Quiet hangs. He steals a swig from a bottle of whiskey that might have been on the other side of him. It doesn't matter now, as he has it rested on his knee. Sweeney stares at it, debating. His lips part, then shut, then he licks them apart again. When he speaks, his tone is low.
"I think I wanna tell you somethin'. But ya gotta swear ya'll keep it ta yerself." It's hard to tell why; perhaps there's something in the man's upbringing; but Sweeney wants to have faith that it's possible for Raylan to uphold his Word, if it's given.
Shit, had Raylan stuck his foot in it already? He couldn't just not say anything at all, he was sorry to hear it. Losing people sucked and he knew Sweeney was already in a hard way over Her. Whoever She was. Raylan didn't think it was Laura, not really.
He glances over after a few seconds, gauging how deep in he'd stuck it, but the statement caught him a little off guard. His brow twitched towards a furrow, but it was an easy thing to answer and promise.
"Won't tell a soul; take it to my grave." He had no idea what was coming, but that didn't compromise his Word.
There's the faintest ease in his muscles, a permission given, even if he doesn't know if he's ready to accept it. Sweeney takes another hefty swig and returns his focus to the bottle.
"There...there was a Warden here." He shrugs one shoulder with a slight shake of his head, like he's trying to dismiss a thought that won't let go.
"Second person I met here. She..." How can he start to explain?
"She's kind ta--was kind ta me." Sweeney can't remember how long it's been; he just knows the hole in his heart isn't healing, and this discussion is doing him no favors.
"When things were bad--after floods or breaches or just...myself. She was the one who's door was always open." It's obvious that that means more than just 'someone who welcomes me to sit and talk and take care of him'.
"She...she's my anchor. She didn't love me--she couldn't--but when things were bad here--dangerous...I'd reach fer her an' I knew she'd be reachin' back. There was ne'er a question, 'cause we didn't have anyone else like that. Didn't want anyone else."
Raylan stays quiet with a rapt attention, eyes drifting between his cigarette that he puffs on with a practiced ease and the glass that he nurses when he's not looking at Sweeney sidelong. Direct attention was a bad idea for processing out those kind of feelings into words; they stung enough to be bared as it was.
The quiet continues for a few seconds after Sweeney falls silent.
"Hard to lose someone that holds that much of your trust." He had no equivalent but he knew Sweeney didn't trust easy or deep. For someone to have meant that much to him, to be a port in a storm - that had to be a Lot for a man like Red. Which is why it still pissed Raylan off so much to think about what Tim Fucking Gutterson had done. The trust and stability that he'd promised, shattered in fifteen minutes.
"Plenty'a nice people on board though. No replacement to be sure but.. How are things with you and Mags? She's your warden now, right?"
"She's kind. Wants ta help. Knows that trust can't be forced. Gotta be earned." Maggie does all the right things. He wets his lips and looks back at the bottle.
"Things are...different now." Sweeney isn't sure what that means.
"Can't be...well--" Whatever they were. Whatever they were becoming.
"It's a start. Nothin's ever the same between folk. To be expected," he says quietly with a nod, cigarette rolling back and forth idly in his fingers.
"An' I'm sure you know this but maybe hearin' it'll help - ain't nothin' wrong with missin' someone. Nothin' wrong with not bein' able to have that same kinda thing with someone else. But you give Mags the right kinda chance and I got a feeling she'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. Been nice enough to folks she doesn't know, I can't imagine she'd be anything else with you.."
Red didn't talk about this shit easily, so Raylan figured it was better to ask his questions now, before the man's jaw wired shut again. "How longs your anchor friend been gone?"
Whether or not hearing it helps, it does make Sweeney uncomfortable. His shoulder rolls up a little in subconscious defense, and his gaze shifts to the far side past his knee. He sucks his tongue before he finds the words, and even then, they're low enough to nearly be a whisper.
"You know."
But does Raylan? Sweeney can't remember if the man had seen him lost in his recent round of Most Fucked Up. He makes a clarification.
"Since My day." His eyes slip beneath their lids.
"Adm'ral didn't bring her back with e'eryone else." When they had returned from the other Authority ships.
Red's day. Raylan remembers them talking about it. The one holiday that was for Sweeney. Corn husks and- The Clipper shit. Jesus. They were all so vulnerable after they were brought back. Raylan remembered the frantic, terrified search he'd gone on for James.
