onlythebranch | (no subject)

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rowan

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These days, Mad Sweeney lives in a fucking cemetery.

It's for the best. Spike had found him a solution just like he'd asked, one that he hopes will hold over until his luck gets bad enough that he just up and dies, and it's not the most uncomfortable place he's ever laid his head. The mausoleum is cozy enough, fixed up from when Spike lived in the damn thing, and it means every time something goes wrong, the only people around are the dead and they're not exactly in any real danger.

He doesn't tell anyone where he is. When they text, which they do -- and ain't that a weird fucking thing -- he answers, but he doesn't give out any information. He can't. They're all important in their own ways and he can't risk their lives just because he's a lonely piece of shit. He's always been lonely, he can suffer through it for a few more weeks until the luck takes care of him.

And he's resigned to it now. His death. Used to be he feared it and then he'd fled from it, then he'd gotten in over his head with Wednesday because he thought he owed a death on a battlefield. Now it's coming for him whether he likes it or not, whether it's owed or not, and he's prepared.

Doesn't mean he's not going to go out without being able to smoke and drink right up until the end. He tries not to go out when there'll be others around, but sometimes it can't be helped, and he's creeping out of a nearby corner store, the sound of the owner's curses at his back -- seems all the glass bottles of booze had shattered only seconds after Mad Sweeney paid for his -- when he catches sight of someone familiar.

Someone, he realizes, he can't fucking kill.

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"If asshole is what keeps you from getting along with people, how the fuck do you get along with me?" Sweeney asks as he leans back against the wall and then gestures for the bottle. Spike is probably capable of being an asshole, Sweeney wouldn't like him as much as he does if that weren't the case, but if either of them is the real prick, it's Sweeney.

And Rowan is here.

"I hang out with plenty of assholes," he says. "Hang out with plenty of people who aren't assholes, too. Don't know why the fuck any of 'em give a shit either way."

But he especially doesn't deserve people like Greta or Rowan.

"You're not a real asshole," Rowan counters with a mild smile of the perfectly logical. But there's something playful in his eyes, too. He knows how Sweeney sees himself, how he talks about himself, and he knows that it's -- in a lot of ways, but not all -- bullshit.

"You act tough but you've got a squishy center. Like those candies with the hard shell but something gooey and sweet on the inside."

You're like me, he wants to say, but doesn't.

That's a pretty good description of Spike, too, he thinks, and he smirks, thinking of all three of them. Assholes, immortals, whatever the fuck else they are, with squishy insides. Sweeney has done a pretty good job of hiding his, pressing it down, pretending it doesn't exist. Soft centres are the sort of thing that get people fucked over and hurt, it's the thing that causes someone to fall in love when they know damn well they shouldn't, because they're going to stay alive and the person they've fallen in love with is going to die.

He takes a drink from the bottle, letting the sweetness of the whiskey fill his mouth before it slides down his throat and he shrugs.

"So I'm a fake asshole," he says. "Plenty of people who'd argue with you on that." Shadow, Laura, Salim, hell, even Odin himself. The only gods who don't hate him are Ostara and Bast, although he can't even be sure about Bast most of the time, given that she doesn't often leave her cat form.

"You're just a breed of asshole," Rowan reassures him, like he might be hurt by the reclassification to fake asshole.

"And I don't argue with people." Rowan can be ornery and contrary when he wants to, can stick it to the man as well as the next person. He's done it before, defending Citra without letting on that that was what he was doing, subverting Goddard whenever he could, holding his own values even when he was being brainwashed. Doing what he could to keep the Scythedom fair and on the straight and narrow. But outright arguing was not something that he did well.

"But I can kill them if they talk shit on you," he deadpans.

Mad Sweeney snorts out a laugh, because while he has no doubt Rowan can kill anyone who fucks with him, maybe even Cassius, it's a pretty goddamn hilarious offer. No one gives enough of a shit about him to do something like that and no one should. He keeps making this mistake of letting folks in this bloody city get close to him and all it's going to do is bring them bad luck and then maybe a few tears when he finally bites it.

"You'd have a lot of killing ahead of you if you went after every person who's talked shit about me," he answers with a grin, giving Rowan a nudge with his shoulder. "Lucky for you I'm not the easily offended sort."

And most of the time he deserve the way people shit on him. He's not a nice man, no matter what kind of squishy insides he might have. Those insides aren't seen by most and that's usually for the best. When he does let someone get close, it usually backfires on him anyway.

"Eh, I can handle it." And he could, probably. Something inside of Rowan had died under the tutelage of Goddard, with his death, with his resurrection, with what Rowan had planned to do with the rest of his life. Killing people for insulting his friend was extreme, but in theory, he could handle a few dozen more deaths at this rate.

But Sweeney didn't need to know that. Not that it was true. He could play it off as sarcasm and that would work well enough.

"But you just tell me if anyone's mean to you on the playground. I'll beat them up."

