onlythebranch | (no subject)

They're not friends.

They're almost friends, but they're not friends, which is exactly how Mad Sweeney likes it and that's why he grins broadly when he catches sight of the man who'd welcomed him to Darrow all those years ago with a proper fight. Even if they're not quite friends, he's a hell of a lot more interesting than anyone else here tonight, as proven by the fact that the woman he's playing darts against can't hit the board to save her life.

"Hey, boy-o!" Sweeney calls, looking directly at Chuck, even as he continues to throw his darts. In quick succession, all without looking at the board, he lands three nearly perfect shots, then abandons the game altogether. He snags his drink from the table as he goes, sauntering across the room and then nodding toward the bar in an unspoken question.

He'll get Chuck a drink. The bartenders here like him. He tips well and doesn't start fights and everyone seems to have a rush of good luck at the VLTs whenever he's around, which makes them buy more drinks. When Mad Sweeney stops in to this particular place, it's a good night for everyone involved.

As if to drive this fact home, there's a cheerful ringing from a machine in the corner and a little cheer goes up as the person sitting in front of it hits a modest jackpot.

"C'mon then, lad," he encourages. "Let's make a night of it."

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Chuck doesn't go out drinking very much anymore, at least not as often as he used to. Laura doesn't mind that he drinks, or so she tells him, and all he can really do is take her at her word, but he still tries not to do too much of it when he knows he'll be around her. They have no plans tonight, though, and following an afternoon at the gym, he's gone to one of the bars he most commonly frequents, something which has more to do with his having never been thrown out of this one than it does with the place itself. He's not exactly picky about where he does his drinking, after all.

When he hears a familiar voice call to him, he sighs instinctively to himself, though there's no bite behind it. He doesn't actually dislike Sweeney. It's just that old habits die hard, and he's stubborn as hell, and he has no intention of ever saying that out loud.

"Yeah, why not," he says with a shrug when Sweeney's made his way over. With a gesture towards the board on the wall, he adds, "Didn't know you were such a darts player," fairly certain as he does that there's going to be some sort of ridiculous explanation for it that may or may not be true.

Edited 2020-08-31 08:10 (UTC)

Sweeney smirks and says, "Just a bit o'good luck, really."

There are people here who don't believe him. Don't believe in him, though that's nothing new. The world has long since moved one form leprechauns and has moved on from gods like the one he used to be even long before that. The cereal and St. Patrick's Day do more than enough to keep him going and in Darrow he finds himself with more offerings than he's had in a very long time.

He doesn't need their belief. And it isn't a point of pride so much as it's one of the many things Sweeney can use to make digs at certain people. Chuck, though, he figures would give him a fight just because he asked.

"You any good at it?" he asks as they near the bar. "Maybe we can play a game."

"Not if you play like that," Chuck says, letting out a laugh. "Don't really feel like setting myself up to lose, thanks." He's not bad, but however arrogant he may be and however much he may not really believe in that luck bullshit, he just saw Sweeney make three near-perfect bullseyes in a row. There's no sense in putting himself up against that kind of competition. At the very least, he'd need to drink a lot before doing so, which would only make his aim worse and thus probably defeat the purpose.

He doesn't mind the idea of having a little company while he drinks, though. As much as he may like to act otherwise, he's alright with Sweeney. The man is goddamn ridiculous, and getting punched in the face just for trying to stop someone from stealing a car isn't something he's ever likely to forget, but he provides amusing enough conversation. It works well enough for tonight.

"I'd be glad to watch other people lose, though."

"See how much we can take 'em for before they figure it out?" he asks, grinning again as he raps his knuckles on the top of the bar to get the attention of the bartender. Anyone else and it might have been looked at as rude, but the bartender doesn't say a damn thing about it, just comes on over to take their order.

"You know what I like, Scott," Sweeney says. "One of those and whatever my pal here is having."

"You got it," Scott answers, then looks at Chuck expectantly. "I'd get something expensive if I were you. This bastard can afford it."

"Fuck off," Sweeney says, but it's cheerful enough.

"Now there's an idea," Chuck says with a wry smile, brow arching a little. It might be dishonest, but he doesn't really give a fuck about that when it would also be entertaining. Someone is bound to fall for it. For the moment, though, he's more interested in drinking. Although part of him is deeply tempted to order the most expensive thing he can think of just to make Sweeney pay for it, he's never had much of a taste for anything supposedly highbrow. He might be an asshole, but at least he isn't a pretentious one.

He still considers it for a moment, then shrugs. "Fuck it, just give me whatever he's having," he tells the bartender. He's never been especially picky, and now is no exception. "As long as it's nice and strong."

Scott smirks a little, looking at Sweeney as if wanting to confirm Chuck's drink order and Sweeney shrugs expansively.

"You heard the man," he answers. "And make it strong."

Which is how, several minutes later, they're both sipping from a Southern Comfort and Coke. It's not the sort of drink Sweeney would expect Chuck to order if he'd known what he was getting himself into, but he has it now. And it's Sweeney's favourite fucking drink. If Chuck complains, it's his own damn fault.

"Them?" he asks, nodding at a few guys sitting near the dart board. "They look good for a game or a fight."

It isn't the best drink Chuck has ever had, but it isn't the worst, either. If he were going to be picky about it, he would have ordered something for himself instead of going along with someone else's choice, and anyway, at least it's strong. That's all he really cares about, especially when he doesn't drink to get drunk — or drink in general, really — as often as he used to. Since he is now, something too weak or watered down would seem beside the point.

Taking a swig from his glass, he looks in the direction Sweeney has indicated, then nods. "They'll do," he says. There's every chance this will end badly, but he doesn't really give a fuck. Besides, as strange as it is to consider, he thinks the two of them would probably have better odds in any potentially ensuing fight.

Sweeney isn't a man who has trouble making himself known and not only because of the sheer size of him. He ambles over to the table, Chuck beside him, and grins at the men sitting there.

"You play?" he asks, nodding at the board. "I need a bit of practice and this one here is gettin' tired of kicking my ass."

The men look at Sweeney, look up at him, then shrug to each other.

"Yeah, sure," one of them says. He looks pleased and Sweeney thinks they've picked the right mark.

It's a good thing, Chuck thinks, that he hasn't had more to drink thus far, because it takes all the self-control he has in him not to snort out a laugh at Sweeney's opening statement. How he's phrased it is just about the opposite of the truth, but these hapless fuckers seem to fall for it. They'll realize the error of their ways before very long, there's no question about that, but Chuck has every intention of enjoying this while it lasts. He's just not sure if he hopes this ends in a fight or if he hopes it doesn't.

He lifts the glass he's carried over with him in a mock toast, as if appreciative to be let off the hook, then takes a generous swig from it. "There you go," he says to Sweeney. "Now you don't have to drag me into playing any more."

"Yeah, he's been takin' my fuckin' money all night," Sweeney says with a snort, which makes one of the other men perk up.

"I'm not that good," he offers, which Sweeney knows to be a lie. Not that it matters. He might be the best player in this city and Sweeney's luck will still beat him out every damn time. "You wanna take another bet."

Sweeney casts a glance back at Chuck, as if looking for an opinion.

"I dunno," he says.