He could well imagine the dawning horror of not finding him. And what shitty timing. The one day that was supposed to be For Sweeney, turning into that hell, followed by an emotional gut punch.
Raylan took a long drag off his cigarette, ashing onto the deck. Should he apologize to the Barge for it? Part of him felt like he should.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, voice smaller and quieter for being launched back into finding Tim missing. "Feels like forever, with how quick this place moves. Forever and yesterday, all at once."
Part of him wants to ask her name. Part of him knows that doing so would put Red in the position of considering having to answer it. He opted not to. This is not what he was expecting when he came up, but that was okay. Sweeney had an unforgiving hand, and having someone to just listen to it, to know it with him, might help.
Sweeney sucks a long drag to kill his cigarette and flicks the remnants away carelessly across the deck.
"Fer me, all time's like that. Just worse here." He takes a heavy swig and sighs at the bottle.
That's just how it is, Curse eating away at his brain and any sense of linear time. There's only momentary pockets of it, waiting to be shuffled again.
"Maggie's been like that since she met me." Sweeney realizes he should clarify. "Shirt-givin' an' all that." He shrugs without looking up.
"Gotta soft heart fer ones lost in the shuffle, I guess." His lips press, and he parts them with his tongue.
"One of those kinds that can love a lotta people at once." It's not something he thinks is wrong, it just tempers his feelings when it comes to being 'important to her'.
Hard to know where he landed on the list or how many other people would come before him in an hour of need. Raylan remembered that too.
"She's a good egg. She's- talked me down a couple of times." They were gonna stay light on the details, he hopes. "Seems solid too." Like she wasn't going anywhere. He took a drink.
Not sure about deserving one, but I've needed one for a few hundred years.
"I'm a Leprechaun. Course I play pool."
As if it's a piece of innate knowledge. Still, the statement comes with a softening around the edges and the very faintest of smirks. As far as he knows, it's part of the breed to know and practice every game of chance and skill they can get their hands on. Sweeney finally gives Raylan a sideways glance.
"Ain't played it without my Luck, so no clue if I'm shit at it."
Sweeney's not; free of Bad Luck, it comes down to skill, which is far better than cards or dice where more Luck is required. And he's spent many years playing pool, plenty for a healthy amount of muscle memory.
"This a 'now' thing yer prop'sin' or an 'we should do it sometime' future thing?"
"I dunno about you, but sittin' still when talkin' about this kinda stuff leaves me antsy and restless. I like keepin' my hands busy. Drinkin' and smokin' ain't doin' enough of the trick."
It was his turn to flick his cigarette off the side.
"You wanna play?" It didn't matter if Red was gonna be shit or not. Winning wasn't the point.
"Don't tend ta do this sorta talkin' 'nough fer it ta matter." Sweeney wets his lip as his eyes wander.
"Least fer more than a cigarette b'fore it's not welcome anymore an' she fucks off."
It seems to be Trixie's way, especially as of late. He knows it's not her fault; he probably just reminds her of the life she's leaving to be with her man and her kids. His want of intimacy is a barb stuck in her from back when he paid her for it. He'd slept on her floor; she'd kept his secret about it. Made it easier for him to offer bits of trust with his other ones since.
"Pool's fine." In case he hadn't been clear enough while his thoughts spiralled.
Raylan pushes to his feet, fingers collecting Sweeney's empty glass and trusting the Irishman to hold the bottle. He gets them going with long step he knew Red could keep up with, his natural gait that he largely had to tempered to stay with shorter legged people.
"Might as well get some practice in it while your jaw workin'. And I got nothin' but time right now. James is gonna avoid the cabin until he's calmed down a little. And if it--" He rolls a shoulder. "Gets hard or you get bored of it, no offense'll be taken if you tell me to fuck off.. or fuck off yourself. S'justa game of pool."
Raylan tugs out his blackberry to get them into the lounge. "I'm guessin' his post is why you invited me up for a drink in the first place."
Sweeney's perfectly prepared to keep a hand on the bottle. He debates tucking it away, but decides against it; there's likely to be more drinking ahead. He keeps an even stride with Raylan. It's nice to be walking with someone who is set with a clear intention to get where he's going and isn't 5' nothing.
The trip is passed in relative silence. He acknowledges the marshal's offer, but is more uncomfortable about the noting of his opening up. It's one of those things that he knows he's supposed to do, but he doesn't want to. It's too much; he might tell the wrong thing to the wrong person. Or they might just fuck off off the fucking boat.