"Aren't you a fuckin' sweetheart," he comments with a snort and another nudge of his shoulder. Another long swallow from the bottle burns its way down his throat and into the pit of his stomach before he slumps back against the wall behind them. This place is dark and dreary and while it's not as terrible as it could be -- there are cozy aspects to it -- he still can't quite believe it's come to this.

"Don't make deals with gods," he tells Rowan. "If they ever come here, if they make promises, don't make deals with them. No matter what they might say. They live to fuck with people, that's what they do."

And then people end up in places like this. Even if they're not quite people.

With the second nudge of the shoulder, Rowan nudges back. He doesn't fully pull back, but barely leans against Sweeney, a light touch of body to body. He likes it, frankly, but also feels like Sweeney needs it about now.

"Even leprechauns?" he asks. "Aren't you like a god?"

Not that Rowan really believes in all that. He knows Sweeney is immortal for some reason different than Rowan's immortality. But the luck thing... It's too hard for him to swallow. The idea of others with more powers? That's ridiculous.

"Not a god," he answers. "Me, I'm... somethin' else. But don't make a fuckin' deal with me either. Don't leave me offerings, don't breathe my name before a fight, none of that shit. The fair folk are a fickle lot and for all I could give good luck one day, I might give bad luck the next. Just because I fuckin' feel like it."

The folks here who insist on leaving things for him are suffering. He knows they are. Vasquez with his pneumonia, Greta with her injuries, bits of her house falling down around her just because he's nearby. He's done all he can to avoid Gabriel, not wanting to fuck the boy over worse than he might already be. He doesn't want Rowan to get involved in all that.

Belief keeps him alive, but there are other assholes out there to do the believing. General Mills has him set for the rest of eternity, he figures.

"What about buying you drinks? Does that count?" he teases.

Rowan hasn't done it yet, but that's the first thing he thinks of that's reasonable. He's not going to leave him offerings; the whole idea of that is ludicrous to him. He comes from a world without religion. Even the Tonist cults don't have a god so much as a belief system. And Rowan considers them all completely, utterly off their rockers.

He doesn't believe what Sweeney's telling him, not for one second, but there's nothing wrong with following his directions, in this case.

"No," he says. "No, that don't count. You exchange money for goods and it's not the same."

He grins then, looking over at Rowan. "You can still buy me a drink without my shit fucking up your life in any way. Just in case you were feeling generous."

Because even if he can't kill Rowan, he can still fuck up his life in plenty of different ways. And maybe Rowan won't believe any string of back luck is Mad Sweeney's fault, but that doesn't make it true regardless. Even just being near him now is putting him in danger of that, but without offerings it shouldn't be too bad.

"Next time." He's starting to feel relaxed, strangely. Not the standard relaxed that comes from being in a comfortable situation, being close to someone and physically at ease. But a warm sort of feeling that flows through his veins.

It's barely there, but he feels it. He reaches for the bottle again and helps himself to a longer, burning drink.

"What does being drunk feel like?"

"Depends on the person," Sweeney answers. "Some people get fuckin' giggly and can't shut their bloody mouths. Other people start to feel kinda heavy, like their limbs are weighed down. Some pricks get angry. Wanna start fights."

It's not alcohol that makes Mad Sweeney want to fight. It's the fight itself, the release he gets. He doesn't need to be drunk to want someone to make him hurt, he tends to want that most of the time, drunk or not. For that reason alone, he figures that makes him less of a prick. Just a little.

"Sometimes, when you close your eyes, the room feels like it's spinning around you." He looks over at Rowan, his head tilted close. "Does the room feel like it's spinning?"

"I do feel kinda heavy," Rowan admits. It's a strange sensation for someone who's never felt it before. And, what's more, it feels like his body is trying to fight it on some level. Not outright, but keeping it in check. He feels more alert than he thinks he should.

He shuts his eyes and lets himself be quiet for a second, feeling the room. He smiles slightly, the corner of his mouth hitching upwards.

"It's a bit spin-y."

Mad Sweeney smiles, too, softer than he ought to be smiling about anything or anyone, given the circumstances. He can't help himself, though. He'd seen Rowan that night, seen the strength and power in him, he knows exactly what he's capable of, but sitting here with his eyes closed, he looks like any other young man feeling a little bit drunk for the first time.

"Congratulations, darling, you just might be tipsy," Sweeney says, then reaches for the bottle. There's enough left to get Rowan closer to truly drunk, he thinks, if that's what he wants.

"Think you might be at the good stage right now," he says, then takes a swallow himself. "Feelin' the need to be extra honest? Or like you wanna grope the nearest warm body? That shit's pretty bloody common, too."

He chuckles at the questions, feeling easy despite the fact that he could very well have a loose tongue at this moment. He doesn't particularly want to share any secrets, but if Sweeney were to ask the right ones... There's no guarantee that Rowan won't answer honestly.

That's a little scary, but he can't bring himself to be scared at the moment.

"Maybe," is what he says, then opens his eyes to give Sweeney a look. "How do you get when you get tipsy? Honest or horny?"

"Horny," he answers, grinning. "Or angry. Depends on what else is around me."

