Darrow - Sweeney | Powers

[quinientos]

It's been happening for three days since New Years'. He can summon up water and fire, the earth and the air, controlling them to his whims. Only, every time that he does that, he starts to get dizzy and the headaches press in. He's been using his matches and lighter to start a fire, then controlling the flames until they start to dwindle and the blood starts to pour from his nose.

Every time he looks in the mirror, too, he sees the black eye staring back at him. He should want answers, he should want to learn how to control it, but all that he actually wants is to run away from it. It's a bad habit for him, unfortunately, it's one that he doesn't want to break. That's why he sends Sweeney a text to meet him at Vasquez's apartment and to bring as much alcohol as he can.

He probably shouldn't be drinking, not with the blood he steadily loses, but again, running from his problems somehow seems like the better idea than actually facing that he has strange magic powers suddenly and that he can't seem to control without becoming weak and sick like he only is when he's beyond drunk and sick. Grabbing yet another linen handkerchief to press to his nose, he digs out his matches to light up a new cigarette, cursing when the flame goes wildly out of control and reduces the cigarette to ashes.

"Puta madre," he hisses, and what's worse is that the sudden flare of his newfound strength only makes his head pulse worse. He makes it to unlock the door and then staggers back to collapse in one of his very comfortable chairs, grabbing his hat so he can cover his eyes, the light making it hurt.

Comments

[onlythebranch]

Shit in Darrow has been a little weird since the New Year's Eve celebration and not only because of the giant, fuzzy monstrosity that had attacked the beach in the early hours of the morning. Sweeney had been asleep for that bit, long since passed out alone in his bed, but he'd seen the aftermath and he'd heard the stories. He's not entirely sorry he missed it, it sounds like a giant clusterfuck of newly powered idiots trying to do battle with things they don't understand.

He would say they should have known better, but no one ever seems to know better.

And so, even though things are fucking weird, he still grabs a bottle of whiskey and heads over to Vasquez's apartment when he gets the text. Vasquez always wants to drink, so he's not really that surprised, and he pauses outside the apartment door, rapping with the knuckles of one hand.

[quinientos]

"It's open," he mumbles from behind the hat, lifting it just enough to make sure his words get out fine. "Don't knock so loudly," he protests, "just come in," he encourages, pinching the bridge of his nose like that will make the headache go away or the bleeding from his nose stop. It's slowed, which is good, but seeing as he can't seem to get around fire without things going wrong, he hasn't had a smoke in a very long time and he's getting pissed.

Only when he hears the footsteps does he pry the hat off his face, gesturing with his fingers. "Did you bring the alcohol?" he demands, aware that the minute he's leveraged himself out of the chair, he has to face two things. First, the dizziness that he fights through, digging his heel into the floor and swaying only a little.

Second, the fact that his fucking black pupil is going to give away that something's not right.

[onlythebranch]

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Sweeney asks, staring at Vasquez as he gets to his feet. He's coming straight in like Vasquez has asked him to and now he's able to see why he'd asked for the booze. He's a fucking disaster, swaying on his feet and blood around his nose, but it's his eye that really stands out. The damn thing is black.

It makes him think of Odin, of the one-eyed bastard himself, although Vasquez isn't a god. He doesn't feel like a god, but he doesn't feel human any longer either. Something fucking weird is going on, something Sweeney doesn't have any sort of explanation for and it's not like he knows everything, but this is still weird as shit.

"Christ, sit down."

[quinientos]

If he knew, then he would be trying to get it gone. Unfortunately, all that he knows is some woman with a knife came at him to try and get it back and Vasquez couldn't figure out a way to do it. He slumps back into his chair instantly, hating that he does it so easily, but he feels terrible.

He reaches forward for the bottle in Sweeney's hand, because this is what he actually wants. For now, he feels safe. He's not stirring the air around him, there's no fire or water, and he keeps no plants in the room. Wiping away the blood, he thinks that it's finally stopped. "Something happened on the first," he says, irritated as he unscrews the bottle to take a long sip without bothering with a glass.

"My life has been hell since," he grumbles.

[onlythebranch]

"Magic and shite jumping from one person to the next," Sweeney answers, as if it's common knowledge that such a thing has happened, but as far as he's concerned, it is. It had seemed fairly obvious to him right after he'd spoken to Diana, obvious in the way the people around them had been doing weird fucking shit like shooting flames or ice or goddamn levitating when they didn't normally do things like that.

Then, of course, he'd seen a couple of giant gold fuckers who definitely hadn't been giant or gold before.

