Sweeney watches her. Listens. But he doesn't know who the fuck Crozier is, so he's not sure what he's supposed to say. He doesn't give a fuck about him or pirating for damn sure.
Instead, he falls to the logical back up, and his fingers tighten to find themselves wrapped around the neck of a new bottle. The other remains on the grass nearby. Sweeney sets to opening it and is relieved once the task is done. He tips the bottle to her in a vague gesture of toasting.
He knows what she means, but she's just wrong. He'll go there again. Countless times feel the ache, the fear, the desperate relief when he feels the touch of that sleek fur against his fingertips. Sweeney frowns and studies the grass.
It takes the question longer than it should to process. He shrugs, not looking up to her as he gently rubs a blade of grass.
She wonders if he remembers the last time he did fall asleep and hopes it wasn't the time she left him passed out in his bed. Even leprechauns need to let their dreams sort themselves out, surely.
"Can I ask what you're feeling?" Because she can tell, and she simultaneously can't. "I know that's a fluffy question. I'm just...worried."
His lips thin, and he looks briefly to the bottle. Running his tongue over his teeth, he lets the silence hang. Everyone wants to know what he's feeling. What he's thinking. What he wants. It's all so fucking tedious.
He blinks slowly and takes a swig.
"I feel like the coffee cup that was a bit too close to the edge and fell off the counter. E'eryone rushin' ta see how bad it's broken. If it's just chipped or needs some fuckin' super glue or just to be thrown out."
It's shit to say out loud, but at least it gives him an image to focus on. He sits the bottle down between his legs and takes a cigarette down from behind his ear. He sets to lighting it without looking back to her.
Yeah there it is again, that little twinge in her chest.
"I know you've been fucked over. More than I understand. Probably more than I'll ever understand. But you've never given me bullshit." She tucks one knee up under her chin.
"You've got a lot going on in your head. And I'll never push when you say stop. But," a small shift in her tone, from thoughtful to something not quite human. "I'm never going to throw you away. Doesn't matter how you shatter."
A human could say the same thing. A human doesn't, cannot, have the sort of loyalty a wolf queen does. This one, anyway.
His eyes shut as they roll beneath their lids. They only open enough of a sliver to look at the grass past the tip of his boot. Sweeney knows she means it. But she's also stupidly young. Time wears down everything eventually.
He doesn't know how to convince her, what he could possibly say to get through. She's got that stubborn idealism that seems too be rampant here. Nothing really to be done about it in the now. She'll just have to come to it naturally in her own time.
"Alright." It's a simple acceptance of her feelings, but there's also not much more he can do but that.
Sweeney licks his lip and pulls a hearty swig from his bottle.
"I saw that," she smirks. It doesn't bother her that he doesn't believe her. She has the advantage here: she might be young but she has learned how to be unshakably loyal. And then there's the fact that her lifespan is shortened, that she can earnestly say she'll care about someone until she dies.
"You don't have to pretend you believe me," and she means that earnestly, too. She doesn't need his belief to keep on doing and feeling what she does.
Sweeney sets the bottle in the grass and takes down a cigarette. The silence dangles as he holds it to his lips and digs out his lighter to breath it to life. A long drag; his eyes sliding up the glass ceiling.
"Die of old age," he offers, pushing the answer past the smoke in his lungs. Its tendrils flee him after the words have gone. The reply is given in deadpan sincerity, and his focus drops to her promptly after.
His eyes roll shut again, and he takes another drag. He's certain he hasn't actually aged; his degrading is more about the mileage, but still. Would he even know? He does his best not to look at himself whenever it's avoidable.
Sweeney's doubtful that old age's something he's interested in working towards, but at this point, who the fuck knows.
Strangely enough, her explanation reeks no less of bullshit, and his expression speaks to that point.
Sweeney sets his elbow on his knee so he can put his head against his hand, and he presses two fingers to his forehead to brace as his thumb rubs at the joint of his jaw. A long sigh escapes him.
"What is it ya want, luv?" He's tired, and he doesn't have enough mind left to chase hers around.
She came to check on him but it doesn't seem like a thing she should say. "To trade a cigarette for some booze. You know- I hang out at the library like, every day around 4. If you ever want to come find me."
Since he can't come to her home anymore. That still galls her.
For a moment, he looks dubious. But he's not going to argue her answer. He certainly hates it when people dig at his.
His hand shifts to his side, taking up the bottle she'd left there and holds it out to her by the neck. Sweeney bounces it, mirroring the motion with his head to imply she take it.