And in a lot of ways, for Sweeney, a fight and sex more or less amount to the same thing. He likes to be hurt, gets as much pleasure out of it as he does from someone whose only goal is to make him feel good. It's part of why he likes Cassius so much, even though the man's a fucking prick otherwise, part of why he's gotten so attached to Spike, too. A part of him recognizes that it's fucked up, but he doesn't care much. At this point, seven hundred years under his belt, he'll just take what's given to him.

"Or both," he settles on. "Usually both. Some combination of the two."

"You don't seem very angry now," Rowan points out. His head feels light, so he leans it back against the wall and shuts his eyes. He feels comfortable here, and safe enough around Sweeney that he'll let his guard down. There's no reason to force his eyes open around him.

"Are you going to fight me?" he asks with a crooked grin. "And lose?"

“Nah, just horny,” he answers with a lazy kind of smirk, then takes another drink from the bottle and taps it against Rowan’s thigh in an indication that he ought to take it back.

“What makes you think I’d lose?” he asks. He’s seen Rowan fight, he knows he would lose, but he still wants to hear Rowan say something about it. He’s curious, truly, about what Rowan can do, and he already know he can enthusiastically suck a dick, so if he’s willing to pair that with throwing a spectacularly wonderful punch or two, Mad Sweeney is going to take it for all its worth. “I might just be a better fighter than you think, lad. Especially when I’m drunk and horny.”

"Wanna find out?" He's so not in the proper head space for a fight; his body feels liquid and languid. But there's still a challenge in his voice, a playful gleam in his eye that says he won't back down from the offer. If there's one thing that Goddard's taught him, it's how to fight, no matter how his body feels, no matter what his heart wants to feel. He can shut off and just bring Sweeney to the floor.

That doesn't sound like such a bad idea, getting Sweeney under him.

"Take another drink, lad," Mad Sweeney answers, passing the bottle and then getting to his feet. His spine cracks as he stretches and then he grins. "And let's have at."

He's not a skilled fighter. Once upon a time, he'd been a general, he'd been trained in the art of battle, he'd been better than anyone else in his army with his sword and shield, but that's a long time ago now. Longer than most folks can remember. His time has all but slipped into the history books and even then, it's barely recognized. But he doesn't have a sword now, wouldn't use one on Rowan either way, it's just his fists and his feet.

And Rowan is trained. Everything Sweeney can do he's learned in a brawl. It's its own sort of magic, of course, but not comparable to Rowan. He's fine with that. He doesn't mind being put down.

Oh, this is a terrible idea. But Rowan doesn't think that as he obediently takes another large gulp of the liquor, now barely a burn in his alcohol-numbed lips. He doesn't think it as he slides off the bed straight into an aggressive stances, arms raised and leaning towards Sweeney like all he wants is to grapple him and take his head off. It's a bad idea because Rowan doesn't want the full extent of his abilities known, not even by Sweeney. It's a bad idea because Sweeney has no luck left and Rowan's a killer. A tipsy killer.

He goes immediately for the gut, launches himself head first into Sweeney's sternum, not allowing the big man a chance to defend himself.

His luck might be for shit, but he still enjoys a good fight, and Sweeney laughs as the air is pushed from his lungs, as Rowan's head drives into his chest, knocking the air out of him. He stumbles back several steps, but doesn't go down, doesn't even try to push Rowan away. Instead he grabs for him, still laughing, grabs for his arms, to try and wrestle him into a better position to maybe throw a punch.

And when he can't, he still balls up one fist and then drives it into Rowan's side. He doesn't bother to pull it, but it sure as hell isn't as hard as he could have hit either, and he's not sure why he bothers with it. Maybe only because of his luck, because that bad luck might not spell disaster for him, but instead disaster for Rowan, and he knows he can't kill him, but he doesn't want to fuck him up too badly either. Not just through bad luck, anyway.

The punch lands and hard. Once upon a time, Rowan had his nanites dialed up so his pain receptors would react to such a punch, releasing a tiny bit of morphine to ease the ache while his healing nanites got to work. Now, his pain nanites are dialed so far down he's just as susceptible to such a punch as the next guy.

He takes the punch like a champ, used to it, used to worse kinds of abuse, and pummels his fists into Sweeney's gut once, twice, three times before practically jumping back, lithe and ready as a cat. He swings for his face this time.

It's not at all the deadly art that he used before on that elf. Sweeney has to recognize that. And maybe Bokator will make an appearance. But not yet. Not while they're having fun.

It's a different kind of fight than what Mad Sweeney had seen him deliver before and he likes that. Not because he thinks Rowan needs to go easy on him, but because this is what he's made for, the sort of fight he's good at, the kind that's the most fun. And it should be fun. There are times when it doesn't need to be, times when a fight is about survival, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit about that right now.

All he's looking for in this moment is a spot of fun.

He pulls back when Rowan aims for his face, but not fast enough, and the fist catches his chin and snaps his head back. He laughs again, then dives forward, curving his shoulder down so he can ram it against Rowan's chest and hopefully carry him back a little. His hand goes to Rowan's hip, hanging onto him, trying to push him back.