tucky | IC contact for lastvoyages

im coming

[The greenhouse works; she was in a common room rather than her own cabin, anyway. She shows up just a few minutes later, beelining over when she sees him.]

One of the cop guys, right?

Sweeney stands up from the grass and closes the distance between them, though he then starts to walk them back towards the knoll during their conversation.

"Yeah. Gutterson. F'gure that's easier than Tim. A'ready fucked up the Daniel thing with there bein' extra ones." He gestures to silently ask if she wants to sit.

"He's the one without the hat."

Still a cop, though, she thinks, though she figures Sweeney has less of an issue with that than she does.

"He okay towards you?" she asks, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the grass.

Sweeney's hardly friendly with law on the whole, but it's not the dealbreaker it might be for Tiffany. To him, most Wardens here were some level of law officer at the very base of their description, it's more about how they do their job.

He follows her down to the grass, sitting beside her with his arm pressed against hers while they face the same direction.

"Early on, but no complaints." He doesn't know what he doesn't know.

"Got shit in common," he notes with a tip of his head, looking down to the path beyond them. "Spent 'nough time in war ta ya don't escape it with carryin' shit with ya, blunt to a fault, whiskey-drinker." Lots of checks in the plus column.

"But I'm the only Inmate he's e'er really dealt with, his first bein' MIA. An' obviously, I've been on a fuckin' merry-go-round myself, so I'm not sure if either of us know 'nough ta f'gure out how ta do this thing."

He plucks at a blade of grass. "He's not too big on compromisin'. Least not by nature." Sweeney shrugs. "Not like that's a rare thing in a lawman."

"From what I seen, real new ones either let you lead, or they think they all got it figured out and they won't listen to shit."

She nudges him, lightly, with an elbow.

"The thing about compromise makes it sound like he's the second one, but if he admitted to you he doesn't know what he's doing..."

"Nah." Sweeney shakes his head and slides his tongue over his front teeth. "Didn't say it outright." He leans into her a bit more.

"I'm guessin' there's gonna be a lotta lookin' like the second part." He does seek to make a clarification.

"I do think he listens. Just not sure it'll make that much difference when it comes ta the application of exercises." Fuck if he knows.

"B'fore--when things were temp'rary--there was some level of causal. Ain't sure we're gonna have that now that shit's official." Sweeney can understand; it's different when you're actually responsible for someone, instead of just looking after them.

He sighs and runs his hand over his head, his hair still long from port.

"Maybe I'm just lookin' fer the worse. Worryin' 'cause I assume my Luck'll be shit."

"I always liked the serious stuff more than the casual stuff," she says - meaning that, while she understands his fear, it's not one she's ever shared personally. "But, you know - you're pretty good at serious, too. You think you could make that work for you with this? Like, find a way to have it not be casual, but in a way you actually like?"

He considers her counter and realizes his misstatement.

"Don't necessarily mean that kinda casual. More enjoyin' a drink while there's a bit of brain pickin' and cuttin' through shit. He's not one fer dancin' 'round." Sweeney cocks his head to the side with a raised brow.

"An' ya know how shit I am with small talk." He shakes his head before promptly continuing.

"I'm in it ta work," he assures her. "Just ain't gonna do shit just 'cause he makes a project outta it. He's gonna hav'ta meet me in the middle somewhere." There's a weight to it; Sweeney's willing to give it an honest try, but he'll butt heads readily enough.

"If he dunn't wanna compromise on terms of the exercises, hopefully he'll f'gure me out 'nough ta not ask too much in the first place. 'Cause I ain't postin' random shit on the network for e'ery cunt ta see."

"You want equality," she summarizes. "You don't wanna open up if he's not gonna do the same. I get that."

Her observation is answered with a nod.

"Don't 'xpect ta be equals, given he's got the Warden label, but yeah. Be nice ta be partners." Sweeney glances her way.

"'Cause let's be honest. If I were gonna just do whate'er folk told me, I'd be done with this shit by now." It's not that he thinks it would be worth giving himself up for the sake of getting out, but he still acknowledges the fact that his stubbornness doesn't help his case.

