Sweeney gives Raylan the rest of port without pestering; man deserves some time with his new husband. But back on board and back to work, it isn't long before their paths pass in the greenhouse. He strolls over to Raylan while the marshal is working.
"How's that wedded bliss treatin' ya?" he inquires casually, his hands tucked in his pockets. A tiny smirk curls one corner of his lips. His tone is playfully teasing, but it's clear he's supportive of Raylan being happier (or at least Sweeney assumes he is).
After the port, there was a renewed passion about getting into the dirt for Raylan; the deep smell of earth not something he realized he'd missed so sharply and with all the bugs and critters around, there were 'weeds' of a type, or plants that didn't belong that had to be pulled out. He looks up as Red comes closer, sitting back onto his heels as he grins at the question.
"Even better the second time around," he answers honestly. "I'm guessin' either words gotten around or you happened to catch sight of it while it was happening?" Or maybe Sweeney was just attentive enough to notice the new ring on Raylan's hands.
“Ya askin’ if I missed ya in yer flowers? Fuck no. The pair’a ya were practically glowin’, all that happiness floatin’ ‘bout you.” Sweeney slides his tongue along his teeth as he replays the sight in his mind’s eye. Something occurs to him, and he refocuses on Raylan with a quirked brow.
“That make e’erythin’ official then?” Half a beat passes. “Or it more of an engagement sorta thing?”
Handfasting is practiced different ways in different places, and Sweeney’s not convinced it’s native to either of their upbringings.
Raylan's eyebrows bobbed, head bobbing slightly to the side to match as his smile spreads back into a grin. He can't lie - it was a perfect night and there was no hiding it.
"I'd call it magical if utterin' it didn't feel silly sayin' so." It completely felt silly. And still absolutly correct. Sweeney was right in that it wasn't native to either of their upbringings, but Raylan wasn't big on Traditions. Except maybe Christmas Dinner, now.
"But official," he answers, nodding. "Spur of the moment, but official. I don't know what God the priest that married us talks to, but I have to think any of them can appreciate folks coming together in love under their name." Maybe a touchy subject, but wouldn't anything be, on this topic?
Sweeney's expression goes dry, though it's clearly in some form of jest.
"Since when does somethin' bein' magical make it silly?" Case in point: giant leprechaun. A beat passes and he continues.
"You takin' his? Name, I mean."
It occurs to him in that moment that he doesn't know what name he would give Her, should she ever deem him worthy enough to take it. 'Sweeney' is hardly a proper surname, and he would rather it not be tacked to a woman he loves, forcing that baggage on her. She deserves better. He's just not sure he has it to give.
There were a lot of pitfalls talking to Red about this kinda thing, but he should have seen this one coming. Raylan shrugs unevenly, still just as pleased and unbothered as he goes back to his work, hands itching for the busy work.
"When I'm talkin' to someone who knows actual magical and not the Home and Garden's version, white woman and wine version."
But at the following question, Raylan had to scoff and shake his head.
"No. I've been a Givens too many years to change it, and he's still in the middle of figuring out which name fits him best. The names of it don't matter; us marryin' doesn't alter who we are. We're just happy to be joined, doesn't need to get complicated in traditions we don't pay much attention to.. At least not in this relationship. Winona took my name, followed all the traditions.." But that hadn't mattered much, in the end.
"So it's better this way, I think.. Aside from everyone askin' when we're gonna have a ceremony on board."
It's a casual inquiry, especially since, by the man's previous answer, they had already signed on the dotted line as far as Raylan sees it. Love certainly isn't something they're obligated to put on display for others.
What a loaded question. Raylan's hands paused before pointedly going back to his work like it would help him avoid the turbulence that sprung up into his chest.
"I don't think I got much of a choice." They're not obligated? His experience would say differently. People Cared a Lot about this kind of Thing. "Path of least resistance and all. I know James kinda wants to." They hadn't had a .. direct discussion about it yet.
He couldn't help the small curl of his lips at the defensive tone; people didn't often take those tones in regards to his wellbeing, one way or the other. When did this happen, he wonders.
