ain't lookin' ta bring with ya." There's no criticism; she should fuck who she wants. It doesn't mean he's not going to poke her about it in jest.
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"Well, I would be up-standin', but ya keep fuckin' it out of me."
He glances vaguely towards the dress and back to her.
"I ain't sayin' it should be anytime soon, but when the time comes, ya want me ta sew ya back in that dress, or just lend ya my shirt?" He makes a quick addition.
"Lend. Ya gotta give it back. I've only got the two."
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"You might just have to let me find you a replacement shirt. I could even take you to that Wardrobe and I swear on my life I won't try to talk you into wearing anything dumb."
She kisses him. "Le do thoil."
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"Hmm." He mulls. He glances to the pile of black fabric. He mulls some more.
Sweeney looks back to her with a raised brow of bartering terms.
"Ya get me a new shirt, just like this. An' I keep the dress." Wolves aren't the only ones sensitive to smell and sentimentality.
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She stays curled up with him like that, eyes closed, and finally murmurs a reluctant sound. "You should walk me home or I'm gonna keep you here."
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Sweeney shifts to push himself up. He brushes off his trousers and tussles his hair, loosening most of the grass he'd accumulated.
His first stop is to scoop up the dress, bundling it and sending it promptly to the Hoard. The next is his button-down and jacket. He slides the jacket over his bare shoulders and holds out the shirt to her in offering before collecting his tank.
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There is no shame in her whatsoever.
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"Pretty sure that ain't shame," Sweeney observes with a cock of his head. "Edgin' a bit closer ta pride, if I do say so myself." He tucks the tank deep in his trouser pocket, but a chunk still hangs out.
Making his way back to her, he rests his hands on her hips, further looking her over. "Almost like someone provin' they could conquer a Leprechaun, fuckin' him 'til his knees give."
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She is very proud of herself. "Just between us, I'm pretty weak in the knees, too."
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