"So what the fuck'd you get that it makes you bleed?" he asks as he passes the bottle over to Vasquez and then settles on the couch, long legs splayed in front of him. "Seems t'be a pain in the fuckin' ass, whatever it is. You think the person it's come from even wants it back?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez had gotten the picture when he'd stumbled into at least a few people he knows with powers, and ones without that suddenly had them. Friends as ghosts and losing their height is one thing. What's happening to him is a fucking mess. "Oh, I know she wants it back, she nearly stabbed me open to get it," he spits out, annoyed, drinking at least three long swallows of whiskey before he slams it onto the table.

"She says the bleeding is because I'm pushing too much, but how the fuck do I know when's enough?" he complains. Shaking his head, he figures that he ought to at least show it. He heads to the tap to turn it on, then grabs a box of matches, striking one up.

He wishes he could control it better, but the best he can do is make the flame contort into big shapes, flaming large and out of control, in the shape of a gun before he has to drag the water from the tap over to put it out before it singes the curtains. His little demonstration over, he slumps onto the couch, head pulsing worse than before. "I wish she had taken it back, even if I'd have shot her if she tried to cut it from me. My eye is gone black, I can't make it stop, and I can't go out without the dizziness or the headache or the fucking blood," he complains.

[onlythebranch]

"Did you ask her? If it's her fuckin' magic, she's probably got an idea or two of what counts as too much," he points out from where he's sitting, then shaking his head when Vasquez gets it into his head that he has to fucking demonstrate.

"Or you could stop doin' shit like that," he adds, arching an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. "I don't need to see shit and all you're doin' is making yourself feel like your head is about to explode."

It's impressive, he's not going to say it isn't, but magic is just fucking magic and as far as Mad Sweeney is concerned, it's not really worth much if it makes someone feel like shit.

[quinientos]

"She wasn't exactly very kind about it when she thinks I stole it," he grumbles, reaching for his hat again and giving Sweeney a sharp look when he keeps using his voice loudly. "It's not just when I try and show off," is what he admits quickly after, though, which is why he'd been hoping the liquor would help. "I can't light a cigarette without it flaring. When I turn on the taps, things happen."

He keeps pushing things too far and hurting himself without meaning to. "She says it's the pushing, why I'm bleeding and dizzy, why my head feels so terrible," he complains, grabbing the whiskey and hugging it to his chest as he closes his eyes for a long moment until the world goes steady again.

With a wave of his hand, he knows he's not good company and that Sweeney shouldn't have to stay and put up with him, even if he hates the idea of suffering this alone. "If you have other things to do, you can go," he offers. "If not, I wouldn't mind someone to get me drunk, but mainly to make sure I don't do anything stupid like die from fucking magic."

[onlythebranch]

"Bottled water," Mad Sweeney suggests, then smirks a little. "And I'm sure you've gone longer than a few days without a shower. I'll light your fuckin' cigarettes for you in another room. There's ways around this shit, lad, which is why you called someone who actually knows a fuckin' thing or two about magic, isn't it?"

He's grinning like an asshole, knowing full well that's not why he was called. Vasquez called him to bring the alcohol, which is what Sweeney is best at. That and starting fights.

"Shut the fuck up and drink," he says. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be."

[quinientos]

Usually, that smile would do all sorts of things to get him going, but he feels so terrible right now that he hates that all he can do is slouch a little more into the chair. "I'll drink, but that lighting the cigarette for me sounds very good," he admits, yearning for a smoke just about as much as anything. He wipes at the remaining droplets of blood with his thumb to clear them up, reaching for the whiskey.

He does take care to reach over and drag the little bowl over, tipping enough out to fill it. It's the offering that he won't touch, drinking a double shot of the bottle. "I should have this as your reference. Sweeney, good with liquor, magic, and satisfaction," he quips with a smirk.

Then, after a very long moment (and another drink), he grudgingly says, "Thank you," evenly. For him, actually offering gratitude like this, it's a big sign.

[onlythebranch]

"Want me t'bathe you, too?" Mad Sweeney asks with a smirk, but he leverages himself off the couch, then gestures for Vasquez to give him his cigarettes. Sweeney has his own, could just give him one of those, but he figures Vasquez might want something he's used to, especially in a moment like this. Might be comforting or something along those lines and a cigarette is probably a hell of a lot more comforting than Sweeney is really capable of.

Comfort isn't exactly one of the things he's good at.

"C'mon, give 'em here," he says. "I'll get you set up."

[quinientos]

"Don't offer something that gets your hands on me, because I might say yes," Vasquez retorts, but digs out his cigarettes and the box of matches, eyeing them with the wariness he's developed ever since he couldn't light one without a fireworks show. That's what he gets for having just a little too much fun with fires and blowing shit up, he thinks.