"I've heard a couple of firm requests that we'd better have a ceremony on board. People are expecting. Less hell if I don't rock the boat. If I had a good reason, I might be more on that side of the debate, but all I got is 'Church weddings don't feel right'. For.. this. Us. Here." He lifts a shoulder in a shrug as he sits back, weeds tossed into his little basket that he'd found. He took the chance to glance around to make sure no one else was eavesdropping.
"Feels a little.. aggrandizing. Wasteful, all the resources needed, for that. Too much attention on too small a ship, ya know?"
"That's yer choice." He's made his point, and he's not looking to drive it into the ground.
"Not sure I'm the best ta be askin' 'bout it." Not that Raylan's asking. This sort of thing certainly leaves some stark lights on the holes in his life. But he's still doing his best to be supportive.
"Ya certainly wouldn't be the first ta see an extra set of rations set to a celebratory purpose." He shrugs a shoulder.
"Fresh back from port...best time fer it, if yer gonna."
Raylan wasn't asking, not really, just voicing a personal bit of slight discomfort. Those really didn't need air; he could survive if they didn't peek up and he probably shouldn't have cracked that lid to begin with.
"Suppose so," he sighs good naturedly. "If only that were the only issue about it all that I'm considerin'. Lotta movin' parts for any not having anythin' to do with my first wedding." He brushes his hands off and bobs his head.
"But I'm sure you don't wanna hear that." Or hear him gush about his ring. "Nothin' worse than a gushy newlywed and I'm too old to be doin' it." But he was happy, and it was impossible to not tell. His face was years younger for the smile and lightness about him.
"Not as good as yers," he teases gently. "But a nice change of pace. Gettin' ta spend time with kindred kind--didn't 'xpect that shit." He slowly exhales. A beat hangs.
"Ya know, I'm happy fer ya." His voice is softer, supportive.
"Just 'cause I'm hurtin' dunn't mean I want others to." The playful tone returns.
"'specially assholes who have a mutual love of whiskey and bad habits."
It was good to hear, that Sweeney got some respite from his pools of anguish and depression. It didn't fix anything, but it was a chance for a man to catch half a breath, for half a moment. Never long enough, and still better than never seeing it at all here. It was good to see even a small smirk breaking on the otherwise always serious man.
Something in Raylan's expression gets soft around the edges, head bobbing to one side as his smile breaks a little at the last.
"Whoever said being an asshole wasn't a community buildin' sport doesn't know what they're talkin' about.. But thank you. I know it ain't.. the most comfortable thing and I don't want our happiness bein' a thorn in anyone's ass. It won't stop us-" he admits with another little bob of his head, eyes dropping down to the dirt on his hands that he busied himself with brushing off again. "But if I can avoid it bein' rubbed in..."
It wasn't fair, maybe, that he'd found a little sliver of happiness here. There was still a worry that he didn't deserve it and that this lovely little bubble was going to be dramatically popped because that's the way it always went. He fiddles with the Damascus ring on his left hand a little.
"This place is a patch of fuckin' briars. No way ta 'void all those thorns." He sighs, his mind making a parade of the matches he's surrounded by.
"Fuck, I'm still stuck in the endless waitin' of Trixie's fuckin' betrothal. At least you two pulled the fuckin' trigger."
Sweeney's still got his ample yardage of the spider-silk he'd traded T for waiting for Trixie to tell him what she wants for her dress. Just because Leprechaun are efficient tailors doesn't mean it wouldn't be nice to have some time to work before the last minute. See it fitting properly and all. But it feels like she and Kiryu are dragging their feet.
He couldn't help but huff a half laughed sound, eyebrows bobbing. "Ironic choice of words, considerin' that's what I'm known for." Trigger pulling that is.
"There's a chance they ain't ready. Fear or, wanting to do it right. Somethin' like that. Just gotta have patience, let 'em figure it out. Trick is to not think about it. But I wasn't gonna wait. Can't, here. Don't dare," he says, voice quieting a little before he clears his throat and pushes to his feet. He was sure there was another shoe to drop on his happiness; it was coming. In days or weeks, maybe longer if he were lucky. But it was coming.
"Better to take what we can while it's there. Shit I'm thirsty. I gotta get a drink, hold on." There was a water hose near by and goddamnit, he was going to use it. See? Just don't think about anything and keep moving.
"Yeah." There's a quiet wistfulness to the word that suggests there's more to the thought, but Raylan's already barrelling on, and Sweeney's all too happy to let it go.
