onlythebranch | [october 30]

Entry tags:

buffy

[october 30]

The idea of this Purge business is interesting, although Mad Sweeney thinks it's fucking hilarious that anyone thinks they're going to get away from this sort of behaviour without any consequences. Maybe they won't end up with their stupid asses in a jail cell, but there's a whole host of other ways in which they'll pay for their crimes, unless, of course, they're all fucking psychopaths without a friend in the world and without a damn conscience.

Which he supposes isn't completely impossible.

He's standing on the sidewalk near the park, smoking one of his hand rolled cigarettes -- care of Liesel -- and reading one of the posters to see if anything has changed in terms of information. It's all the same as far as he can tell. No law, no legal consequences, do whatever the fuck you like. And plastered all around are different sorts of advertisements. Ones for self defense classes, ones for people claiming to have a safe place to stay in their houses, although Sweeney is willing to bet those fuckers are just preparing for their own killing spree. There's a hand written sign telling people to come to the Catholic Church and Mad Sweeney might not give a fuck about Jesus, who he mostly thinks to be a damn idiot, but he has to admit, he'd sooner trust the church's offer over just about anyone else's.

He senses someone coming up beside him before he sees them and he nods at the poster with his chin.

"The fuck d'you make of this?" he asks before he turns to see a petite blonde standing next to him. Roughly the size of Laura fucking Moon. Of course.

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"I'm like one of those fun-sized bars," Buffy says, arms folded across her chest. "I might be tiny, but I pack a lot of flavor. And that sounded so much better in my head," she says, scrunching her face in distaste.

"But yeah, you've got the gist of it," she tells him with a bright grin. "So don't give me a reason to kick you and we're all golden."

"It should come in handy for all this mess," she says, gesturing towards the Purge advertisements. "I'm assuming there will be much kicking and punching for all involved."

And if there was the tiniest hint of anticipation in her voice, well, she wasn't about to acknowledge it. Fighting has always been a way for Buffy to let off steam and relax, especially in recent years. And not that she didn't have her opportunities each night patrolling in Darrow, but this Purge business seems prime to give her a real work out.

"Melt in your mouth, not in your hand? That sort of thing?"

She'd walked straight into that one with her talk about packing a lot of flavour, but he still has a feeling he's asking for one of those ball kicks he'd just referred to when he says it. Doesn't much matter, it's not as if he doesn't thoroughly enjoy having his ass handed to him, no matter who it is doing the handing.

"Or it could make you a target," he points out. "At least no one can see your advantage straight off, but they figure it out and they'll be gunnin' for you, lass. Look at me. There's satisfaction to be had in putting down a man of my size, so they try."

And fail, mostly. But he loves to fight, so he takes each opportunity with a smile.

"Yeah, okay, I walked into that one," Buffy admits with a grin, shaking her head. She has more pressing matters than cheesy innuendo to worry about currently. Lucky for the man beside her; she's mostly trying to reserve her strength for the night of the Purge.

"They can gun for me all they want," she replies with a shrug. "I can go all night." Not that she plans to; she'll have to rest at some point. Slayer or not, there are still plenty of limitations to Buffy's own strength.

"I imagine they don't usually succeed," she notes, taking in his size and stature. "You seem pretty...brick house-like."

"Can you now?" he asks with an amused smirk and an arched eyebrow. This girl really does keep walking into things and he's got to wonder if she even realizes half of what she's saying. Mad Sweeney has lived a long damn time and he knows his mind isn't always in the gutter, but she just keeps pushing it back in that direction.

"I think the full term is brick shithouse, love, but close enough," he says. "And you're not wrong. Guess I'm the sort who can go all night, too."

Buffy sighs, shoulders sagging; a self-deprecating smile flashing on her face. "Boy, I just keep walking right into them today, don't I? Might be a new kind of record."

"Typically my all-nighters involve a lot more blood and sharp, pointy objects than what you're thinking," she says. "Though, who knows? Maybe you're into that kind of thing. I don't judge. Not out loud, at least."

And, technically, she has gone at it all night before, thanks to some vengeful poltergeists feeding on the energy generated by her and Riley. Not that she means to admit as much out loud to this man, who would, doubtless, find it amusing.

"Fair enough," she say. "I missed an adjective there. Wouldn't be the first time. Guess we'll both have plenty of stamina for Purge night, huh?"

Sweeney smirks again, but says nothing, because she says she doesn't judge, but most people tend to look at him sideways after seeing him fight and understanding just how much he likes it. So he knows better than to talk about it much, knows people don't much want to hear that unless it turns out they like it as much as he does.

Which most people don't.

"I plan on spending it in my flat with a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes," he says honestly. "I'm not a bloody hero."

"Fair enough," Buffy says with a nod. She would rather more people stay inside, safe and holed up with whatever comforts they can find. She suspects that as much as she'll be stopping people from Purging, she'll also have to intervene and rescue those trying to play hero above their capabilities.

"Nothing wrong with looking out for yourself," she says, which sounds odd coming from her, considering that she believes everyone capable of strength and looking out for others. In this case, though, ensuring as many people stay alive as possible is all that matters.

"Hopefully you're not on ground level," she says.

It doesn't matter where he is, he figures, because with his luck, trouble will find him.

"Lass, I could be locked up in a fuckin' bunker and someone would find me," he says with a smirk, although it's lost some of its true amusement. Being without his coin is something he's come to terms with, more or less, but it's not a pleasurable way to live and the only reason he's not still looking for it is because he knows there's no chance in hell of finding it unless Laura ends up here. "I've got shit fuckin' luck. Of the literal kind."

