Darrow - Sweeney @ Bar

[quinientos]

Texts and phones, along with the technology, are something that Vasquez still isn't entirely sure about but he still knows enough how to give his number, and to receive things on it. When he gets the message from Sweeney, deliberately saying 'cowboy', he swears under his breath in Spanish, but there's definitely delight in it. It's easy enough to arrange the drink and even better that he's convinced Goodnight to take him shopping so he can look more modern.

The shirt being ripped is not something he wanted to go with. He's still getting used to things like jeans and sweaters, but they still allow him to clip his gun belt and lasso to the jeans, still let him wear his boots and spurs, and he's still got his hat and smokes, as well as a flask. With that set, he heads to the bar where he first took Sweeney after the shot. It's been enough time that he thinks that maybe he's healed enough, but maybe not enough that he's healed completely.

Even Vasquez still feels his gunshot wound aching sometimes, but pain isn't always a bad thing after all, isn't that what he'd said? Heading into the bar, he sets his hat in the corner and pre-emptively orders them two bottles of whiskey and tequila, expecting that they will very much need it.

Comments

[onlythebranch]

At this point, Mad Sweeney is more or less healed.

The fact that he'd had the wound taken care of so quickly after receiving it had helped, but more than that, he heals better and faster than the average man. Maybe he's not quite a god, not in the sense that the fucker Wednesday is, but being what he is has got some perks, even if his luck is complete shit at the moment. So he's healed, he'd made sure of it before sending the text to Vasquez, figuring if there's really a chance of him getting that roll in the hay he'd joked about, he'll have to be more or less in one piece in order for Vasquez to consider it.

He's not the dressing up sort and this isn't a fucking date -- he can't remember the last time he did something like that -- but he makes sure his clothes are clean, free of blood and dirt, snaps himself into his suspenders before he pulls a blue button down over it, then heads for the bar.

"Evening, cowboy," he says with a grin when he gets there and finds Vasquez already in a booth. He can't fucking help himself, he kind of wants to see the man get riled up, just a little.

[quinientos]

Vasquez had been in the middle of lighting up one of his cigarillos when he sees the shadow looming over the booth, still getting used to staring up so much. He's usually the tallest man around by miles, so to have someone a half foot taller than him is strange in some very new ways. Not all of them bad, of course, but still strange.

He can't help the scowl on his face when he gets called Cowboy, but he steels his gaze and stares back up. "Tramposo," he replies evenly in turn, gesturing for the free space in the booth as he hooks the ashtray with his pinky to drag it over, one knee folded under his leg as he doesn't take his eyes off Sweeney, like he's wondering how stupid he is to be wanting something like this.

No one ever said Vasquez was smart, though.

"I bought first round," he says, like two bottles is somehow a first round and not a surefire way of fucking them both up. "You can get the next."

[onlythebranch]

Sweeney can drink most people under the table, but he still lifts an eyebrow at the idea of two bottles being their first round, sinking into the other side of the booth and stretching his long legs out under the table. It's possible he's doing that on purpose, taking up space just to see how much Vasquez might be taking up in return.

"I speak a lot of fuckin' languages, but Spanish isn't one of them," he says as he reaches for his own cigarettes, plucking the silver case out of his pocket and shaking out one of the smokes Liesel had rolled for him. He pushes it between his lips and looks at Vasquez with a faintly amused, steady gaze. "What the fuck'd you just call me?"

It's probably an insult and if it is, so much the better. Unless they come from the gods, Sweeney tends to drink down insults as easily as he takes punches and there are a few that will raise his hackles, but this isn't a true battle. There's fun to be had in the back and forth.

[quinientos]

Vasquez stretches out his legs and kicks lightly at Sweeney's leg when he comes into contact, not to shove him away, but mostly to tell him that he intends to put his leg there, move or accept the contact. Whatever decision he makes, Vasquez will go with that. "You want to learn so badly, learn Spanish," is his uncaring response to what he's calling him, pushing his box of matches over the table in case Sweeney wants to share in any of them.

Reclining back, he fidgets with the fabric of the sweater on his shoulders, feeling it's heavier than what he's used to. He ends up rolling the sleeves like he would normally, the shirt beneath showing wrinkled cuffs.