"Just sittin' on those fuckin' silk bolts. Can't blame a Fellow fer wantin' ta get that shit outta the way." He's more grumbling to himself than the marshal, his gaze wandering some as he does so.
"Get you a fabric chest or a footlocker. Somethin' to keep it stored, clean, safe, and gives you a flat surface for other things. Not to mention sitting. Centuries of Grandmothers can't be wrong." Raylan turns on the hose and takes a long drink before turning it all off again and tossing the hose to the ground.
"I didn't know that you crafted clothes. There anything you need to go with it you can't get a hold of, let me know, I'll ask the Admiral if ya need. Whatever Trixie needs.." His lips curl. "When they decide to do it. Hellva gift to give a woman," he continues, with a fond note as he wipes his face and ambles back over. There was the unspoken 'that's sweet of you' undertone to it all but Raylan knew better than to put it so bluntly.
Sweeney frowns at the suggestion that he doesn't have the knowledge or facilities required for proper fabric care. He's got a fucking frock coat from back when he went to faerie balls, back before all of the bullshit of everything that came after. He also has no desire to talk about what has caused him to want to show her this kindness. In the end, it's the only way he has left to matter to her, now that her life is all sorted. Elsewhere. He has no further place in it, other than to be something she pities. Sweeney's not interested in that bullshit.
"I'm a Leprechaun. Course I can sew." As if such is clearly common knowledge.
"Back b'fore Enlightenment took hold, we tailored an' cobbled an' did a hundred other things humans needed. Or at least that folk were willin' ta pay ta not hav'ta do themselves." His indifferent air is a thin veil over the pain of that which was lost.
"'The Enlightenment'", he echoes. "I'm guessin' taht you're talking about religion, about the church, but - That phrasin' feels like it gives them more credit then they deserve."
While no where near as complex as Red's feelings on religion, Raylan had his own views and opinions about the institution.
"But that's interesting. Not somethin' I would have guessed. Lemme ask you somethin- you ever put that skill to use on flesh? Stitches, that kinda thing?"
The way his irises disappear behind his lids at the first suggestion implies there's clarification to be had, but neither of them should probably dwell. So he doesn't.
"Course." A quick shrug of his head makes it's obvious he's done it more than once.
"Stitches ain't as straight, given the habit of folk squirmin', but I can get shit back where it needs ta be."
"Think I could talk ya into teachin' me how? After Roman's thing, I had to stitch him closed. I managed, he didn't bleed out or anythin' but if it's somethin' I'm gonna havta do, I wanna do it well enough that it doesn't have to be redone or introduce.. I dunno, gappin' issues or something."
He lifts a hand before Red can answer. "And I know that's gonna require a deal. I don't mind payin', or bein' held in the debt until I can do somethin' useful for you." Which was an advance of his opinion on it all before, but he trusted Sweeney in a way he hadn't when they first started getting to know each other.
Sweeney grows quieter, considering the turn in topics and unsure how to feel about where they're finding themselves. It's not bad, just a little uncomfortable.
"Deals ain't 'bout what I want."
He says it more gently than he normally would, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't rather just not have to say it in the first place. He feels like he's bashing his head into a post; a Groundhog's Day of explaining how he exists.
"It's 'bout how much Value ya put on what ya want. What's it worth fer you ta get it. That ain't on me ta assign."
"And that's about where I get tripped up. I'm used to value being money or labor - You want me to pay? I'll find a way to do that. You want me to work on somethin' in payment, I'm happy with that too, but how I pay for it can't determine the value of makin' sure someone you care about doesn't bleed out all over your couch, ya know?"
They'd had this conversation long ago, when Raylan was first dealing with Red and his Deals, but he still owed Red a question that he hadn't claimed, and paying with questions and information felt like not paying at all.
"I much prefer the barter and trade system, I gotta tell you."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Post-handfasting
"How's that wedded bliss treatin' ya?" he inquires casually, his hands tucked in his pockets. A tiny smirk curls one corner of his lips. His tone is playfully teasing, but it's clear he's supportive of Raylan being happier (or at least Sweeney assumes he is).
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"Even better the second time around," he answers honestly. "I'm guessin' either words gotten around or you happened to catch sight of it while it was happening?" Or maybe Sweeney was just attentive enough to notice the new ring on Raylan's hands.