At the door of the lounge, Sweeney's nod melts into a dismissive shrug. It was the reason, but it wasn't the goal. Both of them needed the break.
"Know plenty well what it's like ta be the reason fer shit goin' sideways by proxy. Folk pointin' back ta you when you just wanna stay in the shadows." He rubs his thumb against the neck of the bottle.
"An' yer man's shit at hidin' his motivations, e'en when he's tryin' ta make somethin' good of it." Sweeney doesn't fault Flint, but it doesn't change the facts.
"Subtly isn't exactly any pirates strong suit," he agrees as they walk in. "You'd think it would, considerin' how many false flags they flew. Emotion is a hellva distraction."
Raylan heads towards the pool table and sets their glasses down before heading towards the sticks on the walls.
"He's right about the death count bein' as high as it is, but I don't think the suggested solutions are viable. If the pirate way worked long term, they woulda been around longer." He wouldn't go into the history that he'd looked into due to being with Flint. "He's also wrong about my bein' a victim. But he didn't talk to me about doin' somethin' like this before he spoke up."
He holds out the pool cue. "I woulda corrected that beforehand, given the chance." It undercutting some of Flint's fire wouldn't stop him either. Better to keep it all closer to the truth, rather than farther away.
His lips part, but he thinks better of it, and they shut again. Sweeney rethinks his words before giving them voice.
"I got some 'pinions, but I don't gotta say 'em if they're just gonna piss ya off. We can keep ta pool without talkin' 'bout yer man any more than ya wanna."
"Oh, cause gettin' pissed off because you dare to have an opinion is a rational adult thing to do," he scoffs, stepping around to rack the balls and pull of the triangle cage.
"Plenty'a people I don't agree with that I also happen to like. Everyone's entitled to their opinion and it'd be a hellva borin' world if everyone agreed on everythin'. And if you happen to hit a nerve or somethin', I trust that you'll let me veer onto new paths without much fuss."
He should do, anyway. With as often as Raylan had been gracious about Sweeney's Storming.
Fair enough. Warning given, Sweeney's happy to run headlong into that shit. He has a terrible habit of aiming straight for the thing, making veering less helpful. Nevertheless.
"Yer man's gotta terminal case of needin' ta be right, an' it undermines any good he's tryin' ta do. He speaks outta both sides of his mouth, contradictin' himself in the same breath, an' that sorta hypocrisy does him no favors." Sweeney wets his lip.
"Thinks he knows what's best fer e'eryone, from how ta run this ship ta what I should be doin' with my life, an' he's real bad at acceptin' any level of counter without makin' the point 'bout somethin' else. I ain't sayin' what he wants is wrong, or that some folk aren't cunts 'bout his proposal. But if he won't at least take some critique without makin' it 'bout someone else doin' him wrong, he's just gonna be spinnin' his wheels, underminin' the good he's aimin' ta achieve."
His observation is blunt but lacks any sort of hostility; quite to the contrary, he's incredibly cool in his affect. It's a statement offered from his personal experience.
Raylan sets up the cue ball as Red starts and lines it up with his cue stick, pausing only to take his hat off and set it on the corner of the table as he listens. His lips turn down a little in a considatory kind of way, head bobbing slightly to one side before he bends down and breaks the pool balls with the delightfully perfect sound that comes with it.
"You're not wrong," he answers, straightening and frowning slightly at the zero number of pool balls he sank. Shit start. "But contextually, it fits Flint. His era, his way of living. He still thinks this place can run like one of his ships. Izzy Hands too." One of the first things Raylan had said to Flint in full, unmannered honesty was that this wasn't his ship.
"It's on the list of 'shit he's gotta figure out'. So it's somethin' I take with a grain of salt." Like he did for Red or for any of the other deeply Different souls that were aboard. "The reaction to it all is about what I expected. It frustrates him, I'm sure but - He's gotta learn how to make arguments in settin's that ain't the military, the aristocracy or the pirate life. For what its worth, I know he's capable of it. But just like a ship, turnin' takes some time. And the people tryin' deserve their own credit. You included."
Sweeney takes the time to find a cue stick sized properly for him and chalk it. With a clack, he sinks two balls. Solids. Yeah, at least he's not rusty. He doesn't look up to Raylan as he considers his next shot.
"Havin' his opinion aint the problem." A truth the marshal almost certainly knows, but it doesn't change the facts.