Pouring the drinks, Vasquez shifts his cigarillo to the side so the ash doesn't fall in the drinks, handing Sweeney a choice between the whiskey and tequila, though he keeps the latter bottle for himself, the small size of it making it familiar and also that he can pull from it on his own. "How's your arm?" he asks, gesturing to it even as he trades the smoke for a drink, letting the cigarette dangle from his fingers as he stretches his leg out, pushing his boot against Sweeney's foot.

[onlythebranch]

Their legs connect, but Sweeney makes no movement to shift away, instead letting his knee fall heavily against the inside of Vasquez's. If that's where he wants his leg, that's fine by Mad Sweeney, it's not like he's about to push away the bit of contact. It's not like he's about to start talking about wanting it either, though, so he only grins in response to the comment and reaches for the matches, striking out and then holding it to his cigarette. A few inhales later and he's letting smoke stream out his nose with a relaxed sort of sigh.

Vasquez isn't comfortable in the sweater, that much is obvious. Sweeney grins around his cigarette, figuring such an abrupt shift has to be fucked up. At least his time travel was gradual and maybe living through shifting decades and centuries hadn't been easy, but he's not the one fidgeting with his clothes.

"Arm's fine," he says as he unscrews the lid of the whiskey bottle, then pours several fingers worth into a glass. "I heal quick. Luck o' the Irish, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it." Or a side effect of being made up of faith and belief more than anything else. He's flesh and blood, but he's more than that, too.

[quinientos]

Vasquez can't help his snort, because it's not the first time he's heard someone comment about luck of the Irish, though the last time he heard that, the person ended up dead, so it's not like Faraday had wound up that lucky after all. He tips the bottle of tequila back to take a long sip, tipping his head upwards to smoke so he can exhale towards the ceiling and not in Sweeney's face (not that the man might mind, but he's got his own cigarette to smoke today).

Reaching forward, he tucks the matches into his back pocket, not sure that he should be fine. "You're not entirely normal, are you?" He's been thinking about it, maybe because of the height, the hair, the coins, or just the healing, but there's something very strange about him. "Should I worry for my soul?" he deadpans.

[onlythebranch]

"I ain't fuckin' normal, that's for damn sure, but I don't give a piss about your soul," Mad Sweeney answers before he takes another drag off his cigarette and blows the smoke out the side of his mouth, away from the two of them. "You leave that shit to your Mexican Jesus or whatever the fuck it is you believe or don't believe. If it's him, though, congratulations, he's the least dim of the lot."

All that walking on water American Jesus does mostly just annoys the shit out of Sweeney and mostly only because he can't do it himself. His own trick is more useful, because gold always finds a home, but walking on water and turning it into wine is pretty fucking cool, especially the wine bit. He could get on board with that.

"I'm a leprechaun," he says. At this point he doesn't give a damn who knows or who believes him. He has Greta and Hild leaving offerings for him, little bits that sustain him in a way he hasn't known in decades and that's enough for now. Belief comes in waves, he's learning that, and he's going to take what he's offered while it's there for him. "You know that shit or had the Irish not brought their beliefs over to the Americas yet?"

[quinientos]

Exhaling in disbelief, Vasquez stares at him for a long moment then decides that yes, this man genuinely thinks that he's a leprechaun. He's heard the word before, mainly in a lot of swearing and profanity about 'the leprechaun that stole my horse off of me', but Faraday's horse had been a demon to anyone but Faraday (not that he seemed to be mind being led away by Vasquez in the end), so who would want that thing? "Si, yes, they talk about them, but I've never met one," he says, appraising him with a very long, very slow raking gaze over his body. "Handsomest leprechaun I've ever seen," he says bluntly.

Settling his cigarillo on the table for the tequila, he pours himself two fingers and relaxes back in the booth, his foot still tangled near Sweeney's, an interested look remaining on his face. "I believe in a God above, in Jesus," he admits, because he's prayed from time to time. "Don't know that I've ever deserved to have any faith in me, because I don't give much faith back. I knew a very religious man, once. Killed three hundred people, then he goes home, he prays," he says, of Jack Horne.

"Leprechaun, that's why you heal? The coins?" he says, gesturing to him with a flick of his fingers.

[onlythebranch]

"You seen many?" Sweeney asks in return, but he's grinning a little at the compliment and he brings his glass to his lips to hide it, even if it's pointless to even try. At least Vasquez knows what a leprechaun is, at least he's not making Mad Sweeney try to explain it in great detail, because he starts talking about fae and the Fair Folk and people start looking at him like he's crazy.

It's funny how the word leprechaun doesn't quite do it, doesn't quite make people think he's off his fucking rocker, but referring to himself as a bloody fairy does.

