(no subject)

Christ, but there are days when Mad Sweeney wishes he wasn't stuck in this bloody place.

It's not Darrow itself, not the world, not the people, not even that he's stuck, because he's been around long enough to know everything is, in some form, temporary. He won't be here forever, none of them will, and he can be patient. Besides, it's not as if he hasn't found himself a place of contentment, a little corner of the world where it seems best to put everything else on hold. He's in no rush to get back to Grimnir's war.

But some days are worse than others. Some days he misses the smell of the fields of Ireland, the woods and the cliffs and the rushing, salty sea. He misses standing at the edge of the world and looking out on the water and knowing he could defend his land against any threat that came for his people. (But hadn't he been wrong in that regard, too?)

Today is a rough day. His luck is fine and he's in no danger, but he stands on the edge of the beach, the toes of his boots wet with ocean water, and his eyes are closed as the breeze blows back his hair. It's grown longer on top during his time in Darrow and he reaches up with one hand to roughly shove it back, opening his eyes finally and seeing a familiar form walking down the beach, coming closer and closer.

His sun in human form. She's not Ireland, but she's something special all the same and he gives a faint, gentle smile as she nears.

"Stalkin' me, lass?" he asks, teasing. "Or followin' me around on my man's orders?"

(no subject)

He's not falling down drunk, but he's pretty fucking close.

Drunk enough that the idea, when it occurs to him, seems to be a good one instead of one that will end with a black eye and a bloody nose. Or maybe that's what makes it good, as far as Sweeney is concerned, and when he stumbles across the room to where Jyn is standing, he nearly flops against the bar at her side and gives her a drunk, loopy sort of grin. He wouldn't look at it as rescuing her, because a woman like Jyn doesn't need any fucking rescuing, but he'd caught sight of a feral looking guy with the sort of gleam in his eye most women don't like and Sweeney figures someone like that is far less likely to approach a woman if she's standing beside a seven foot ginger.

"Darlin'," he says, only slurring a little. "Whatcha drinkin'? I'll buy you another."

The man who'd been looking at Jyn gives Sweeney a dirty look, but Sweeney only grins and slumps a little closer to her. She probably already knows the other guy is there, but that doesn't mean she won't appreciate the help. Or maybe she won't. Hell, he doesn't know her well enough to make that judgment.

He doesn't say a word about the other man, just gestures for the bartender to come serve them. It's sheer luck that they'll still give him a drink, especially when it's clear he should have been cut off a long time ago, but it's always working in his favour these days.

"Southern Comfort and coke," he says. "And whatever the lady's havin'."