"It's the fact that he's an utter shithead 'bout voicin' it." Another snap leaves a ball at the mouth of the pocket. Not a sink, but enough to leave the pocket difficult to use without also claiming his own ball. It isn't obvious if that's by design.
"I want a different world here. One where the value of Promise and Trade are magically enforced. Where one's Word is bond. But I also know me tellin' people that's the way it's gotta be ta make shit work ain't gonna win folk ta my way of thinkin'. E'en if I can point out how that shit worked out fer me fer centuries. It dunn't matter. People here are too different. An' the fact that Flint is demeanin' ta anyone that dares ta point that shit out's gonna earn a blade in his belly or worse."
Sweeney knows because it might be his. He can't remember how long it had been since he just wanted to hurt someone like that. But the way Flint talked to him, like he was stupid and incapable of seeing what's right under his nose, that's a thing that's hard to let go of.
"Too many lessons to be learned to shove them all into a year," he quips dryly as he looks over the playing table, eyes imagining all the lines of possible shots he might take. Stripes was his color now, but he could work with that.
"If I'm honest with you Red, it might take that. It might take him imploding to a fantastic level for him to get onto a patch of land where he can turn a little and hear what people are actually tellin' him. Let you know right now, it ain't gonna be me that changes his mind - I'm hard pressed to get him to let me handle my own shit without his neck hairs gettin' up but.. Right now, it's How He is. A product of his time, finding a new evolution harder than his last. But I really do believe he can.. I think he might have to, to graduate."
He lines himself up and takes a shot, avoiding the trap that Red set for him by going for another ball all together. No, they weren't going to talk about the relationship or what that all meant for it; Raylan was pragmatic, love or not. All the better way to prepare himself for the worst of it. He lines himself up and takes a shot, avoiding the trap that Red set for him by going for another ball all together. The crack is satisfying, and he sinks one, but it doesn't do him much good for a second shot. No readily available balls, and Raylan has to bank the cue ball off the edges, only to not hit anything
"But I understand why it digs under yer skin. Men never take Promise and Trade for what it was once worth; that kinda honor is pretty well dead, I'd think. Shame, really. Considerin' how foundational it was for a lotta people and places."
Some of what Raylan tells him, he doesn't have to. Anyone with eyes and one ear knows that Flint will be Flint until he decides not to be. He is surprised when the marshal notes it isn't likely to be him that earns the change. Sweeney can't imagine a world like that. Swamp Rat had been the one Believing in him; challenging him to do better, giving him the tools to do so, and offering her endless patience when he failed. Keeping him safe when he was afraid. When he knew he couldn't do this. When he knew he was going to die. She was the reason he was moving forward, and they weren't even... Well, they weren't kissing.
Sweeney studies the layout for half a second and walks halfway around the table to line up his shot. He leans, but speaks before he strikes.
"Why you think I'm here, talkin' ta you?" It's a question with an implied answer; a compliment.
Because you do.
With a flick, the pleasant sound follows the impact. No ball sunk. Another pocket blocked. He stands, eyes lingering on the table.
"Because I'm devestatin'ly charming and I don't sing when I get drunk," he offers with a pull of a grin. It didn't pass his notice, the fact that Sweeney seemed to very rarely seek people out for the sake of Talking about Feelings and Opinions. He'd take the compliment.
"Besides," He starts again as he circles around the table, eyes on the balls. "The general mob is a terrible and wonderful tool when someone needs to learn about how best to let their mouth run. Roman did it too. Crash Course in how not to talk about things here."
He only had one real shot and it was a bad one, but he'd take it anyway. What was he thinking, playing a game with a Leprechaun. He hit his ball, sending it towards a pocket, but not hard enough to do anything other than crowd the two balls already there.
"Plenty of patient people too. Able to look at things a different way, one that works for them. Like it sounded like it was workin' for you. Can I ask how long she was here?"
Sweeney had already been calculating, watching the balls dance ineffectively, so the divergence of topic pulls him back to more focus.
"Longer than me. Don't know how much. Long 'nough ta matter ta the people here. Ta care 'bout them in kind." The answer is quiet, but without reservation. His lips press, and licks them apart.
"Long 'nough ta come ta hate this place." He sucks his tongue before he walks along the table.
"But she was waitin'. Fer me."
He bends, darkened eyes honed. A quick snap bounces a ball free, granting it a slow crawl towards a side pocket. No sink. Third one blocked.
