brushoff | tlv ic contact

"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.

Unsurprisingly, Dorian didn't pick up on the innuendo until Sweeney says it. He lets out a sharp little bark of laughter, shaking his head as he grins.

"If you let me watch, I won't say no."

Another chuckle rattles. "Oh, that'd be the day." Sweeney muses over a sip of his drink. "You watchin' me instead." He seems dubious about the idea.

"Don't know if ya could manage ta sit an' just watch, keepin' yer hands an' everythin' else to yerself."

"I don't know," Dorian teases. "I can be a well-behaved boy when the situation calls for it."

He would be terrible at just sitting and watching and they both know it.

"Uh huh." They certainly both know it. A brow is arched by the suggestion it might be otherwise.

"I ain't tantric or anythin', but I'm still confident I'd manage longer than you could."

"Don't make a challenge if you're not willing to put it to the test."

Dorian grins, grabbing his bottle of wine to top off his glass.

"Wouldn't think of it."

He'd probably do it anyway, just not intentionally enough to call for thinking about it first. Sweeney kills his glass and reaches for his bottle to see it refreshed.

"S'spect ya'll keep plenty busy while I work up the nerve." You know, fucking lots of people in the meantime.

"I try to keep busy," Dorian admits, with a little shrug. "But annoyingly, I'm not as busy as I'd like."

Elias and Pagan. Just two people who he's enjoying fucking at the moment. He's used to more. There should be more.

Sweeney can relate, if on a smaller scale. His pool has fewer to start with, but also... fucking folk is complicated here. He's not 100% confident the 'just sex' thing is workable. But in for a penny...

"I'm sure ya'll manage. Keep distracted with somethin' else 'til more options come along."

He pauses briefly. "Does seem like a handful'a pretty fellas showed up as of late." Pretty enough to start looking like girls. Sweeney doesn't like that shit at all. The world is already confusing enough for him as it is.

"I do not know what the Admiral did to bring on so many good looking Asians, but I am not complaining."

Is it possibly a little gauche to point out that all the Asians are ridiculously good looking? Yes. Is it also true? Also yes. For some reason, it's the white guys winning the 'who looks most like your awful uncle' award.

"Honestly, I suspect the Admiral has a type."

He chuckles and brings the glass back to his lips before speaking over its rim.

"Noticed that a bit myself." Sweeney's eyes roll beneath there lids as he takes a drink.

"Course, that type seems ta share it, so maybe he just likes a good show." All he can do is shrug.

"An' I ain't in a place ta cast stones." Not about that, for damn sure.

"Oh I am certainly not casting stones," Dorian points out. His expression shifts to a wry grin as he continues. "After all, the more attractive men there are, the more I get to look at them. Oh no, the Barge is full of hot men, whatever shall I do."

He is blatantly being a shit for the sake of being a shit.

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