"Any faith is enough for them," he says, flapping a hand dismissively, because it's true. All those gods, all they need is a little bit of faith and they drink it down like wine. "But yeah, that's why my arm's fine, it's why I can do the things I can do with the gold. Got a whole fuckin' hoard of that shit just waitin' there at my fingertips."

[quinientos]

"I've never seen one," Vasquez replies bluntly, as honest as he can be, "I've heard people talk about it, heard the word," he admits, gesturing to him with an interested look in his eyes. "Never thought that it would look like you. I thought maybe they would have ugly, big noses, rough faces, you're much handsomer than I would think of a leprechaun." The interest is blatant, put out for Sweeney to know that Vasquez is very, very interested.

He swigs back the tequila, licking it off his lower lip when the droplets linger there. "Should I be having faith in you? What would that do?" he asks, picking up the cigarillo again to purse his lips around it, eyes alight with interest. "If I believed in you, do you get more gold? Better healing?"

[onlythebranch]

Sweeney grins again, wider this time, and knocks his knee against Vasquez's under the table. For a man who's prone to violence and aggression, it's not as hard as he might otherwise make it, just a reminder that he's there. That they're close. If he slouches much further or pushes his legs much closer, they'll practically be tangled together and it could be brushed off as both of them simply being tall, but that's not the reason and he figures they both know it, too.

"It's more than just belief with me and my kind," he answers, then pours himself another drink. Although he's far from drunk, the alcohol warms him through, sets his nerves buzzing pleasantly and relaxes him. Were he wanting of a fight tonight, he'd pace himself, but he doesn't think that's what he's looking for.

Besides, if it comes to that, he fights just as well while drunk. Maybe better.

"It's an offering," he says. "Bread, usually. Beer. And in exchange you get luck. Lots of it. Though if you're willing t'start, you best be willing t'keep it goin', too, because we're a fickle folk, leprechauns are, and if the offerings stop, the luck tends t'go bad."

[quinientos]

Vasquez is finding his breathing a little more difficult because of his own needs, flooding him, and he sternly tells his body not to jump ahead when he's enjoying his drink very much. Speaking of that, he glances down to the bottles on the table, his brow raised up as he gives a soft huff of laughter. "Looks like you should have told me that before," is what he says, because he's already started to offer out beer and liquor. "Means I'm going to have to keep giving it to you, yes? How often are these offerings?"

"Do I always have to take you out?" Is sex an offering? he thinks, but doesn't ask, but the curiosity floods him and he's wanting to know more and more. Vasquez could use more luck, but he knows that he's got plenty of luck as it is. He's lived, he's been taken somewhere that doesn't have a bounty on his head, but why not ask for more?

Especially if it's going to mean more time with someone so interesting.

[onlythebranch]

"Not sure this counts, lad, since you did it without belief in the first place," Sweeney answers with a grin, but he sees no harm in sending a little bit of his limited good luck toward Vasquez. Maybe if he notices a change for the better Sweeney will find himself being plied with alcohol more often and while the gold means he has more than enough to pay for himself, there's always something better about being bought a drink by someone he'd very much like to drag into his bed sooner or later. (Or, hell, into the bar bathroom for all he cares.)

"But there are no hard and fast rules," he admits. "The Fair Folk... I used the word fickle and it's the best one there is. It's just how we are, the way we were made, shifting like the wind."

There have been plenty over the years who have found that romantic. Sweeney himself thinks it's just that none of the Fair Folk have been born of good people, that they were all utter shit to start and they've been described that way now just as a means to explain their whims, but whatever the case, it's the truth. His opinion of a person can turn on a dime, not something he's proud of, but the truth all the same.

"Usually people ask for somethin' too," he adds and he slides forward a little, his knee rubbing against the inside of Vasquez's. "Usually help of the romantic sort. I've made a good bloody life out of givin' people luck with their men and women alike."

[quinientos]

"Don't remember the last time I was ever romantic with a person," he snorts with mild derision, not because he hates the concept of romance, but because there's some kind of joke in there about Vasquez's role in romance that's funny, given that the closest he's been recently has been with other gunslingers, though none of them sparked his interest like now.

(Lie, he's lying, but it's easier than facing the sad truth).

