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.
"So long as you understand when I suggested she should love you for your flaws, I wasn't talkin' about Laura," he replies, only half leaning on his stick for the brief moment it takes for Red to shoot.
He found his shot and took it, but sank another of Red's balls as well, and sucked his teeth in a short sound.
"Just cause you'll lose some of them doesn't mean you'll lose all of them," he points out as he goes back to circling the table.
"But if she came to love you, she'd hav'ta give a shit about what's wrong with you. That's what it's all about. Sometimes taking the shot is worth the risk, that's all I'm sayin'. But I can appreciate wantin' that table cleared."
A shot and a miss; the cue ball hit a stripe, but nothing sank.
"Everything's easier when business is taken care of. It's movement, progression. That's a good thing." Red had goals - a path of action even if he wasn't sure how to get to the first goalpost. That was a big step.
It was an issue that Raylan had actually,finally, thought about that whole thing and he agreed there were some etherical problems with the idea. He didn't know what he'd do if he ever found himself as James's warden. He had to hope things wouldn't ever fall out like that.
"Hard spot." He chews the inside of his cheek, an idea coming to mind, one that was likely bad to be voiced. Sweeney didn't like the soft kumbaya shit.
"You've been around forever, Red. You'll find it again. Statistically, even." To take the heart out of it. "Even if it's gettin' back to her.... Sink that ball so I can shoot, huh? Lemme ask you somethin' different - You got a favorite holiday that ain't your own? Anythin' you enjoy?"
He felt like he was trying to bend around a bullet.
He doesn't want statistically. He wants their Anywhere Else, whatever that looks like. Even if she can't love him, he believes in his bones she'll still want him; his company and intimacy and the way they always accept each other. The way they're better when they're together.
But Sweeney finds he doesn't have to delve hard into that argument. The new path is easier, though the pain isn't much less.
"Samhain." He shrugs it off as casually as he's able.
"Faerie holiday."
And the first they had shared together. The one it was her duty to plan (since they traded off).
"I really gotta read a few books," Raylan admitted with a sigh and a lift of his eyebrows. "I wish I could tell you I knew what that was but.. Where I come from, it's all bible thumpers and preachers.. My granddaddy was a preacher. Might explain why Arlo turned out the way he did but."
He takes another breath and sidles up to the table, shifting his cue stick to take another shot. He sunk a ball but sunk one of Sweeney's too. He swore under his breath.
"Fuckin' certain." There's a dryness, but no bitterness, which is honestly a step up.
"Folk here do Halloween," he concedes, resigned to the situation. It's almost better that way, her not being here. He can resent the holiday and not her absence.
"Bible folk hate that shit too, so I'm guessin' that's close 'nough." There's enough jest to imply that sometimes pissing people off is its own reward. Hence his cassock at Dorian's party.
Sweeney studies the table, looking for how best to clean things up.
"The bible folk that don't sink too far into the extremes of belief, do have some cute ass Halloween parties, otherwise they'll lose the young souls to the devil. Plans for keepin' them inside and engagin' in 'Jesus's fun'." The tone of voice included a dry eyeroll. He wasn't overly impressed with it all, needless to say.
"I never much cared for Halloween, but that's because I spend them on cases, dealin' with the public at their loosest and loudest and drunkest. Lotta fires, proverbial and otherwise to deal with. Always crazier on Halloween. I like the forth of July but that's only because I can get somethin' grilled and a cold beer. Offensively American, I know but.."
He shrugs a little. He'd lived the Suburban life and seen it's tasty, grilled meat perks. There was often hottubs, or swimming. No one could blame him.
Raylan's not wrong about any of those observations. Some of the many reasons Sweeney isn't keen on Halloween. Only Dorian's predilections towards debauchery has him considering the potential merits. The new topic makes his eyes roll up beneath their lids, but it's in muted amusement.
"You an' fuckin' Steve." Sweeney refocuses his attention on the marshal.
"Ya know it's his fuckin' birthday? No wonder he is what he is. Folk Believin' him too hard fer him ta be anythin' else."
Not that it makes the White Hat vibe more palatable, but he understands the feeling of being made into something without your consent.
His eyebrows lift over a smile. "Really? Shit. We're gonna have to havta have a big ass BBQ for him when it comes around." But the lifted eyebrows fell into a soft furrow, chin lifting in curiosity.
"What do you mean 'he is what he is'? What is he?" What did Raylan miss?
His gaze slips askew in place of a proper eye roll.
