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"It would," she agrees, with a little bit of regret. She's never seen much point to self-control, which is why the only thing keeping her from taking him back to her cabin is that he wants to try something else.

She licks her lips, draws herself up a little taller. "So, a check-in. We'll have a smoke, we'll talk. And then we'll go back to our own places. ...God this rationing thing is going to kill me, I have to get back down to one cigarette a day."

"Can't 'magine Connor'd complain," he offers wryly. Such a strange man.

The topic is moved past without hesitation. "Seems a good course. Not sure it'll do much good, but s'ppose it don't hurt ta try." Something occurs to him, and he's quick to make an addition.

"An' you'll let me know if that cunt keeps sendin' ya shit." Not so much a question as a confirmation.

It makes her grin; Connor usually always makes her grin.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell you. And if you start remembering anything he does...tell me, too?"

His lips instinctively tighten. The tension passes, but it brings a more complicated set of feelings. This situation is just so fucked up. He doesn't want to need this plan. It makes him long for being crazy of the kind he was before he was here.

"I'll do my best ta."

Her expression softens and she wishes, not for the first time, that she had something to offer. Anything, besides the one thing she can offer that he can't take. It isn't the first time someone has sworn off fucking her to be a better person, but it's the first time they haven't cut her out of their lives and it leaves her uncertain.

"Okay. And you know how to find me. If..." If he needs anything which circles right back around. "I should go."

"Alright."

He doesn't particularly want her to leave, but there's no purpose in her staying, and that only puts them back where they always end up, her with her neck touching and him with tight trousers.

Fuck me.

Something does occur to him to add. His voice is low.

"No matter how fucked this gets, it ain't my goal ta hurt ya. Not in any way ya don't wanna be."

She looks at him, feels her eyes stinging, and takes two steps forward to kiss him hard. To keep herself from crying maybe, or just to let herself feel gratitude for something she'd only hoped was true.

"I don't want to hurt you either," she murmurs, and she really, really should go now. Now.

Now that is something he hadn't expected. Sweeney's back coils, instinctively drawing his shoulders back from the unanticipated touching, and giving him that moment to understand if he needs to throw a fist forward.

However, the tingling warmth of her lips on his quickly reminds him the act only means one thing. His body's been fighting his maybe-need-probably-want for most of the day, and now there's a swift and overwhelming escalation. No amount of thinking can override that shit.

One hand curls around her shoulder blade, the other catches her by the back of the head to yank her against him, his mouth hungry on hers. Fuck, why does he ever try to deny himself? This, something so desperately craved.

They're going to need to meet in public, she thinks, maybe around all the nocturnal citizens on the Barge. Maybe somewhere very, very public because otherwise how is she supposed to keep herself off of him?

It's only when she hears footsteps out in the hall that she breaks the kiss and pulls her hands back from raking her nails down his back through his shirt.

"Sorry-" She's not sorry. "I'm not trying to derail you being a good person I just-"

Sweeney gives no fucks about where they are or who might see. In the moment, there is only her and the warmth of her and the rush of his blood and need.

As she starts to move away, he catches her by both biceps, his grip tight to hold her there.

"Stay." The word rattles low, but it's not a command. He just wants it. So badly. The desperate longing reads in his eyes.

Just. Say. Yes.

She kisses him again, in one nimble move has her legs around him, and if they're fast and if she's quiet, she won't have to kill anyone for interrupting.

...Except the one person who very likely will interrupt is, "Gerard. What if he, what do you want me to do if he-?"

That fucking Frenchie. He's something Sweeney most decidedly doesn't want to be thinking about right now. His answer is broken up by wanton kisses, his words pressed hard into her mouth.

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

He drops to one knee, trying to pull her down with him so he can urge her to lie on the path.

It makes her laugh and she obeys readily but seriously, he's not the one who will have to deal with those shame-filled, bewildered eyes.

But she wants this and she wants him and he wants her. "If you don't work fast and he interrupts I swear to God, I will make you make it up to me-" she growls, already working on the buttons of his trousers.

Fuck, why does she have to keep talking?

Sweeney tries to push through it, to focus on the sensation of her lips and hands and how eager his flesh is to meet them. He catches her suddenly by the throat, hoping it will end further discussion. His fingers only get a quick squeeze before his body shudders, and his hips shove back away from her hand.

"Dammit, Sweeney-" She's about ready to strangle him when it dawns on her and she scoots back. "Gerard?"

He pulls his hands away, sitting back on his heels as his eyes dart around, trying to get the context of where he is. It's certainly not where he was, but at least it's vaguely familiar. His attention flits to her, which only fills him with a sinking dread. Though he doesn't want to, his attention drops to his hips and he immediately flushes crimson.

His hands are quick to find the buttons, though it's not easy task to fit everything back in, especially since he's so susceptible to the overwhelming sensation of each grazing.

While he fumbles, he looks back to her with sincere concern.

"I'm so sorry. Did he--" His voice is frantic. "Did I--Are you hurt?"

"No," she smooths her dress down, moves to kneel instead because it seems a little more proper. "No, I'm fine. Just dumb. Are you okay?"

"No," he breathes before he can catch himself. When she moves, he leans back, eager to preserve any distance between them, even when she's not trying to actively close it.

"I mean--if you are." The assurance comes easier, if no less hurriedly.

"I'm sorry we keep meeting like this." She pushes her hair back, not sure if she should be amused by all this. "Me and Sweeney don't usually even touch but lately we just...well. You know." Better than anyone.

"I, um, I got the flowers. They're beautiful. I love them."

Sweeney. Right.

He swallows, and his gaze skitters along the path. But the mention of flowers brings his attention back to her face, and a flicker of a cautiously confused smile passes his lips.

"I'm glad--I mean. I didn't know if it was too forward, but...but I didn't know what else to do."

"No one's ever given me flowers before," she says, and it feels very different telling this to Gerard than to anyone else. "Sweeney said the flowers mean something but I don't know flower...uhm, language?"

His blush is softer, and he tries to swallow back his shyness with the hint of a shrug.

"I just--I wanted to express my sincere apology."

"There's nothing you should be sorry about," she insists, but smiling all the same. "I'm okay with what Sweeney does. But you're not the one doing it anyway. Right?"

His brow furrows in a nervous frown. His eyes are kept low.

"I do not believe God will see it that way," he answers softly. If they're his hands, his...well, the rest of him, the sin is the same.

"I guess I've never believed in God," she says, looking at the ground between them. "What's it like? Because it sounds...awful. To believe someone hates you for wanting to be close to someone else."

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