He reaches for the whiskey and lets it absently rest in the crook of his elbow once he's had another long swig of it, trying not to get too desperately eager for that cigarette. Now that Sweeney talks about bathing, too, maybe he's picturing those hands and it's enough that he can close his eyes and not fuck any shit up in his house because he can't stop his brain from thinking about doing such incredible things.

"You're still normal?" he calls out to him, his eyes shut to stop the light of everything from making his headache worse. "Gold coins coming out of your ass and all?"

[onlythebranch]

Mad Sweeney takes the matches, not because he needs them -- he has his lighter, that's all he needs -- but because he thinks it's probably better that Vasquez doesn't have them. At least until his nose stops bleeding every damn time he strikes one of them.

"Normal as I've ever been," Sweeney answers as he leaves the room. Once he's away from Vasquez, he turns a corner and sticks one of the man's cigarettes into the corner of his mouth. He pockets the matches, then uses his lighter on the cigarette, taking a drag of it himself before he returns to the living room. As he enters the room, he holds the cigarette toward Vasquez, the tip smoldering gently.

"You've been around my ass, have I ever shot a coin at you outta there?" he asks.

[quinientos]

Vasquez peeks one eye open (the not-black one, because he doesn't want to open that one for the pain it gets him with the light) and reaches out for the cigarette, practically melting a little into the couch with joyful relief at getting the tobacco in his system. "I don't know, maybe it's a party trick I dreamt," he teases, though it does make for a very interesting picture in his head.

He scowls, though, to think that he's this unlucky to get some witch's powers that he doesn't know how to control. If he could, then it would be very different. Vasquez can only imagine the incredible things that he could do with them. "Did you ever have times when you couldn't control it?" he asks, giving him a look that's trying hard not to be worried, but the furrow of his brow gives him away.

He doesn't know how bad this could get, but it also feels frustrating and useless that he can't even do something good with it.

[onlythebranch]

"You dream about me shootin' coins out of my ass?" Sweeney asks with a smirk, but he's watching Vasquez, watching the way he only opens one eye. It's clearly hurting him, but there's not a hell of a lot he can do about it besides what he's already done.

The question about his magic, though, he considers. It's been such a long time now, longer than he cares to remember, and sometimes he doesn't really believe there's a time when he didn't have magic, although he knows it existed. A long time ago he was only a man, only a king, a warrior, a man who wore his armour and went into battle.

"I don't remember," he says honestly. "Maybe. When it all first began. It's been a long fuckin' time, though."

[quinientos]

"Mostly just about your ass in other ways, but sometimes there are coins," he quips, feeling like he's allowed to be a little clever when he's feeling so terrible. So instead of thinking about that, he focuses on the small pleasure of having a cigarette that doesn't burst into flames, the warmth of a body next to his, and the way the whiskey is burning through him, pooling in his stomach.

He takes another long drink of it before handing it back to Sweeney so he can have a turn, reclining his head back to the couch as he absently runs his fingers repeatedly through his hair. "Do you remember what you did to make it better?" he asks, knowing it's a long shot, but one he needs to take.

[onlythebranch]

Sweeney takes the bottle and tilts it back, the whiskey burning pleasantly down his throat and settling warm and low in his stomach as he shrugs. It's not the same, what he can do and what Vasquez can do, it's just not and any comparison he tries to make will be pointless.

Besides which, he's the last person anyone would want to be their teacher. He's been around too long to really know what he's doing or how to communicate it to someone else properly, even if it were the same thing.

"Not really, lad," he admits, passing the bottle back to Vasquez. "And even if I did, it's not the same. Or maybe it is, what the fuck do I know? But mine's about knowing, about... feelin' what's there and taking my part of it."

[quinientos]

Vasquez doesn't think that his is about the feeling, because it's not that he feels anything. It's that he keeps thinking about it. "I think what if," he admits, which is when he starts getting into trouble. "I imagine it and think about the what if of it, then it happens. Only, then it keeps happening because I can't scale it back," he says, kicking himself for it and clearly blaming his own overactive imagination for the issues.

"If I could understand this, I could have control of elements," he complains, shaking his head as he takes the bottle. "Instead, it leaves me bleeding and with a headache like I'm hungover and a aojo," he says, gesturing to his face. "Evil eye."

[onlythebranch]

"Any consolation, the eye makes you look like a fuckin' god," Mad Sweeney says. It's not a compliment, because the god he looks like is one of Sweeney's least favourites, but he doesn't have to say that bit. If Vasquez thinks he looks like a god instead of thinking he's got an evil fucking eye, maybe he'll be able to relax a little.