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“That make e’erythin’ official then?” Half a beat passes. “Or it more of an engagement sorta thing?”
Handfasting is practiced different ways in different places, and Sweeney’s not convinced it’s native to either of their upbringings.
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"I'd call it magical if utterin' it didn't feel silly sayin' so." It completely felt silly. And still absolutly correct. Sweeney was right in that it wasn't native to either of their upbringings, but Raylan wasn't big on Traditions. Except maybe Christmas Dinner, now.
"But official," he answers, nodding. "Spur of the moment, but official. I don't know what God the priest that married us talks to, but I have to think any of them can appreciate folks coming together in love under their name." Maybe a touchy subject, but wouldn't anything be, on this topic?
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"Since when does somethin' bein' magical make it silly?" Case in point: giant leprechaun. A beat passes and he continues.
"You takin' his? Name, I mean."
It occurs to him in that moment that he doesn't know what name he would give Her, should she ever deem him worthy enough to take it. 'Sweeney' is hardly a proper surname, and he would rather it not be tacked to a woman he loves, forcing that baggage on her. She deserves better. He's just not sure he has it to give.
At least, not yet.
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"When I'm talkin' to someone who knows actual magical and not the Home and Garden's version, white woman and wine version."
But at the following question, Raylan had to scoff and shake his head.
"No. I've been a Givens too many years to change it, and he's still in the middle of figuring out which name fits him best. The names of it don't matter; us marryin' doesn't alter who we are. We're just happy to be joined, doesn't need to get complicated in traditions we don't pay much attention to.. At least not in this relationship. Winona took my name, followed all the traditions.." But that hadn't mattered much, in the end.
"So it's better this way, I think.. Aside from everyone askin' when we're gonna have a ceremony on board."
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It's a casual inquiry, especially since, by the man's previous answer, they had already signed on the dotted line as far as Raylan sees it. Love certainly isn't something they're obligated to put on display for others.
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"I don't think I got much of a choice." They're not obligated? His experience would say differently. People Cared a Lot about this kind of Thing. "Path of least resistance and all. I know James kinda wants to." They hadn't had a .. direct discussion about it yet.
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There's slight bristle in defense of Raylan, like he's ready to give anyone who says otherwise a stern Talking To. Anyone except one person.
"If yer man does...well, that's fer the two of you ta decide. Whene'er the fuck you want to."
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"I've heard a couple of firm requests that we'd better have a ceremony on board. People are expecting. Less hell if I don't rock the boat. If I had a good reason, I might be more on that side of the debate, but all I got is 'Church weddings don't feel right'. For.. this. Us. Here." He lifts a shoulder in a shrug as he sits back, weeds tossed into his little basket that he'd found. He took the chance to glance around to make sure no one else was eavesdropping.
"Feels a little.. aggrandizing. Wasteful, all the resources needed, for that. Too much attention on too small a ship, ya know?"
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"That's yer choice." He's made his point, and he's not looking to drive it into the ground.
"Not sure I'm the best ta be askin' 'bout it." Not that Raylan's asking. This sort of thing certainly leaves some stark lights on the holes in his life. But he's still doing his best to be supportive.
"Ya certainly wouldn't be the first ta see an extra set of rations set to a celebratory purpose." He shrugs a shoulder.
"Fresh back from port...best time fer it, if yer gonna."
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"Suppose so," he sighs good naturedly. "If only that were the only issue about it all that I'm considerin'. Lotta movin' parts for any not having anythin' to do with my first wedding." He brushes his hands off and bobs his head.
"But I'm sure you don't wanna hear that." Or hear him gush about his ring. "Nothin' worse than a gushy newlywed and I'm too old to be doin' it." But he was happy, and it was impossible to not tell. His face was years younger for the smile and lightness about him.
"How'd you enjoy the port then."
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"Not as good as yers," he teases gently. "But a nice change of pace. Gettin' ta spend time with kindred kind--didn't 'xpect that shit." He slowly exhales. A beat hangs.
"Ya know, I'm happy fer ya." His voice is softer, supportive.
"Just 'cause I'm hurtin' dunn't mean I want others to." The playful tone returns.
"'specially assholes who have a mutual love of whiskey and bad habits."
