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Aug. 16th, 2019 02:48 pmA week passes, most nights still spent with Spike, and then one morning Sweeney wakes up hungover under a park bench, clutching a fucking spear and the entirety of the goddamn week comes flooding back to him in a wave. For longer than he'd like to admit, he lies there under the park bench and stares up at the sky through the slats. He watches as the sun rises and tries to work out everything that happened. All he suddenly remembers.
When park security comes through and heads in his direction, Sweeney decides he doesn't want to spend a day in jail and he rolls to the side, then climbs to his feet and, still clutching the spear, begins to walk home. The sun is up, Spike will be in, and Sweeney can figure out what the hell to tell him about who he really is. A fucking god. He'd had no bloody idea.
It takes him a good part of the walk before he really pays attention to the spear he's holding and then, once he realizes what it is, Sweeney comes to a stop. He's holding Gungnir. He's holding the old one-eyed cunt's spear and Sweeney lets out a strangled sort of laugh, bordering on hysterical, before he continues on his way. If he's got Wednesday's spear, then Wednesday doesn't have it, and Sweeney isn't sure what that means, but he's got a pretty good idea that Wednesday won't be too bloody happy about it.
Feels kind of good, being able to fuck him over from an entirely different world.
But by the time Sweeney lets himself into the flat, the good cheer has disappeared. He's weighed down by these memories, these lives he'd forgotten, and he leans the spear against the wall, then heads straight for the kitchen. Straight for the whiskey. Making no effort to be quiet, he takes down a glass and pours himself a healthy drink, then knocks it back and pours himself another.
A wife. A daughter. Madness. A dead grandfather. Murdered grandfather, a giant who had wanted to murder him. A god. He's a fucking god. Sweeney laughs again, a rough sound, then swallows another mouthful of whiskey.
A fucking god.
When park security comes through and heads in his direction, Sweeney decides he doesn't want to spend a day in jail and he rolls to the side, then climbs to his feet and, still clutching the spear, begins to walk home. The sun is up, Spike will be in, and Sweeney can figure out what the hell to tell him about who he really is. A fucking god. He'd had no bloody idea.
It takes him a good part of the walk before he really pays attention to the spear he's holding and then, once he realizes what it is, Sweeney comes to a stop. He's holding Gungnir. He's holding the old one-eyed cunt's spear and Sweeney lets out a strangled sort of laugh, bordering on hysterical, before he continues on his way. If he's got Wednesday's spear, then Wednesday doesn't have it, and Sweeney isn't sure what that means, but he's got a pretty good idea that Wednesday won't be too bloody happy about it.
Feels kind of good, being able to fuck him over from an entirely different world.
But by the time Sweeney lets himself into the flat, the good cheer has disappeared. He's weighed down by these memories, these lives he'd forgotten, and he leans the spear against the wall, then heads straight for the kitchen. Straight for the whiskey. Making no effort to be quiet, he takes down a glass and pours himself a healthy drink, then knocks it back and pours himself another.
A wife. A daughter. Madness. A dead grandfather. Murdered grandfather, a giant who had wanted to murder him. A god. He's a fucking god. Sweeney laughs again, a rough sound, then swallows another mouthful of whiskey.
A fucking god.