She takes it, eyes lingering on his a moment before she smiles that smile that hides all her thoughts. "Thanks. Seriously, man, come find me sometime. I have a good booze idea."
"Trying to be optimistic." It isn't working, if her tone is anything to go by. There's not an ounce of her usual lighthearted energy. "If I let myself think about it I'll just...quit trying."
"I had to stop going after my deal. My old one. But I've got other fuck ups I could fix if I could just get my act together." She pushes her hair back. "So I think I'll stay. But I am one fucking terrible warden. I think I'd just screw up an inmate." She glances at him. "I'm not like, looking for pity. It's just stuff that's been stuck in my head for a long time. Since before I even came back, some of it."
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Instead, he falls to the logical back up, and his fingers tighten to find themselves wrapped around the neck of a new bottle. The other remains on the grass nearby. Sweeney sets to opening it and is relieved once the task is done. He tips the bottle to her in a vague gesture of toasting.
"Fuckin' over." To that, they seem to agree.
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It takes the question longer than it should to process. He shrugs, not looking up to her as he gently rubs a blade of grass.
"Fuck if I know. Ain't somethin' I schedule."
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"Can I ask what you're feeling?" Because she can tell, and she simultaneously can't. "I know that's a fluffy question. I'm just...worried."
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He blinks slowly and takes a swig.
"I feel like the coffee cup that was a bit too close to the edge and fell off the counter. E'eryone rushin' ta see how bad it's broken. If it's just chipped or needs some fuckin' super glue or just to be thrown out."
It's shit to say out loud, but at least it gives him an image to focus on. He sits the bottle down between his legs and takes a cigarette down from behind his ear. He sets to lighting it without looking back to her.
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"I know you've been fucked over. More than I understand. Probably more than I'll ever understand. But you've never given me bullshit." She tucks one knee up under her chin.
"You've got a lot going on in your head. And I'll never push when you say stop. But," a small shift in her tone, from thoughtful to something not quite human. "I'm never going to throw you away. Doesn't matter how you shatter."
A human could say the same thing. A human doesn't, cannot, have the sort of loyalty a wolf queen does. This one, anyway.
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He doesn't know how to convince her, what he could possibly say to get through. She's got that stubborn idealism that seems too be rampant here. Nothing really to be done about it in the now. She'll just have to come to it naturally in her own time.
"Alright." It's a simple acceptance of her feelings, but there's also not much more he can do but that.
Sweeney licks his lip and pulls a hearty swig from his bottle.
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"You don't have to pretend you believe me," and she means that earnestly, too. She doesn't need his belief to keep on doing and feeling what she does.
"What's something you've never done before?"
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"Die of old age," he offers, pushing the answer past the smoke in his lungs. Its tendrils flee him after the words have gone. The reply is given in deadpan sincerity, and his focus drops to her promptly after.
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His eyes roll shut again, and he takes another drag. He's certain he hasn't actually aged; his degrading is more about the mileage, but still. Would he even know? He does his best not to look at himself whenever it's avoidable.
Sweeney's doubtful that old age's something he's interested in working towards, but at this point, who the fuck knows.
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Sweeney sets his elbow on his knee so he can put his head against his hand, and he presses two fingers to his forehead to brace as his thumb rubs at the joint of his jaw. A long sigh escapes him.
"What is it ya want, luv?" He's tired, and he doesn't have enough mind left to chase hers around.
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Since he can't come to her home anymore. That still galls her.
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His hand shifts to his side, taking up the bottle she'd left there and holds it out to her by the neck. Sweeney bounces it, mirroring the motion with his head to imply she take it.
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"That idea involve a still?" Sweeney knows she was thinking of something easier, but it doesn't mean her aspirations hadn't broadened since then.
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"Ya takin' on staff or some shit?"
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"I'm reservin' judgement," he clarifies. Which is also the truth, but it doesn't make her assessment any less valid.
Sweeney shifts his fingers slightly in the grass, taking comfort their texture during the beat before he continues.
"Plannin' ta fuck off sooner rather than later then, eh?"
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"Trying to be optimistic." It isn't working, if her tone is anything to go by. There's not an ounce of her usual lighthearted energy. "If I let myself think about it I'll just...quit trying."
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"Think 'bout goin', or thinkin' 'bout stayin'?" Both of them carry plenty of reasons to stop trying to move forward.
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"That's good, 'cause pity ain't my stock an' trade."
Sweeney lets his attention drop to his cigarette. He mulls the words for a second or two before continuing, keeping his eyes low.
"Do you want to fix other people?" There's no judgement. He just knows some things look better on paper than in practice.
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