This is probably a bad, bad, bad idea, but he's never paid attention to his brain when the rest of him is involved. "I think maybe I could stand to believe in something," he says, not taking his eyes off Sweeney the whole time he speaks, pressing his knee just as hard to Sweeney's. "You never take some of that luck for yourself? Give yourself a spark to work with?"

[onlythebranch]

At this point his cigarette is more or less spent and Sweeney taps it against the ashtray before he takes one final drag from the end and then stubs it out absently. Leveling his gaze on Vasquez, he pours himself another drink with the practiced hand of someone used to drinking while focusing on something else, something far more interesting, then downs half the glass in a single swallow. He's still not drunk, but he's getting there and the whiskey warms the pit of his stomach.

It's not the only thing warming him, though, and as he sets his glass down on the table again, he licks his lower lip thoughtfully, still watching Vasquez steadily. In this, at least, he's pleased to find he doesn't seem to need his bloody coin to get things working to his advantage.

"I usually don't need it," he answers. "I'm made of luck, but I had a coin. Not like the others. It was mine, my lucky coin, and some bastard rigged a situation so that I'd give it away." Because he's convinced it's Wednesday's fault. He would never have done it, no matter how drunk he was. "And now it resides in the chest cavity of a dead woman. One who's not fuckin' here, no less, so even once she rots away, I'm not gettin' my bloody coin back."

[quinientos]

"And is that coin the only way you can be lucky? Because," he says, shifting in the booth enough that he's got his hip nearly pressed to Sweeney's, the warmth of his body pressed up against him, "because I think there are ways for you to be lucky that don't involve any gold at all," he says, but even as he says that, he digs into his pocket to unearth his own earned gold, spinning it on the table before trapping it under his palm.

"You're a very kind leprechaun, then, being so generous," he appraises, with a long look over Mad Sweeney, all the way from the line of his torso up. "Not everyone would give this luck. Some might hoard it, keep it for themselves."

Licking his lips, he caps the tequila to set it aside, intending to enjoy it later. "Now," he says, half an order, half an invitation, "Where's that drink you promised to buy me?"

[onlythebranch]

At this point Sweeney is ready to say fuck it to the coin and drag Vasquez into his lap right here, but instead he just grins and lifts his fingers to signal the waiter he needs to place an order. He doesn't look away from Vasquez for a long moment, only finally shifting in the booth to stretch his long arms out along the back, finally turning away as he notices a waiter coming in their direction.

"There are other ways for me to get lucky," he says, choosing the words carefully and still wearing that same grin. He's never needed to hoard it and he doesn't think doing so would actually help him in any way now that he's out of his own. That's just not how it works and he doesn't know who made the rules, but he feels compelled to follow them, to do what he's supposed to do.

"Do I get to choose your drink?" he asks, pressing his thigh against Vasquez's now, making no effort to hide what he's doing. "Or are you just gonna order the most expensive thing on the damn menu?"

[quinientos]

"You're buying it for me, you get to choose," is Vasquez's swift, easy reply as he lets himself shiver for the contact, running his fingers through his hair to slick it back and make it try and behave the way it hasn't been, all night, without the hat. He's grinning back at Mad Sweeney for his comment about getting lucky, knowing that if he told anyone about this, he'd probably earn a disapproving look or two.

That just makes him want to do it more, of course. "Pick me a drink, tramposo," Vasquez murmurs, his voice low and throaty with promise. "I think you'll like what happens when I finish it."

[onlythebranch]

"Southern Comfort and coke," he says when the waiter arrives. "Two."

It's his favourite drink, after all, and for as much as he gets shit for it, he sort of figures Vasquez might not even know what it is. At this point, he doesn't have the slightest fucking clue what year the man is from, what he might know and what he might not and if he doesn't know the drink, that works in Sweeney's favour. At least until he explains that it's not even real fucking whiskey. If he chooses to.

All that matters to Mad Sweeney is that it gets him drunk and he likes how it tastes.

The voice next to him, though, is more than enough to draw his attention away from the idea of their drinks and he shifts again in the booth, trying not to let any of that tone or promise go straight to his dick. At some point he still has to get up and walk out of here and while Sweeney doesn't much care if everyone sees he's hard as a fucking rock, he's lived long enough to know men from different times hold onto certain ideas of how things go. At this point, Vasquez doesn't seem to give a shit who sees them together, but that might change if they stand up and everyone can see just what their plans are.

