Entry tags:
(no subject)
He's limping when he catches sight of her.
Limping and wearing a grin, which he knows is the sort of thing most people think of as incongruous, but he's only just been in a fight and these days, like so many other things, the fight has gone well for him. Of course, even when he'd had the hell beaten out of him, he'd considered that going in his favour because there are few things in this world Mad Sweeney loves more than a good fight. Win or lose.
These days, though, he's winning. And that applies to more than just the fights he finds himself in. He's winning games and bets, the simple act of just being. Things are going his way after a long fucking time of them going the very opposite of his way and one of the people he has to thank for that is walking in his direction right this very moment.
"Never did send you a fruit basket," he says when he's close enough. He can't remember if he'd offered, joking or otherwise. That had been a strange fucking day, between drowning and his coin, so he thinks he can be forgiven for not remembering every last detail of their conversation.
Still, he should've sent something.
She's pregnant, he remembers that, he knows he ought not to smoke around her and so he doesn't immediately reach for his case. Instead a gold coin appears between his fingers and he begins to dance it across his knuckles, something to do with his hands so he doesn't keep going for his smokes.
"Forgive me?" he asks. "And let me make it up t'you."
Limping and wearing a grin, which he knows is the sort of thing most people think of as incongruous, but he's only just been in a fight and these days, like so many other things, the fight has gone well for him. Of course, even when he'd had the hell beaten out of him, he'd considered that going in his favour because there are few things in this world Mad Sweeney loves more than a good fight. Win or lose.
These days, though, he's winning. And that applies to more than just the fights he finds himself in. He's winning games and bets, the simple act of just being. Things are going his way after a long fucking time of them going the very opposite of his way and one of the people he has to thank for that is walking in his direction right this very moment.
"Never did send you a fruit basket," he says when he's close enough. He can't remember if he'd offered, joking or otherwise. That had been a strange fucking day, between drowning and his coin, so he thinks he can be forgiven for not remembering every last detail of their conversation.
Still, he should've sent something.
She's pregnant, he remembers that, he knows he ought not to smoke around her and so he doesn't immediately reach for his case. Instead a gold coin appears between his fingers and he begins to dance it across his knuckles, something to do with his hands so he doesn't keep going for his smokes.
"Forgive me?" he asks. "And let me make it up t'you."