For a very long, very hungover moment, Mad Sweeney can't remember who it is he'd gone to bed with.

The blow to his face isn't strong enough to be Cassius -- who hasn't exactly invited him to stay the night anyway -- and the voice isn't Lucy's, so as his head rocks back from the slap -- a good one, one that sends a tingle through his body -- he scrambles to figure out who this might be. There's a good chance she's a stranger, it's not as if he's never done that before, but he hasn't done it recently. For a long time there'd been no one and in Darrow, the only person whose bed he tends to sleep in besides his own is Vasquez.

"Christ's blood," he mutters, his voice thick with sleep. His eyes open and sure enough, the face is unfamiliar, but the words sure as fuck aren't. That's Vasquez hovering over him, Vasquez with a very feminine face and a superb set of tits that Sweeney reaches for without giving it much thought. It's not the strangest thing in the world, after all, not for him. But then, he'd been a bird. Being a woman seems like a bloody gift in comparison.

"Wasn't me, lad," he answers. "I deal in luck and you fuckin' know it."