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Sweeney's already producing his bottle when the glass is provided, and he sloshes the whiskey in without paying its fingers any mind. He watches Dorian, still hung up on the weird perspective of the situation.

"Hope yer not lookin' ta me ta help ya keep ya in line," he warns as he lifts his own glass in answer.

"To full bottles, full purses, an' full beds. May those fuckin' cunts keep to their corners." He takes a swig. "At least fer tonight."

"The only thing I require of you is making sure I don't hit my head on something when I inevitably pass out drunk," Dorian grins. "It wouldn't take, of course. But blood is always more aggravating to clean out the next day."

He takes another large drink of the wine: Dorian's getting lit tonight.

"Get pissed 'bout yer shirts, can't imagine how ya feel 'bout the linens an' carpet." It's the problem with nice things. At least he can tuck his away where they aren't in the path of Drunk Him. And wear cheap clothes in a place with cheap carpet.

Sweeney gestures with his glass towards the nearest available seating option in unspoken proposal.

"Normally I hire a cleaning company," Dorian admits, with a little shrug. "Pay them enough and they won't ask questions. The problem, of course, is that cleaning companies don't exist on an odd prison space boat."

There are a few barstools on the other side of the bar area: Dorian sits down on one of those.

Sweeney is all too happy to sit on stools; they accommodate the length of his legs far better than most chairs.

"That's the rub," he laments idly. "Gotta slum it with the rest of us." Like this apartment in any way compares to his rundown motel room.

"Ya know, Adm'ral might fix ya up, if ya made a request."

"I'll pass," Dorian shrugs. "I bother the man for far too many petty things. Might as well let this one be and wait until I'm asking for the next round of nonsense to add in a request for a Rug Doctor."

He takes another drink of his wine, giving Sweeney a little shrug as he does so.

"Besides, I'm sure there's something about hard work building character that I can use to justify this inconvenience."

His laugh escapes as a brief snort.

"You an' hard work." Sweeney tips his glass to Dorian before taking a swig. "Trixie's rubbin' off on ya."

If there's anyone that knows about hard work, it's someone that's crawled their way up through the ranks of her profession.

"This place is literally turning me into a different man," Dorian sighs. "You know, the last time I took a job it was because I was bored? Because I had never been a banker before and thought it might be fun. You can tell the amount of effort I put into that with that sort of statement."

Muted surprise lifts Sweeney's brow, and he stares briefly before bringing the drink back to his lips. The profession seems a little too off for Dorian, but fuck if he knows the man much beyond the superficial. Isn't like he has a ton of experience really getting to know people, his life being so transactional. So 'more than normal' had been different enough in his book.

"How many fuckers lost their money?" he pokes good-naturedly.

"Far too many," Dorian laughs. "I was the social butterfly of the office," he teases. "Not the top seller."

"How long'd ya stay?"

He can't imagine it was any significant amount of time, but Dorian's apparently got surprises on the menu, so who the fuck knows.

"A few years? Three or so. It might have been more but things got...bad."

And because he knows Sweeney might ask, Dorian continues with, "I was the local white collar drug dealer at the time. I sold a batch of cocaine that wasn't good. People died. I had a terrible trip. I needed something different."

Ah.

Realization flows over his expression, and he gives a small nod. Previous pieces fall into place.

"No coke."

Still, three years is more time than he would have expected, even for a man of 150. Sweeney takes a sip and tilts his head in idle question.

"Ya e'er found a profession ya actually fancied? Somethin' that weren't just 'cause ya were bored."

Dorian nods. He honestly didn't expect Sweeney to remember that. He's a bit charmed he has.

"Haven't touched the stuff since," he admits, with a little nod. "As for your other question, not yet. The thing I liked the most was when I was a...for lack of a better term, private paranormal investigator for a few weeks. But that went south when the head of the organization ended up trying to kill me."

He shrugs and takes another drink of his wine. "I'd be good at Scooby Doo-ing it."

"Mm." There's a moment of thought, then he tips his head to Dorian. "Always somethin' new an' unexpected." If anything, the man seems to be smothered by monotony.

Sweeney rocks his jaw before knocking back the glass with a couple large swallows. Task done, it's too easy to return to the bottle to see it refilled.

"Don't know how ya tolerate inventory." Honestly, it'd never made sense to him. Well, at least when he started actually coming in for work.