"You think so?" he asks instead, his voice teasing. "What makes you say that?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez pulls a confused face, because he's never heard of either of those things, but new alcohols is something that he's getting used to, seeing as the future has shown him a delightful new line of opportunities of what to drink. "You're going to have to explain what that is, especially if I end up liking it," he says, delighted at the idea of getting to try new things like this.

He inhales deeply, his hooded eyes on Sweeney as he slides a hand out on the booth between them, fingers crawling and creeping as they lightly stroke over Sweeney's knee, giving a considerate hum before he takes his hand away, tapping in a rhythm. "Maybe because the drink is what I've been waiting for. It's been a very long time, hombre," he admits freely. "And none of the ranch hands I have been with could hold candles to you."

[onlythebranch]

It's barely a touch at all and lasting only a few moments, but the fingers on his knee make Sweeney's blood pump harder, his legs falling open just the slightest bit more without his permission, an unconscious reaction to the touch. There's no doubt in his mind he wants more of that, wants to feel what those fingers will feel like on bare skin, and Sweeney's always had a healthy sexual appetite, but so often in recent decades it's been tangled up in violence and aggression.

There have been exceptions, but he's usually kept his distance from them, having learned a long time ago that the ones he can't control in some manner, the ones he can't keep at a distance are the ones who end up being trouble.

"Christ, lad, but you're good with flattery," he answers and he tips his head to the side as he speaks, leaning his chin against his shoulder so he can look at Vasquez dead on. Their drinks are set down in front of them and he reaches for one, sliding it across the table toward Vasquez. "Ranch hands, huh? Illicit tumbles in the barn?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez is languidly leaning against the booth now, absently picking up his cigarette to inhale it every few moments, the oral fixation part of it, but also the addiction is also a very important and key reason why he smokes so much. He can't help the smirk on his face when he's accused of being good at flattery, mainly because he does love to do that, loves to rile and be riled, especially when he can enjoy himself so much.

"Better than being shot for having your hands on their daughters," he confirms, through smoke and scoffs. "You find men like me out there, you can easily find someone who's lonely, who needs some touch." Then you find one that wants too much of you and you shoot him dead because he presumes.

Look where that's brought him now.

"Haven't had that in probably a year," he says bluntly. "Last guero I thought could be something," he goes on, shaking his head rapidly, "it didn't end well."

[onlythebranch]

"I've got you beat for longest dry spell," Sweeney says, but beneath his amusement is something hungry, something that very much enjoys the thought of being with someone who hasn't been touched in that long. It's happened to him before, though not in decades, that he's been the first person to take someone to bed in a long time and it's always a little more desperate, a little hungrier and he hasn't had anything like that in a long time.

"But that happens when you've lived as long as I have," he continues, pushing Vasquez's drink into his hand. "Give it a taste, see if you like it."

Sweeney likes it very much, more than nearly anything else, but now he's allowing himself to think of what it might taste like off Vasquez's lips, off his tongue, and he has to shift in the booth again.

[quinientos]

"But you, you're a leprechaun," Vasquez points out, chuckling to the point that his shoulders shake, even as he curses under his breath that his life has taken a turn for the wonderfully ridiculous, at this point. He leans forward across the table to pick up the glass of Southern Comfort and Coke, letting his cigarette go aside for a moment again, licking his lips before he even dares to drink it.

Sipping it not a thing that happens with him. It's long drinks back or nothing at all, but the sweetness of something in it makes his skin prickle and the alcohol burns when it hits his stomach. Raising his brows in surprise, he stares into the glass and lets out another, more amazed sound.

"It's sweet. I like it," he praises, shaking his head as he knocks back the rest, a warm reassurance after the tequila and a guarantee that he'll be very tipsy once he lets that hit his system. "I think maybe, I like it enough that I will start leaving you beer."

[onlythebranch]

As he downs the drink, Mad Sweeney watches, making no effort to cover the way he's looking, watching Vasquez's throat as he tips his head back and swallows. For a moment it doesn't even matter whether or not he likes the drink, all Sweeney wants to do is look as his throat tightens and then relaxes, the way his muscles disappear into the collar of his shirt.

Given the way he's thinking these past ten minutes or so, it'd be goddamn easy to think he's the one who hasn't gotten laid in more than a year.

"It's whiskey flavoured liquor," he says, oddly pleased that Vasquez likes it instead of telling him to fuck off, that it's a bullshit fucking drink. It's just a drink, but it's his. "And coke, which is the sort of sugary shit that'll rot your fuckin' teeth if you're not careful, but fuck me if it doesn't taste good."