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"I think I wanna tell you somethin'. But ya gotta swear ya'll keep it ta yerself." It's hard to tell why; perhaps there's something in the man's upbringing; but Sweeney wants to have faith that it's possible for Raylan to uphold his Word, if it's given.
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He glances over after a few seconds, gauging how deep in he'd stuck it, but the statement caught him a little off guard. His brow twitched towards a furrow, but it was an easy thing to answer and promise.
"Won't tell a soul; take it to my grave." He had no idea what was coming, but that didn't compromise his Word.
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"There...there was a Warden here." He shrugs one shoulder with a slight shake of his head, like he's trying to dismiss a thought that won't let go.
"Second person I met here. She..." How can he start to explain?
"She's kind ta--was kind ta me." Sweeney can't remember how long it's been; he just knows the hole in his heart isn't healing, and this discussion is doing him no favors.
"When things were bad--after floods or breaches or just...myself. She was the one who's door was always open." It's obvious that that means more than just 'someone who welcomes me to sit and talk and take care of him'.
"She...she's my anchor. She didn't love me--she couldn't--but when things were bad here--dangerous...I'd reach fer her an' I knew she'd be reachin' back. There was ne'er a question, 'cause we didn't have anyone else like that. Didn't want anyone else."
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The quiet continues for a few seconds after Sweeney falls silent.
"Hard to lose someone that holds that much of your trust." He had no equivalent but he knew Sweeney didn't trust easy or deep. For someone to have meant that much to him, to be a port in a storm - that had to be a Lot for a man like Red. Which is why it still pissed Raylan off so much to think about what Tim Fucking Gutterson had done. The trust and stability that he'd promised, shattered in fifteen minutes.
"Plenty'a nice people on board though. No replacement to be sure but.. How are things with you and Mags? She's your warden now, right?"
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"She is." Silence echoes. It's complicated.
"She's kind. Wants ta help. Knows that trust can't be forced. Gotta be earned." Maggie does all the right things. He wets his lips and looks back at the bottle.
"Things are...different now." Sweeney isn't sure what that means.
"Can't be...well--" Whatever they were. Whatever they were becoming.
"--just different."
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"An' I'm sure you know this but maybe hearin' it'll help - ain't nothin' wrong with missin' someone. Nothin' wrong with not bein' able to have that same kinda thing with someone else. But you give Mags the right kinda chance and I got a feeling she'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. Been nice enough to folks she doesn't know, I can't imagine she'd be anything else with you.."
Red didn't talk about this shit easily, so Raylan figured it was better to ask his questions now, before the man's jaw wired shut again. "How longs your anchor friend been gone?"
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"You know."
But does Raylan? Sweeney can't remember if the man had seen him lost in his recent round of Most Fucked Up. He makes a clarification.
"Since My day." His eyes slip beneath their lids.
"Adm'ral didn't bring her back with e'eryone else." When they had returned from the other Authority ships.
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He could well imagine the dawning horror of not finding him. And what shitty timing. The one day that was supposed to be For Sweeney, turning into that hell, followed by an emotional gut punch.
Raylan took a long drag off his cigarette, ashing onto the deck. Should he apologize to the Barge for it? Part of him felt like he should.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, voice smaller and quieter for being launched back into finding Tim missing. "Feels like forever, with how quick this place moves. Forever and yesterday, all at once."
Part of him wants to ask her name. Part of him knows that doing so would put Red in the position of considering having to answer it. He opted not to. This is not what he was expecting when he came up, but that was okay. Sweeney had an unforgiving hand, and having someone to just listen to it, to know it with him, might help.
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"Fer me, all time's like that. Just worse here." He takes a heavy swig and sighs at the bottle.
That's just how it is, Curse eating away at his brain and any sense of linear time. There's only momentary pockets of it, waiting to be shuffled again.
"Maggie's been like that since she met me." Sweeney realizes he should clarify. "Shirt-givin' an' all that." He shrugs without looking up.
"Gotta soft heart fer ones lost in the shuffle, I guess." His lips press, and he parts them with his tongue.
"One of those kinds that can love a lotta people at once." It's not something he thinks is wrong, it just tempers his feelings when it comes to being 'important to her'.
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"She's a good egg. She's- talked me down a couple of times." They were gonna stay light on the details, he hopes. "Seems solid too." Like she wasn't going anywhere. He took a drink.
"You deserve a break. You play pool?"