And maybe that's what he needs to learn how to deal with this.

"Odin's only got one eye," he says. "The old bastard lost it in a fuckin' battle or... Christ only knows, I don't listen to him when he talks most of the time. The missing eye, though, it's not really gone. He's a weird fucker, you'd have to see him to understand."

[quinientos]

Vasquez gives Sweeney an uncomfortable look, mainly because the little faith he does hold doesn't exactly lead him to want to be any kind of god and he's probably sulking a little bit more than he should. He wants to be able to control fire and the earth and the air above him, not have a god eye.

Opening his eyes to give Sweeney a disbelieving look, thinking that he should just get a patch if this keeps up. "So if he doesn't have his eye and it's missing, then where does it go?" he asks warily. "Does he keep it in his pants so the man can have three balls?" he deadpans, starting to think that maybe the whiskey is starting to kick in.

Good, he thinks emphatically. Maybe he should even drink a little more once he's done smoking, which he turns to with aplomb. "Is there any of the gods you did like?" he asks curiously. "Ones you did listen to?"

[onlythebranch]

"You're fuckin' hilarious," Mad Sweeney says dryly, rolling his eyes before he considers the question. It's not that he hates the gods, not all of them, it's just that they're so bloody stupid most of the time. Stupid and cruel and childish. Media and Technical Boy and every single one of those other fuckers are pricks, but at least they're honest about what they want. They make people fat and complacent and boring, but no one ever walks away from binge watching fucking Golden Girls complaining they didn't get exactly what they were expecting.

The gods lied. They demanded sacrifice in exchange for brutality and meddling and shit.

"Ostara," he says finally. "The goddess of renewal and rebirth. I like her, I listened to her on the rare times she decided I might be worth seeing. I like Anubis. Thoth is sort of a self important pain in the ass, but Anubis is... quiet."

[quinientos]

"I know I am," he agrees cheerfully, because he gets crude and awful with jokes when he gets drunk, but he's not even close to that point yet. He's just picking at easy targets as he listens to the curl of Sweeney's voice around those words, wondering if he's said out loud how much he likes his accent. He could listen to him talk in his ear for hours, honestly, and never tire of it.

"I could use a goddess of rebirth back home," he admits. "To save me from my shitty life," he adds with a snort, setting the bottle of whiskey on the table behind him as he crawls into a lazy straddle of Sweeney's hips so he can wrap his arms around his neck, staring at him dubiously from above. "Are you telling me quiet is what you like? Or just with gods?"

[onlythebranch]

"Quiet's what I like some of the time," Mad Sweeney answers. "Better than the bullshit that's spewed out by mortals and gods alike most of the time."

That's not to say he doesn't spew his own share of bullshit, but he's a little bit of both. A little bit god and a little bit human. With that sort of combination, he figures it can't really be helped. Everyone's prone to bullshit, it's just that some are more prone to it than others.

"I think it'd be hard not to like Anubis. Or Bast." He grins then, wide, like the utter ass he is. "She spends most of her time as a cat, but she's quite the fuckin' woman."

[quinientos]

"Next time you want me this quiet, just use a gag," is his blithe response, not really spending much time thinking about what he's saying when he's drunk, which probably makes him more than a little of a bullshitter mortal right now, but he's not Goodnight and he's definitely not Faraday, so there's worlds to go before it gets really bad.

Absently, his mind wander and he thinks about the air around them, as he slides his fingers through Sweeney's hair. With that thought comes a little tendrilled gust of wind, curling like a miniature tempest and sliding over Sweeney's neck and through the hair, making it catch a little in the breeze.

"I don't know if this means you like to fuck cats or just cat-women," he says, with a narrow look of suspicion. "Is it an Irish thing?"

[onlythebranch]

There's more than a lick of control there, in the breeze that ruffles his hair along with Vasquez's fingers, but Mad Sweeney doesn't comment on it, because the second he does is the second he figures Vasquez will let his head get back into it. That's the second he'll let it overwhelm him again. Best way is to not think about it, it seems, so Sweeney won't say a word. Not at first. He just shivers slightly at the feel and casts his mind elsewhere.

"Did your Irish friend fuck cats, then?" he asks with a smirk, then rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "She wasn't a cat when I fucked her."

It had only been the one time, decades and decades ago, but he's pretty sure it's why Ibis and Jacquel don't like him. Bast had been content about something that night, practically liquid in his arms, feline in every possible way without actually having been a cat. He has fond memories of that night.