"The Whitest of Hats. A force fer good, the Boy Scout ideal. Helping hands an' sweet smiles an' kissin' babies. Wholesome as apple pie at a county fair, reeks of walkin' girls home without so much as a goodnight kiss on the cheek. Practically bleeds red, white, an' blue at the dawn of the Atomic Age."
Sweeney doesn't fault Steve; that's the point. But it doesn't make the qualities more appealing.
Raylan resists the urge to glance up at the underside of his Stetson. He'd heard of the white/black hat analogy before, noted it in movies and the like, and it'd be a lie to say that when he grabbed his way back when and slipped it on his head, the color appealed.
"What can I say, we're a Great country sometimes." Sometimes being the key word. "And we love our war heroes. And we've got amazing food. There's a lotta potential, if we can keep things on the rails. If he's as wholesome as all that, then it's a good example of what some of the people in our country oughta be." Whoops, sorry Red, you tripped and fell into some patriotism.
"Besides, plenta black hat folks to keep us busy. Usually. Any place but here."
It's not like Raylan's patriotism is a surprise; he was literally just basking in the glow of the Fourth of July. Also, his hat is pretty light. Not White, but close enough.
"Eh but for what? Public intoxication, B&E, maybe some vandalism? No offense but I wouldn't even get off a beat for shit like that. There a grey hat area? That's where you'd fall."
He tilts his head a little, studying the set of Red's jaw and shoulders.
"And even you killin' Laura; someone else pulled that trigger. I don't understand why you did it, but I think I see it weighin' on you in these conversations."
Sweeney's lips part in preparation for banter about the color of what everyone's wearing, but that name makes them instantly close and thin. He rocks his jaw to keep it from clenching.
"I ain't lookin' ta talk 'bout Dead Wife. Bad 'nough, her bein' her in the first fuckin' place."
"Bad enough her bein' her? What's that mean? Sure she's mouthy, but-" The rest of that wasn't something that a gentleman would say and so Raylan doesn't.
"Smells a hellva lot better now that she's not rottin' any more too."
There's a mental stutter; he's caught off-guard, having not thought of the fact that she'd been here before. That Other Dead Wife, which is yet a different one than the Not So Dead Wife Swamp Rat hat met, trying to save her. He catches back up, and his gaze shifts askew for a moment.
Sweeney is not a gentleman.
"Her bein' all pink an' not 'split a man in half via a kick ta the balls' dunn't mean she's any different otherwise. Still a cunt. Still not wantin' ta share the same fuckin' air as me." He cocks his head.
"Just means the fuckin' boat's smaller, me havin' ta parse bits out with her so she dunn't take e'ery opportunity she can ta remind me of what a piece'a shit I was ta her."
Raylan stays quiet for a long moment, eyes crinkling around the edges as he squints softly.
"So. You're mad at her for bein' mad at you, for havin' killed her. And, I know I'm steppin' over a line here but - how would you feel about her if she wasn't pissed at you all the time?"
He really needed to see them interact; he was sure the rest of the pieces that hung in the air would drop into place like tetris bricks.
"Your agreement? You mean not rottin' fast enough around your coin to be gettin' it?"
His head tilts fractionally to the side and decides to push a little further.
"And I didn't ask you to imagine a world she wasn't in, though I gotta say I think it's a little sweet that you can't imagine a world without her, I asked how you'd feel about her if she wasn't pissed."
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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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He found his shot and took it, but sank another of Red's balls as well, and sucked his teeth in a short sound.
"S'a decent game."
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"As fer the rest, I got no doubt that if she came ta love me, she won't give a shit 'bout what's wrong with me." Another easy answer.
"Just can't start ta know 'til the table's cleared." Which it isn't. Far from it. Sweeney leans in and nestles another ball at the lip of a pocket.
"Sometimes it ain't 'bout Winnin'. Sometimes it's 'bout Not Losin'."
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"But if she came to love you, she'd hav'ta give a shit about what's wrong with you. That's what it's all about. Sometimes taking the shot is worth the risk, that's all I'm sayin'. But I can appreciate wantin' that table cleared."
A shot and a miss; the cue ball hit a stripe, but nothing sank.
"Everything's easier when business is taken care of. It's movement, progression. That's a good thing." Red had goals - a path of action even if he wasn't sure how to get to the first goalpost. That was a big step.
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"Otherwise she wouldn't have fuckin' stayed."
Sweeney forces himself to take a slow breath before lining up his shot, ready to sink a fucking ball for a change.
"Just has a hard line 'bout Inmates."
