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This place really isn't half bad. He's certainly slept in worse, in pools of his own vomit on bar room floors, wedged into the crevice besides the toilet in a public restroom, on the ground in the midst of a bloody war. In comparison, the mausoleum is practically the Four fucking Seasons. He and Spike had chased off a few young vampires, but between the two of them, that hadn't been much work at all.
These days, too, Sweeney thinks news of his bad luck is probably spreading through the supernatural part of this place. No one wants to be around him all that much, not even vampires, just in case they end up going up on flames.
So the place isn't that bad, he's comfortable enough, and all he's really been doing lately is smoking, drinking, and jerking off when the mood strikes. He doesn't need much for any of those activities. The place is fine. It's more than good enough. It keeps him away from living people so he doesn't royally fuck over their lives and the lives of their children's children's children.
It's fine. Fine.
It's the loneliness that's getting to him.
Mad Sweeney'd gone half mad with loneliness once. They'd made him a bird and he'd wandered the fucking earth and he'd gone completely off his fucking rocker because there hadn't been anyone else. And for all he'd wanted to flee his life at the time, it had turned out he was still a social creature, he'd still needed people, needed their words, their conversation, their mouths and hands and whatever the hell else they'd give him. He's itching for it now, unable to reach out and take any of it.
He's going to be right pissed if he goes mad all over again just before he dies.
Groaning, Sweeney drops his head back against the floor -- he's been lying there for the better part of an hour -- and then gropes blindly for his cigarette case and lighter. He finds them, lights a cigarette, then sucks on it deeply, staring up at the rock ceiling through the smoke.
Maybe it wouldn't kill anyone to go out. Maybe it'd just kill him.
These days, too, Sweeney thinks news of his bad luck is probably spreading through the supernatural part of this place. No one wants to be around him all that much, not even vampires, just in case they end up going up on flames.
So the place isn't that bad, he's comfortable enough, and all he's really been doing lately is smoking, drinking, and jerking off when the mood strikes. He doesn't need much for any of those activities. The place is fine. It's more than good enough. It keeps him away from living people so he doesn't royally fuck over their lives and the lives of their children's children's children.
It's fine. Fine.
It's the loneliness that's getting to him.
Mad Sweeney'd gone half mad with loneliness once. They'd made him a bird and he'd wandered the fucking earth and he'd gone completely off his fucking rocker because there hadn't been anyone else. And for all he'd wanted to flee his life at the time, it had turned out he was still a social creature, he'd still needed people, needed their words, their conversation, their mouths and hands and whatever the hell else they'd give him. He's itching for it now, unable to reach out and take any of it.
He's going to be right pissed if he goes mad all over again just before he dies.
Groaning, Sweeney drops his head back against the floor -- he's been lying there for the better part of an hour -- and then gropes blindly for his cigarette case and lighter. He finds them, lights a cigarette, then sucks on it deeply, staring up at the rock ceiling through the smoke.
Maybe it wouldn't kill anyone to go out. Maybe it'd just kill him.