"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.
How long did it take for people to get to that point, Raylan wondered. How long until he was at that point. He was halfway to the first point - and it had taken him near a year to feel like there was anyone he would be allowed to care about. Red, Roman and James, Gonou, Jedao - T, Hunter, Steve, B.
"Not an easy loss," he says dumbly, quietly before taking another drink of his whiskey. He circles the table again, lining up his next shot.
"Will you see her again when you graduate?" He knew how many folks Traveled, though the rules of it were a little fuzzy for him. He takes his shot, the crack of ball against ball unusually loud for some reason - hitting his ball but sinking Red's. "Well shit," he mutters under his breath as he pulls back.
There's no smile or gloat at the unintended sink; he just moves to line up his next shot.
"Hopin' to." The words are softer and more vulnerable than he'd like, and he pushes them back up with an attempt at casual dismissiveness. Even if he will, it won't be anytime soon.
"Need least two Deals ta be safe ta be 'round her."
That's the big difference with her being there, instead of here, with him. Admiral is the only thing keeping his Bad Luck in check. And he doesn't want her to end up with a pole shoved through her face.
A flick of his wrist tucks another ball against the mouth of a pocket, and he doesn't look to Raylan as he relinquishes the table.
And that was why Raylan didn't mind playing games with Red or anyone with that kind of attitude about it. Sore Winners were just as annoying as sore losers.
He circles the table again, sighing at the spread as he chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. Instead of taking a shot, he looks up at Red from under his eyebrows, not moving his face from it's slant taken looking at the table.
"Two? I know you gettin' your coin is one.. Laura's apparently gonna try and take care of Wednesday - Fix your luck and your second deal is gettin' to her, isn't it?"
The name 'Laura' is still something sticky in the mouth; Dead Wife is far more natural and keeps lines properly drawn. Sweeney shrugs it off.
"Nah. Me an' Dead Wife shouldn't be 'round each other, e'en with my Coin back in my custody. She best be back ta her man by then." He licks his lip as he studies the table.
"Lookin' ta get rid'a my Curse," he counters with a lift of his finger. His head tips, as if to imply his temple without touching it. His Madness. Being free of it would be well worth a Deal.
"Mm," Raylan sounds, the note full of silent opinions and feelings about it. He was glad he'd gotten to met the small fiery woman; the context he'd gotten was invaluable. But Laura was something to be separated from this woman that was helping Sweeney along. There was something different about the possibilities on the Barge verses what awaited them at home. Different situations, different constraints.
"Right," he continues with a nod. "Though I think she'd be with you, curse or not. Ain't that what love is? Flaws and all?"
He knew Sweeney didn't like talking about love, but it was clear that he loved Her. And Love was important.
"She best fuckin' not be," Sweeney starts, still hung up on the Dead Wife angle. Silence stills him in unsureness. What if that isn't who Raylan's talking about? That makes it all the worse. Certainly more uncomfortable, nd he shifts his weight between his hips.
"She dunn't love me," he mutters through tight teeth.
"I meant this mystery women who's name I haven't asked you for yet, but Dead wife-" He knew what Red called her when he wasn't calling her Cunt. "-That's an interesting debate. Awful odd that a woman who is so focused on her man finds herself fulfilling your vengeance. She can say it's for Shadow but it rings hollow. She 'hates' you awful hard."
It was almost cute, in it's teenagerish way. If it wasn't so crazy and angry and desperate a connection that neither of them could really argue against being there.
"If you don't mind me sayin' so and havin' an opinion on it. Considerin' our conversation thus far."
He doesn't say the words, but the roll of his eyes does it for him. When it boils down to it, he rather being talking about Dead Wife, if he has to choose between the two.
"She's got plenty'a her own reasons ta go after Grimnir. Get her man back out from under his thumb." Obviously. "'Cause he's a lyin' one-eyed cunt that fucked her o'er. More than once. An'...oh yeah. Fuckin' killin' her in the first fuckin' place." Sweeney, defensive? Never.
There's no way in fuck he's falling for this Notion the marshal is trying to peddle at him. Dead Wife had made her feelings perfectly clear in New Orleans. And just about every minute before then.
Raylan shrugs with his face, lips downturning in time with a lift of his eyebrows in return. Tough titty, Jack - that can of worms had been opened and he knew full well that there would be a point where Sweeney's pride or heart sewed his lips closed again.
"Her reason for doin' it and the fact that it matches up with yours doesn't make it a choice on her side. Just a matter of fact. Luck, maybe, considerin' she's there to take that shot. It'd track. And with a rap sheet like that, what's one more sin on the proverbial docket."
Now he could take his shot, bending over again, to finally sink a ball and a small sound of victory to himself in the form of inhaling sharply over his teeth.
"You're gonna havta give me a name for Her eventually, for the sake of us both, ya know."