Tiffany purses her lips, biting down on the inside of her cheek - not wanting to derail Sweeney's worries, but also having very strong opinions on the subject of the warden-inmate dynamic.

In the end, she just settles on, "Partners are equals if they're good partners. And that's how I always think about it, too. I just don't always say it, because-- it's a two-way straight, you know? Just because I'm willing doesn't mean the inmates I get paired up with are gonna be."

But that being said.

"But if Tim isn't willing to be partners with you, he's a fucking idiot with his head up his ass."

To be fair, Sweeney's never really done the whole 'partner' thing. Whether he was a king or alone or in service to fucking Grimnir, there's never been actual equal footing with someone he's working with.

His lips lift in a soft smile, and he bumps against her affectionately.

"Thanks, Tiff." He slowly exhales and looks back to the fruit tree across the way.

"I haven't given up hope fer it or anythin'. Just lookin' ta be rockier than I thought." Sweeney idly fusses with some grass.

"What do you think he'd do if you told him about this?"

She isn't flat-out telling him to talk to Tim about it; she figures there are a million and one potential reasons why that might not be feasible or desirable. But if it's a possibility that he can talk around with her, then so much the better.

"'Bout this?" he gestures up and in a slight circle, implying the conversation in general. "Or this?" His hand lowers and bounces tightly between them.

Tim seems to appreciate that he has other people in his life, and Sweeney's been considering introducing him to the important ones, which of course, includes her.

"This," she says, copying the first gesture. "But, actually, both, if you wanna talk about both."

Sweeney offers a small shrug. "I've been pretty straight 'bout things. We both seem ta fancy the blunt o'er dancin' 'round. Can't rem'mber if we've discussed these specifics, but somethin' like it. If it comes 'round again, I ain't lookin' ta hold back 'bout it." It one of the reasons he'd said yes when Tim made the offer.

"If yer comfortable, I'll mention ya as a good person ta talk to." There's a moment before he makes an addition. "He might be weird when he sees ya. He made me murder ya with a spear in his hell, so..." Another shrug caps the thought.

"You better warn him that I don't like cops much," she says. But that said--

"If he cares about hearing what I have to say, then good. But even if he doesn't, I'd talk to him as much as you wanted if it was important to you."

She pauses, then adds--

"With a spear? Really?"

He glances down at her with a raised brow and the faintest of smiles. Sweeney's voice drops soft.

"B'fore I was who I am, I am called Lámfada, the Long Hand fer my skill with one." All of his incarnations are in the present tense. He sighs, his expression darkening.

"How I died," he whispers, his eyes releasing hers to look forward again. "That an' my Bad Fuckin' Luck."

"And he killed me how you got killed, and made you see that all over again."

She bites down on her bottom lip, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Jesus."

There's a moment of reflection before he answers her.

"Not sure it were him choosin' the spear, though maybe." Sweeney isn't sure how much Tim had actively chosen about the place.

"Just know I had ta kill the folk I care fer the most." He peeks back at her. "An' that includes you, Tiff." And I had to enjoy it.

"Hey."

She reaches out a hand to him, and if he lets her, she'll wrap an arm around him as well as she can.

"You didn't get made to do it to the real me. And you know what? Even if you had, I'd still be here with you right now."

When he senses her intent, Sweeney lifts his arm up and over her, encouraging her embrace with a tug of his own around her shoulders. He turns his head and presses his lips against her hair. She smells of warmth, the sunrise on the grass after a gentle rain.

"Glutton fer punishment," he points out with a smile and a touch of a chuckle.

"Nah, you're just worth it," she counters, giving him a squeeze. "And anyway, I know you wouldn't want to when you're your normal self."

"Mostly certainly wouldn't," he assures her in agreement.

"Much prefer ya that have all yer insides on the inside." Sweeney tips his head, as if considering.

"'sides, better it be me gettin' run through. Ya can always patch me up."

"You getting run through isn't better," she says, elbowing him. "Shit happens sometimes, but it ain't a 'better you than me' thing, okay?"

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