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Dec. 18th, 2022 05:59 pmIt's Christmas Eve and it's snowing, a light dusting falling over the city. Mad Sweeney is standing on their balcony, a cigarette between his lips, his flask held loosely in his hand, watching Christmas lights twinkle across Darrow below. Out there are people gathered, drinking and exchanging presents and going to parties with fancy wines and cheese and all that shit he never really did. (Except maybe as a king, he thinks, all the years he doesn't really remember.)
Hundreds of years. Hundreds of Christmas Eves. These ones in Darrow are by far his best.
"You gotta think, the real Saint Nicholas would blow his fuckin' lid if he saw what a world of belief created out of him," he says, speaking to Spike through the open door into the flat behind him. It's cold, but neither of them really feel it the way other people do. Regular people.
And they've been not-regular together for a time now. Maybe not that long in the grand scheme of it all, the length of their lives, but long enough that Sweeney is long past the self-destructive desire to fuck things up. It never even occurs to him these days. Spike and Darrow are the two constants after a long bloody time of there being nothing consistent at all.
"Met Santa once, y'know," he continues, blowing smoke out into the evening air. He takes a swig of whiskey from his flask and closes his eyes, turning his face up into the snow. "Krampus, too."
Hundreds of years. Hundreds of Christmas Eves. These ones in Darrow are by far his best.
"You gotta think, the real Saint Nicholas would blow his fuckin' lid if he saw what a world of belief created out of him," he says, speaking to Spike through the open door into the flat behind him. It's cold, but neither of them really feel it the way other people do. Regular people.
And they've been not-regular together for a time now. Maybe not that long in the grand scheme of it all, the length of their lives, but long enough that Sweeney is long past the self-destructive desire to fuck things up. It never even occurs to him these days. Spike and Darrow are the two constants after a long bloody time of there being nothing consistent at all.
"Met Santa once, y'know," he continues, blowing smoke out into the evening air. He takes a swig of whiskey from his flask and closes his eyes, turning his face up into the snow. "Krampus, too."
