![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[valentine's day]
Jan. 28th, 2021 09:26 pmPeople might not look at Spike and Mad Sweeney and see a romantic couple, but they'd be really goddamn wrong.
There's a poem Sweeney carries around everywhere with him, folded around his lucky coin, that says otherwise. Spike might not like it, might be pretty fucking embarrassed by it, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit. He loves it. Maybe it isn't great, it's not a poem that's going to end up published in a book or even some shitty student poetry pamphlet, but it's his. It was written for him.
It goes everywhere with him. The poem and the coin.
Their wedding wasn't exactly traditional, walking around the city and finding some municipal employee to marry them, but they don't need traditional. And they sure as fuck don't need traditional on a day like today, this dumbfuck Hallmark hijacked holiday, doused in pink and red streamers and then dipped in chocolate before being hung out to dry. Sweeney's more interested in the ridiculous alien cult than he is Valentine's Day.
Except for some reason he's found himself standing outside a florist. All the shit inside is overpriced, way too much money for something that's just going to die, but he isn't walking on. He isn't going home. Instead he stands there a while longer and by the time he does go home, he's somehow holding a dozen red roses folded inside their paper.
He'd been lucky enough to get the last dozen. Luckier still that the woman behind the counter had given him a discount, them being the last ones and all.
Now he'll just be lucky if Spike doesn't laugh his ass off over them.
There's a poem Sweeney carries around everywhere with him, folded around his lucky coin, that says otherwise. Spike might not like it, might be pretty fucking embarrassed by it, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit. He loves it. Maybe it isn't great, it's not a poem that's going to end up published in a book or even some shitty student poetry pamphlet, but it's his. It was written for him.
It goes everywhere with him. The poem and the coin.
Their wedding wasn't exactly traditional, walking around the city and finding some municipal employee to marry them, but they don't need traditional. And they sure as fuck don't need traditional on a day like today, this dumbfuck Hallmark hijacked holiday, doused in pink and red streamers and then dipped in chocolate before being hung out to dry. Sweeney's more interested in the ridiculous alien cult than he is Valentine's Day.
Except for some reason he's found himself standing outside a florist. All the shit inside is overpriced, way too much money for something that's just going to die, but he isn't walking on. He isn't going home. Instead he stands there a while longer and by the time he does go home, he's somehow holding a dozen red roses folded inside their paper.
He'd been lucky enough to get the last dozen. Luckier still that the woman behind the counter had given him a discount, them being the last ones and all.
Now he'll just be lucky if Spike doesn't laugh his ass off over them.