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"I'm a Leprechaun. Course I play pool."
As if it's a piece of innate knowledge. Still, the statement comes with a softening around the edges and the very faintest of smirks. As far as he knows, it's part of the breed to know and practice every game of chance and skill they can get their hands on. Sweeney finally gives Raylan a sideways glance.
"Ain't played it without my Luck, so no clue if I'm shit at it."
Sweeney's not; free of Bad Luck, it comes down to skill, which is far better than cards or dice where more Luck is required. And he's spent many years playing pool, plenty for a healthy amount of muscle memory.
"This a 'now' thing yer prop'sin' or an 'we should do it sometime' future thing?"
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It was his turn to flick his cigarette off the side.
"You wanna play?" It didn't matter if Red was gonna be shit or not. Winning wasn't the point.
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"Fine by it." There's an easy follow up though.
"Don't tend ta do this sorta talkin' 'nough fer it ta matter." Sweeney wets his lip as his eyes wander.
"Least fer more than a cigarette b'fore it's not welcome anymore an' she fucks off."
It seems to be Trixie's way, especially as of late. He knows it's not her fault; he probably just reminds her of the life she's leaving to be with her man and her kids. His want of intimacy is a barb stuck in her from back when he paid her for it. He'd slept on her floor; she'd kept his secret about it. Made it easier for him to offer bits of trust with his other ones since.
"Pool's fine." In case he hadn't been clear enough while his thoughts spiralled.
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"Might as well get some practice in it while your jaw workin'. And I got nothin' but time right now. James is gonna avoid the cabin until he's calmed down a little. And if it--" He rolls a shoulder. "Gets hard or you get bored of it, no offense'll be taken if you tell me to fuck off.. or fuck off yourself. S'justa game of pool."
Raylan tugs out his blackberry to get them into the lounge. "I'm guessin' his post is why you invited me up for a drink in the first place."
And he appreciated it.
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The trip is passed in relative silence. He acknowledges the marshal's offer, but is more uncomfortable about the noting of his opening up. It's one of those things that he knows he's supposed to do, but he doesn't want to. It's too much; he might tell the wrong thing to the wrong person. Or they might just fuck off off the fucking boat.
At the door of the lounge, Sweeney's nod melts into a dismissive shrug. It was the reason, but it wasn't the goal. Both of them needed the break.
"Know plenty well what it's like ta be the reason fer shit goin' sideways by proxy. Folk pointin' back ta you when you just wanna stay in the shadows." He rubs his thumb against the neck of the bottle.
"An' yer man's shit at hidin' his motivations, e'en when he's tryin' ta make somethin' good of it." Sweeney doesn't fault Flint, but it doesn't change the facts.
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Raylan heads towards the pool table and sets their glasses down before heading towards the sticks on the walls.
"He's right about the death count bein' as high as it is, but I don't think the suggested solutions are viable. If the pirate way worked long term, they woulda been around longer." He wouldn't go into the history that he'd looked into due to being with Flint. "He's also wrong about my bein' a victim. But he didn't talk to me about doin' somethin' like this before he spoke up."
He holds out the pool cue. "I woulda corrected that beforehand, given the chance." It undercutting some of Flint's fire wouldn't stop him either. Better to keep it all closer to the truth, rather than farther away.
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"I got some 'pinions, but I don't gotta say 'em if they're just gonna piss ya off. We can keep ta pool without talkin' 'bout yer man any more than ya wanna."
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"Plenty'a people I don't agree with that I also happen to like. Everyone's entitled to their opinion and it'd be a hellva borin' world if everyone agreed on everythin'. And if you happen to hit a nerve or somethin', I trust that you'll let me veer onto new paths without much fuss."
He should do, anyway. With as often as Raylan had been gracious about Sweeney's Storming.
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"Yer man's gotta terminal case of needin' ta be right, an' it undermines any good he's tryin' ta do. He speaks outta both sides of his mouth, contradictin' himself in the same breath, an' that sorta hypocrisy does him no favors." Sweeney wets his lip.
"Thinks he knows what's best fer e'eryone, from how ta run this ship ta what I should be doin' with my life, an' he's real bad at acceptin' any level of counter without makin' the point 'bout somethin' else. I ain't sayin' what he wants is wrong, or that some folk aren't cunts 'bout his proposal. But if he won't at least take some critique without makin' it 'bout someone else doin' him wrong, he's just gonna be spinnin' his wheels, underminin' the good he's aimin' ta achieve."