Sweeney's ready to dig in harder on the 'reasons he doesn't give a shit about Dead Wife', when he feels Raylan shift gears back to the former topic.
Great.
His jaw tightens, then rocks.
"Like fuck, I do." He frowns, firm on the point.
"Ain't my name ta give."
And it isn't. To him, she's Swamp Rat, but that's for no one else. B knew her before, and if the marshal comes to it by proxy, they'll cross that bridge when the time comes.
"I did say A name. Can't be leavin' people out here with nothin' to be called by. Disrespectful, I'd think," he says ambivalently, bending back over to take another shot. And a good one, but not good enough; his ball bounces off the corner pocket, hits one of Red's, and comes to a halt at the edge.
"And it's never better to leave it to someone else's idea of creativity."
The frown does not lessen, and it remains fixed on Raylan while the man takes his shots.
"Or we can just go back ta not talkin' 'bout her." It's sounding like a increasingly good idea.
Point made, Sweeney crosses around the table, focusing a little longer than he needs to to set a ball neatly at the mouth of a fresh pocket, waiting to be tapped in by another ball.
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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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"Not an easy loss," he says dumbly, quietly before taking another drink of his whiskey. He circles the table again, lining up his next shot.
"Will you see her again when you graduate?" He knew how many folks Traveled, though the rules of it were a little fuzzy for him. He takes his shot, the crack of ball against ball unusually loud for some reason - hitting his ball but sinking Red's. "Well shit," he mutters under his breath as he pulls back.
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"Hopin' to." The words are softer and more vulnerable than he'd like, and he pushes them back up with an attempt at casual dismissiveness. Even if he will, it won't be anytime soon.
"Need least two Deals ta be safe ta be 'round her."
That's the big difference with her being there, instead of here, with him. Admiral is the only thing keeping his Bad Luck in check. And he doesn't want her to end up with a pole shoved through her face.
A flick of his wrist tucks another ball against the mouth of a pocket, and he doesn't look to Raylan as he relinquishes the table.
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He circles the table again, sighing at the spread as he chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. Instead of taking a shot, he looks up at Red from under his eyebrows, not moving his face from it's slant taken looking at the table.
"Two? I know you gettin' your coin is one.. Laura's apparently gonna try and take care of Wednesday - Fix your luck and your second deal is gettin' to her, isn't it?"
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"Nah. Me an' Dead Wife shouldn't be 'round each other, e'en with my Coin back in my custody. She best be back ta her man by then." He licks his lip as he studies the table.
"Lookin' ta get rid'a my Curse," he counters with a lift of his finger. His head tips, as if to imply his temple without touching it. His Madness. Being free of it would be well worth a Deal.
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"Right," he continues with a nod. "Though I think she'd be with you, curse or not. Ain't that what love is? Flaws and all?"
He knew Sweeney didn't like talking about love, but it was clear that he loved Her. And Love was important.
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"She dunn't love me," he mutters through tight teeth.
Either of them, when it comes down to it.
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It was almost cute, in it's teenagerish way. If it wasn't so crazy and angry and desperate a connection that neither of them could really argue against being there.
"If you don't mind me sayin' so and havin' an opinion on it. Considerin' our conversation thus far."
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He doesn't say the words, but the roll of his eyes does it for him. When it boils down to it, he rather being talking about Dead Wife, if he has to choose between the two.
"She's got plenty'a her own reasons ta go after Grimnir. Get her man back out from under his thumb." Obviously. "'Cause he's a lyin' one-eyed cunt that fucked her o'er. More than once. An'...oh yeah. Fuckin' killin' her in the first fuckin' place." Sweeney, defensive? Never.
There's no way in fuck he's falling for this Notion the marshal is trying to peddle at him. Dead Wife had made her feelings perfectly clear in New Orleans. And just about every minute before then.
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"Her reason for doin' it and the fact that it matches up with yours doesn't make it a choice on her side. Just a matter of fact. Luck, maybe, considerin' she's there to take that shot. It'd track. And with a rap sheet like that, what's one more sin on the proverbial docket."
Now he could take his shot, bending over again, to finally sink a ball and a small sound of victory to himself in the form of inhaling sharply over his teeth.
"You're gonna havta give me a name for Her eventually, for the sake of us both, ya know."
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Great.
His jaw tightens, then rocks.
"Like fuck, I do." He frowns, firm on the point.
"Ain't my name ta give."
And it isn't. To him, she's Swamp Rat, but that's for no one else. B knew her before, and if the marshal comes to it by proxy, they'll cross that bridge when the time comes.
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"And it's never better to leave it to someone else's idea of creativity."
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"Or we can just go back ta not talkin' 'bout her." It's sounding like a increasingly good idea.
Point made, Sweeney crosses around the table, focusing a little longer than he needs to to set a ball neatly at the mouth of a fresh pocket, waiting to be tapped in by another ball.
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