"In this city? I believe it," Buffy says. As far as she can tell, there is no Hellmouth beneath Darrow, but she still finds it hard to believe, given the amount of strange that goes on in the city. Frankly, finding a Hellmouth lurking beneath the surface would be the least surprising thing about Darrow.

"Like you're cursed?" She asks, eyebrow arching as she wonders what he means by 'literal shit luck.' "Wake up on the wrong side of a witch?"

He figures she means the literal kind and so although he'd say Wednesday fits the definition of a witch pretty well, he shakes his head, then looks down at her. She's tiny and blonde, looks about as threatening as a doll, but somehow he doesn't doubt the things she's said to him. This place isn't any more strange than the world he's come from and he knows better than to make assumptions even there.

It's got his interest, too, the idea that she might be able to hold her own in a fight against him. Not now. Now's not the time, what with tomorrow night's even, but he'll certainly keep it in mind.

"More like a leprechaun who's lost his lucky coin," he tells her. "And so my luck is shit."

"A leprechaun? Really?" Buffy's eyes widen as he says it. Part of her wants to believe he's just messing with her, given his sheer size. But given her own experiences, and given Darrow's oddities, she really feels obligated to take his admission at face value. (Four leaf clover value?) She's seen demons no bigger than a quarter; she sees no reason why leprechauns can't also buck some of the stereotypes surrounding their place in myth and folklore.

She arches an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth upturned as she speaks.

"I've gotta admit, you're my first leprechaun."

"Really," he answers, holding up one hand for a moment before he rolls it toward her, a gold coin suddenly in the palm of his hand. Then he shifts his hand back again, the coin between his thumb and forefinger where he holds it for a second before it disappears.

"Mad Sweeney," he tells her finally, holding his hand out toward her. "And you're my first... whatever it is you're called when you're tiny and still able to kick someone's ass without breakin' a bloody sweat."

He hasn't seen it, but he's willing to bet she's telling the truth.

Buffy watches as he pulls a gold coin from out of thin air, her gaze following as he moves the coin before it vanishes. Afer another moment, she applauds.

She grins. "Mad Sweeney, huh? That's a fun name."

She takes his hand in a firm grip, much firmer than her petite size would suggest, and shakes it. "They call me Buffy, but technically speaking, the title you're looking for is vampire slayer. I also do demons, forces of darkness, the works."

"Oh, and house parties, obviously," she adds.

"Vampire slayer," he echoes, because he's pretty sure that's a work of fiction, but she's here and she's real and her hand is warm and strong in his. Besides, he's a fucking leprechaun who has spent the last five years or so fucking around with gods, so who the fuck is he to decide what's real and what isn't?

He's not sure what she'd consider him. A leprechaun isn't generally looked upon as a threat, but he's bigger and stronger than most people and it's not as if he hasn't been a complete fucking prick for most of his very long life.

"Vampires aren't really a thing where I'm from," he admits. "For somethin' like that to exist, it has t'be believed in. But I've met one here. Didn't seem all that bitey t'be honest."

"Yeah, it's a whole thing, back home," Buffy explains. "Used to be 'one girl chosen in every generation blah blah blah' but now there's an army of us!"

"Or, well, there was, back home," she says. "I hope they're still there." And alive, but she leaves that part unspoken.

"My home had vampires to spare, believed in or not," she says, though she's curious about what he says about needing to be believed in.

"Oh yeah?" She arches an eyebrow at that. "Who, if you don't mind me asking? I might know them."

"Name of Spike. Little British asshole," Mad Sweeney answers, though he's generally fond of assholes and he doesn't seem too bothered by the fact that he would consider Spike one.

And whether or not he's small -- most people are smaller than Sweeney -- doesn't much matter either, because Sweeney knows he's a hell of a lot stronger than he looks and that's the thing matters to Sweeney.

"He carried me off a crime scene not too long ago," he admits. "Not my crime, mind, I was the bloody victim. Literally, in this case. Got myself shot just standin' in the damn street."

Spike is lean and spry, but Buffy can't ever remember anyone ever describing him as small before. She laughs at Sweeney's description of him, while also making a note to tell Spike later, if only for his reaction and possible description of Sweeney in turn.

"In fact, I do know Spike," she says, her grin flourishing with an indication of just how well she knows him. What she has with Spike is complicated, and likely always will be. Things in Darrow are especially so, considering how much longer Spike has been here as opposed to her. "Very well. He's from my world."

Her eyebrows arch together at the mental image of Spike carrying this giant leprechaun off from a crime scene. "So you rode off into the sunset together? I would have liked to see that."

"It was fuckin' romantic, don't disparage my saviour," Sweeneys says, but he's smirking. In his way, he actually does like Spike, doesn't really give a fuck that he's a vampire, and there's something almost comforting about the familiarity of his accent. He's not Irish, but English is still closer to home than America will ever fucking be.

"So he's a vampire and you're a vampire slayer," he says, looking her up and down, still wearing that same smirk. "So why is it he's not yet slain, love?"

He has a feeling he knows. Sweeney's not blind, after all, he's seen those fucking cheekbones.

"Flowers, chocolate, the whole works?" She asks, just to be a smartass. Spike, she knows, is stronger than he looks, but the mental image of him carrying Sweeney away from the scene of a crime is too amusing to ignore. "That's sweet. I'll keep my calender open for your future nuptials."

And then it's her turn to be on the spot. There are so many answers to that question, all of them more complicated than the last.

"It's not like we haven't given it the good old college try, the both of us," Buffy says with a shrug. If she happens to be blushing, well. It's been known to happen, particularly around mentions of Spike. "But, you know. Things...happen."

Which is such a poor way to put it, but then, her relationship with Spike, throughout the years and currently, has always been rather beyond typical definition. Besides, from the smirk on Sweeney's face, he's likely figured it out already.

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[october 30]

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