His observation is blunt but lacks any sort of hostility; quite to the contrary, he's incredibly cool in his affect. It's a statement offered from his personal experience.
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"You're not wrong," he answers, straightening and frowning slightly at the zero number of pool balls he sank. Shit start. "But contextually, it fits Flint. His era, his way of living. He still thinks this place can run like one of his ships. Izzy Hands too." One of the first things Raylan had said to Flint in full, unmannered honesty was that this wasn't his ship.
"It's on the list of 'shit he's gotta figure out'. So it's somethin' I take with a grain of salt." Like he did for Red or for any of the other deeply Different souls that were aboard. "The reaction to it all is about what I expected. It frustrates him, I'm sure but - He's gotta learn how to make arguments in settin's that ain't the military, the aristocracy or the pirate life. For what its worth, I know he's capable of it. But just like a ship, turnin' takes some time. And the people tryin' deserve their own credit. You included."
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"Havin' his opinion aint the problem." A truth the marshal almost certainly knows, but it doesn't change the facts.
"It's the fact that he's an utter shithead 'bout voicin' it." Another snap leaves a ball at the mouth of the pocket. Not a sink, but enough to leave the pocket difficult to use without also claiming his own ball. It isn't obvious if that's by design.
"I want a different world here. One where the value of Promise and Trade are magically enforced. Where one's Word is bond. But I also know me tellin' people that's the way it's gotta be ta make shit work ain't gonna win folk ta my way of thinkin'. E'en if I can point out how that shit worked out fer me fer centuries. It dunn't matter. People here are too different. An' the fact that Flint is demeanin' ta anyone that dares ta point that shit out's gonna earn a blade in his belly or worse."
Sweeney knows because it might be his. He can't remember how long it had been since he just wanted to hurt someone like that. But the way Flint talked to him, like he was stupid and incapable of seeing what's right under his nose, that's a thing that's hard to let go of.
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"If I'm honest with you Red, it might take that. It might take him imploding to a fantastic level for him to get onto a patch of land where he can turn a little and hear what people are actually tellin' him. Let you know right now, it ain't gonna be me that changes his mind - I'm hard pressed to get him to let me handle my own shit without his neck hairs gettin' up but.. Right now, it's How He is. A product of his time, finding a new evolution harder than his last. But I really do believe he can.. I think he might have to, to graduate."
He lines himself up and takes a shot, avoiding the trap that Red set for him by going for another ball all together. No, they weren't going to talk about the relationship or what that all meant for it; Raylan was pragmatic, love or not. All the better way to prepare himself for the worst of it. He lines himself up and takes a shot, avoiding the trap that Red set for him by going for another ball all together. The crack is satisfying, and he sinks one, but it doesn't do him much good for a second shot. No readily available balls, and Raylan has to bank the cue ball off the edges, only to not hit anything
"But I understand why it digs under yer skin. Men never take Promise and Trade for what it was once worth; that kinda honor is pretty well dead, I'd think. Shame, really. Considerin' how foundational it was for a lotta people and places."
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Sweeney studies the layout for half a second and walks halfway around the table to line up his shot. He leans, but speaks before he strikes.
"Why you think I'm here, talkin' ta you?" It's a question with an implied answer; a compliment.
Because you do.
With a flick, the pleasant sound follows the impact. No ball sunk. Another pocket blocked. He stands, eyes lingering on the table.
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"Besides," He starts again as he circles around the table, eyes on the balls. "The general mob is a terrible and wonderful tool when someone needs to learn about how best to let their mouth run. Roman did it too. Crash Course in how not to talk about things here."
He only had one real shot and it was a bad one, but he'd take it anyway. What was he thinking, playing a game with a Leprechaun. He hit his ball, sending it towards a pocket, but not hard enough to do anything other than crowd the two balls already there.
"Plenty of patient people too. Able to look at things a different way, one that works for them. Like it sounded like it was workin' for you. Can I ask how long she was here?"
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"Longer than me. Don't know how much. Long 'nough ta matter ta the people here. Ta care 'bout them in kind." The answer is quiet, but without reservation. His lips press, and licks them apart.
"Long 'nough ta come ta hate this place." He sucks his tongue before he walks along the table.
"But she was waitin'. Fer me."
He bends, darkened eyes honed. A quick snap bounces a ball free, granting it a slow crawl towards a side pocket. No sink. Third one blocked.
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