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Aug. 24th, 2018 07:47 pmThese days, Mad Sweeney lives in a fucking cemetery.
It's for the best. Spike had found him a solution just like he'd asked, one that he hopes will hold over until his luck gets bad enough that he just up and dies, and it's not the most uncomfortable place he's ever laid his head. The mausoleum is cozy enough, fixed up from when Spike lived in the damn thing, and it means every time something goes wrong, the only people around are the dead and they're not exactly in any real danger.
He doesn't tell anyone where he is. When they text, which they do -- and ain't that a weird fucking thing -- he answers, but he doesn't give out any information. He can't. They're all important in their own ways and he can't risk their lives just because he's a lonely piece of shit. He's always been lonely, he can suffer through it for a few more weeks until the luck takes care of him.
And he's resigned to it now. His death. Used to be he feared it and then he'd fled from it, then he'd gotten in over his head with Wednesday because he thought he owed a death on a battlefield. Now it's coming for him whether he likes it or not, whether it's owed or not, and he's prepared.
Doesn't mean he's not going to go out without being able to smoke and drink right up until the end. He tries not to go out when there'll be others around, but sometimes it can't be helped, and he's creeping out of a nearby corner store, the sound of the owner's curses at his back -- seems all the glass bottles of booze had shattered only seconds after Mad Sweeney paid for his -- when he catches sight of someone familiar.
Someone, he realizes, he can't fucking kill.
It's for the best. Spike had found him a solution just like he'd asked, one that he hopes will hold over until his luck gets bad enough that he just up and dies, and it's not the most uncomfortable place he's ever laid his head. The mausoleum is cozy enough, fixed up from when Spike lived in the damn thing, and it means every time something goes wrong, the only people around are the dead and they're not exactly in any real danger.
He doesn't tell anyone where he is. When they text, which they do -- and ain't that a weird fucking thing -- he answers, but he doesn't give out any information. He can't. They're all important in their own ways and he can't risk their lives just because he's a lonely piece of shit. He's always been lonely, he can suffer through it for a few more weeks until the luck takes care of him.
And he's resigned to it now. His death. Used to be he feared it and then he'd fled from it, then he'd gotten in over his head with Wednesday because he thought he owed a death on a battlefield. Now it's coming for him whether he likes it or not, whether it's owed or not, and he's prepared.
Doesn't mean he's not going to go out without being able to smoke and drink right up until the end. He tries not to go out when there'll be others around, but sometimes it can't be helped, and he's creeping out of a nearby corner store, the sound of the owner's curses at his back -- seems all the glass bottles of booze had shattered only seconds after Mad Sweeney paid for his -- when he catches sight of someone familiar.
Someone, he realizes, he can't fucking kill.