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Something in Raylan's expression gets soft around the edges, head bobbing to one side as his smile breaks a little at the last.
"Whoever said being an asshole wasn't a community buildin' sport doesn't know what they're talkin' about.. But thank you. I know it ain't.. the most comfortable thing and I don't want our happiness bein' a thorn in anyone's ass. It won't stop us-" he admits with another little bob of his head, eyes dropping down to the dirt on his hands that he busied himself with brushing off again. "But if I can avoid it bein' rubbed in..."
It wasn't fair, maybe, that he'd found a little sliver of happiness here. There was still a worry that he didn't deserve it and that this lovely little bubble was going to be dramatically popped because that's the way it always went. He fiddles with the Damascus ring on his left hand a little.
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"Fuck, I'm still stuck in the endless waitin' of Trixie's fuckin' betrothal. At least you two pulled the fuckin' trigger."
Sweeney's still got his ample yardage of the spider-silk he'd traded T for waiting for Trixie to tell him what she wants for her dress. Just because Leprechaun are efficient tailors doesn't mean it wouldn't be nice to have some time to work before the last minute. See it fitting properly and all. But it feels like she and Kiryu are dragging their feet.
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"There's a chance they ain't ready. Fear or, wanting to do it right. Somethin' like that. Just gotta have patience, let 'em figure it out. Trick is to not think about it. But I wasn't gonna wait. Can't, here. Don't dare," he says, voice quieting a little before he clears his throat and pushes to his feet. He was sure there was another shoe to drop on his happiness; it was coming. In days or weeks, maybe longer if he were lucky. But it was coming.
"Better to take what we can while it's there. Shit I'm thirsty. I gotta get a drink, hold on." There was a water hose near by and goddamnit, he was going to use it. See? Just don't think about anything and keep moving.
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"Just sittin' on those fuckin' silk bolts. Can't blame a Fellow fer wantin' ta get that shit outta the way." He's more grumbling to himself than the marshal, his gaze wandering some as he does so.
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"I didn't know that you crafted clothes. There anything you need to go with it you can't get a hold of, let me know, I'll ask the Admiral if ya need. Whatever Trixie needs.." His lips curl. "When they decide to do it. Hellva gift to give a woman," he continues, with a fond note as he wipes his face and ambles back over. There was the unspoken 'that's sweet of you' undertone to it all but Raylan knew better than to put it so bluntly.
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"I'm a Leprechaun. Course I can sew." As if such is clearly common knowledge.
"Back b'fore Enlightenment took hold, we tailored an' cobbled an' did a hundred other things humans needed. Or at least that folk were willin' ta pay ta not hav'ta do themselves." His indifferent air is a thin veil over the pain of that which was lost.
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While no where near as complex as Red's feelings on religion, Raylan had his own views and opinions about the institution.
"But that's interesting. Not somethin' I would have guessed. Lemme ask you somethin- you ever put that skill to use on flesh? Stitches, that kinda thing?"
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"Course." A quick shrug of his head makes it's obvious he's done it more than once.
"Stitches ain't as straight, given the habit of folk squirmin', but I can get shit back where it needs ta be."
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He lifts a hand before Red can answer. "And I know that's gonna require a deal. I don't mind payin', or bein' held in the debt until I can do somethin' useful for you." Which was an advance of his opinion on it all before, but he trusted Sweeney in a way he hadn't when they first started getting to know each other.
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"Deals ain't 'bout what I want."
He says it more gently than he normally would, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't rather just not have to say it in the first place. He feels like he's bashing his head into a post; a Groundhog's Day of explaining how he exists.
"It's 'bout how much Value ya put on what ya want. What's it worth fer you ta get it. That ain't on me ta assign."
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They'd had this conversation long ago, when Raylan was first dealing with Red and his Deals, but he still owed Red a question that he hadn't claimed, and paying with questions and information felt like not paying at all.
"I much prefer the barter and trade system, I gotta tell you."
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"But yer not askin' fer me ta keep someone ya care 'bout from bleedin' out," he notes, plainly but with a softer edge.
"Yer askin' fer me ta teach ya how ta sew. What ya do with that shit after is yer business."
The sentiment of his point is that Raylan shouldn't overthink it into something that's more expensive than it has to be.
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