"Honestly?" There's a moment before Dorian sighs. "I tolerate it because I don't have many other options. I need to do something here otherwise I'll go stir crazy. But most of the somethings involve other people. At least with inventory, it can just be me and a few others."

He takes another large drink from his wine before he also reaches for the bottle to start refilling it.

"That being said, it's your baby. When you graduate and stay on as a warden, I'm more than happy pushing the job off to you and working in...I don't fucking know, custodial or something. I'll annoy all the little shits who don't show up."

He manages to finish the pour, but the bottle settles down slowly, and Sweeney grows still. It's easy to tell he has no idea what to do with all of that. Try as he might, he always comes back to the same thing, so he offers it quietly.

"Thanks."

Several swallows are used to wash the word out of his mouth, before his gaze slides along the floor. Attention freed again, he tips his head and glass at Dorian.

"Know it's likely full up, but they could really use ya down in Wardrobe." Though it might make selections particularly iffy, and then they're back to shirts with broken seams, just for the lols.

"Mmm, I wouldn't mind going full What Not to Wear on some people here," Dorian admits, with a little grin. He adores so many people on the Barge. They all can't dress for shit.

"Though I suspect that I'd be kicked out of the job sooner rather than later. I'm on Norton's side with regards to Team No Jeans."

As one firmly in the 'can't dress for shit' camp, Sweeney has to admit the costs of Dorian's potential move. He's quick to make one thing clear.

"They ain't jeans, they're trousers." And they are, supported by his braces. "Only denim's the jacket."

Like that's a Dorian-approved fashion choice.

"They're still hideous," Dorian says as if that's the most obvious thing ever. Jeans, trousers, denim, whatever. Those ugly little blue pants worn by mechanics and factory workers. Those are the ones Dorian hates.

"I'm going to make sure you look good, thank you very much."

Okay, that one's on him. Sweeney's eyes slip up under their lids while he clarifies.

"These." He hisses the word. "These are trousers." Not even blue ones. It's not that he hasn't or wouldn't wear jeans, it's just not the current case, and there's a flicker of indignation. Sweeney lets the thought pass and slides his gaze Dorian's direction.

"I dread what ya'd tuck me inta, given free rein."

That said, he does possess nice clothing. Breeches, vest, and frockcoat, fit for a faerie ball. Even made his own shoes. Fuck, he doesn't miss wearing those fucking hose.

Dorian frowns, making a performative little 'hmmm' as he looks over Sweeney. "Tight shirt," he says. "Oxford, button-up, not too tight that it gets a little Chippendale but tight enough that it doesn't leave much to the imagination. Trousers, freshly pressed. No tie, I don't think you'd wear one in the first place, but perhaps a vest? That's if the occasion is semi-formal, of course. If informal..."

He gives Sweeney a very dramatic once-over before deciding, "Sweaters. I think you'd look good in a more fitted type of cashmere sweater."

Sweeney doesn't actually hate the idea of a suit, in the right context. He's resigned himself to the inevitability that it will happen at some point while he's here. Or at least, he hopes he's around long enough to, if only because it means avoiding Hell or Nothingness. Nothing in his affect implies that he isn't perfectly open to the notion.

But the word 'sweaters' puts an immediate twist of disgust into his features. Cashmere isn't bad, but it hardly gives the rest a pass.

"So I can do what? Sit in the den read the newspaper with a fuckin' snifter?" If he's looking to drink brandy, it probably means it's straight from the bottle.

"So you can stay warm while showing off what's important," Dorian shrugs. "Look at you. You're built like a brick shithouse. The last thing you want to do is hide all that away. But you also don't want to look too desperate. A thin sweater, nothing bulky or nothing overly knitted, would help keep you warm while also telling the world that you could crack a walnut by squeezing it."

It's obvious he's given a lot of thought to this.

Amusement sinks his dimples while his tongue worries at his molars. Sweeney lifts his glass for a sip, his gaze lingering on Dorian.

"Ya sayin' ya wanna watch me crack nuts?" he pokes with a crinkle of question in his brow.

Things with Dorian are weird. Not bad, just weird. After Flotilla, there's a strange comfort with him. Sweeney supposes there's only so much fucking you can watch a man do before there's some level of intimacy, if only enough to know Dorian's lechery is tempered with respect. Sweeney doesn't mind the objectification; there's an understanding of where chips lie on that front.

And if there was ever cause to change his mind, he knows damn well Dorian knows how to work a prick with ample skill.

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