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"Hard spot." He chews the inside of his cheek, an idea coming to mind, one that was likely bad to be voiced. Sweeney didn't like the soft kumbaya shit.
"You've been around forever, Red. You'll find it again. Statistically, even." To take the heart out of it. "Even if it's gettin' back to her.... Sink that ball so I can shoot, huh? Lemme ask you somethin' different - You got a favorite holiday that ain't your own? Anythin' you enjoy?"
He felt like he was trying to bend around a bullet.
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But Sweeney finds he doesn't have to delve hard into that argument. The new path is easier, though the pain isn't much less.
"Samhain." He shrugs it off as casually as he's able.
"Faerie holiday."
And the first they had shared together. The one it was her duty to plan (since they traded off).
The first he'd spent without her.
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He takes another breath and sidles up to the table, shifting his cue stick to take another shot. He sunk a ball but sunk one of Sweeney's too. He swore under his breath.
"You sure you ain't got your luck on you?"
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"Folk here do Halloween," he concedes, resigned to the situation. It's almost better that way, her not being here. He can resent the holiday and not her absence.
"Bible folk hate that shit too, so I'm guessin' that's close 'nough." There's enough jest to imply that sometimes pissing people off is its own reward. Hence his cassock at Dorian's party.
Sweeney studies the table, looking for how best to clean things up.
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"I never much cared for Halloween, but that's because I spend them on cases, dealin' with the public at their loosest and loudest and drunkest. Lotta fires, proverbial and otherwise to deal with. Always crazier on Halloween. I like the forth of July but that's only because I can get somethin' grilled and a cold beer. Offensively American, I know but.."
He shrugs a little. He'd lived the Suburban life and seen it's tasty, grilled meat perks. There was often hottubs, or swimming. No one could blame him.
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"You an' fuckin' Steve." Sweeney refocuses his attention on the marshal.
"Ya know it's his fuckin' birthday? No wonder he is what he is. Folk Believin' him too hard fer him ta be anythin' else."
Not that it makes the White Hat vibe more palatable, but he understands the feeling of being made into something without your consent.
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"What do you mean 'he is what he is'? What is he?" What did Raylan miss?
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"The Whitest of Hats. A force fer good, the Boy Scout ideal. Helping hands an' sweet smiles an' kissin' babies. Wholesome as apple pie at a county fair, reeks of walkin' girls home without so much as a goodnight kiss on the cheek. Practically bleeds red, white, an' blue at the dawn of the Atomic Age."
Sweeney doesn't fault Steve; that's the point. But it doesn't make the qualities more appealing.
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"What can I say, we're a Great country sometimes." Sometimes being the key word. "And we love our war heroes. And we've got amazing food. There's a lotta potential, if we can keep things on the rails. If he's as wholesome as all that, then it's a good example of what some of the people in our country oughta be." Whoops, sorry Red, you tripped and fell into some patriotism.
"Besides, plenta black hat folks to keep us busy. Usually. Any place but here."
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"I know," he answers plainly.
"I've spent plenty'a nights in jail."
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He tilts his head a little, studying the set of Red's jaw and shoulders.
"And even you killin' Laura; someone else pulled that trigger. I don't understand why you did it, but I think I see it weighin' on you in these conversations."
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"I ain't lookin' ta talk 'bout Dead Wife. Bad 'nough, her bein' her in the first fuckin' place."
Not a fact he's enamored with, for damn sure.
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"Smells a hellva lot better now that she's not rottin' any more too."
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Sweeney is not a gentleman.
"Her bein' all pink an' not 'split a man in half via a kick ta the balls' dunn't mean she's any different otherwise. Still a cunt. Still not wantin' ta share the same fuckin' air as me." He cocks his head.
"Just means the fuckin' boat's smaller, me havin' ta parse bits out with her so she dunn't take e'ery opportunity she can ta remind me of what a piece'a shit I was ta her."
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"So. You're mad at her for bein' mad at you, for havin' killed her. And, I know I'm steppin' over a line here but - how would you feel about her if she wasn't pissed at you all the time?"
He really needed to see them interact; he was sure the rest of the pieces that hung in the air would drop into place like tetris bricks.
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"No. I'm pissed at her fer violatin' our Arrangement." Among other things.
"An' there inn't a world I can imagine where she ain't, so there's no point in me puttin' the effort inta ponderin' on it."
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His head tilts fractionally to the side and decides to push a little further.
"And I didn't ask you to imagine a world she wasn't in, though I gotta say I think it's a little sweet that you can't imagine a world without her, I asked how you'd feel about her if she wasn't pissed."
(no subject)