There are plenty Irish toasts, obviously, but this doesn't seem like the proper setting. Sweeney cups the top of the glass, his palm hovering above it as his fingers rest vertically along its sides. He doesn't move to lift it.
"Do ya want somethin' general? Or ta the specifics of the day?"
He'll toast to most things, but if the man's asking, he takes that duty more seriously than the question is likely intended.
Dorian grins, raising his glass in the toast as well, before knocking a decent amount back. The scotch burns on the way down and he hisses out a noise of pleasure.
"Now this? This is good. The Admiral needs to get his shit together so we can drink like this more often."
He decides against mentioning it. The man in the larder had had a good point about the Admiral potentially cutting him off from the few things he enjoys. Still seems like Wardens shouldn't really have to deal with that bullshit.
"Well, fer some of us, I s'spect we ain't s'pposed ta have too much fun 'round here." He nods, his gaze slipping around the room for a bit more examination.
"See that? I don't get that," Dorian points out, with a little frown. "If the reason you were brought here was because your crippling alcoholism led you down the path of poor decisions, then of course you shouldn't be having this sort of fun." He holds up his glass as if that demonstrates what 'fun' he's talking about.
"But if the reason you were brought here was that your doormat personality led to the deaths of hundreds, then of course you would need to learn to take initiative. And as far as I'm concerned, deciding you want a little drink is perfect initiative."
Dorian's bedroom is odd. It's a mixture of old bones (old flooring, old furniture, wallpaper that is very early 1900s) with new innards. The rug under their feet is new, some of the books in the bookshelf are new, the house has been refurbished and reworked so that the lighting is fluorescent and electricity runs through the room. It feels like a historical house except someone keeps slipping in more and more modern details.
"I ain't here 'cause of drinkin' or doormattin'." He actually isn't sure what he did to end up here. But he does know some of his sins, and any of them would have justified it.
"F'gure I'm just gonna do what I need to ta be left ta my vices. I ain't lookin' ta rape or murder or burn the fuckin' boat down, so if the Adm'ral takes issue, he's o'erlookin' some bigger issues.
Dorian takes another sip of his scotch, thinking things over.
"You know, if we figured out why you're here and got your ass graduated, you'd be able to be left to your vices on your own terms, not on a prison ship slowly running out of supplies. I'd be happy to help—not as your warden or as your boss, just as someone who enjoys your company."
And someone who knows just how dangerous it is when things are static. When you can get in that rut of doing what you need to do just to be left alone.
Sweeney's lids close long enough for his eyes to slip up beneath them. Opening again, he looks to his cigarette, before taking a drag and returning his focus to Dorian.
"This the point where ya tell me 'bout how I can go anywhere once I check all the right boxes?"
"What you do when you check those boxes isn't my business," Dorian shrugs. "You can stay here. You can go off somewhere else. I don't give a damn about that part. The part that I give a damn about is that whatever you do when you leave, you don't regret it."
And also because though he knows that the Admiral say people can go anywhere once they graduate, all of the recent events make Dorian a little hesitant to accept the idea that it's true. They're supposed to be under the radar. How the hell would that effect graduation?
One eyebrow arches. At least that's a nice change of pace. Means Sweeney doesn't have to explain how he doesn't have anywhere worth going back to.
"So yer...wantin' me ta bare my sins ta ya then?" The question is mostly cautiously seeking clarification, but also implies that that might be a dick move.
Dorian picks up that implication. He takes a moment to finish off his glass, mostly so he can have a paus to think about what he wants to say next.
"If you want," Dorian shrugs. "Or you can talk about this with someone else. But you're never getting off this damn boat unless you talk about things with someone."
Sweeney's brow lifts, and his head lolls to one side as he regards the man.
"An' who said I was lookin' ta get off it?"
He's not. Not while it's keeping him out of Hell. Not while there's nowhere for him to go where he isn't starving and without his Luck or his chance for a battle.
"Then let me amend that. You'll never become a warden unless you talk about things with someone. And if you say something now like 'well I'd never want to be a warden to begin with,' then I'll amend that statement even further to say that you might not want to be a warden, but based on how things are right now? You certainly don't want to be an inmate."
Dorian is very much on Team Having Your Own Bathroom Is Good.
Sweeney is an Irishman, Dorian is a hedonist. He gives Sweeney a grin before rooting around his cabinet to pull out a bottle of gin and two new glasses.
"As far as I'm concerned, I'll happily ration the food but not my vices. I've used up the last of my cigarettes already—better I go through nicotine withdrawal now, when everything's relatively stable, than when we're a week away from going proper Donner Party."
He pours them both straight gin, filling up the glass three quarters of the way full. While Dorian could make a cocktail if needed, Sweeney seems like the sort of man to take his alcohol straight.
Given a couple of bottles and the want to actually taste the drink involved, Sweeney has a different preference, but when there are ports and storms and visions that won't stop eating away at him, rubbing alcohol serves perfectly well. Drinking anything refined enough to reduce the chance of blindness does him just fine on any other day.
"Mm." It's a short sound of acknowledgement that's pressed through Sweeney's nose as he pulls a drag.
He exhales and taps his ash, not mindful of where it falls. His fingers slip down the sides of the glass from the rim, catching it and sliding it along the table's surface until it finds the edge, where he drifts it downward to hang by his thigh.
"Might be better comin' from you or whoe'er in the Greenhouse could get it through, but there'd be a boon in plantin' a few rows of tobacco." His supply is ample, but he isn't about to be sharing it, especially on that scale. Besides, it be nice to have something fresher on occasion.
"I'll bother whoever's in charge," Dorian says, with a little nod. That also means finding out who's in charge of the Greenhouse which would be...annoying, but also needed. He's fine bothering people.
"Because you're right. I think people would be fine sacrificing a little patch that could grow food in exchange for not having to deal with the entire Barge hitting withdrawal all at the same time."
He inhales pure air deeply before shifting his head in clarification.
"'less ya got some way ta magically speed up the process, it's still gonna take ya 'bout four months from seed ta cigarette. Three if yer lucky." Growing shit takes time. Sometimes that isn't convenient.
"I mean, we've got...what, fucking wizards and vampires and things like that on board. I'm sure someone somewhere has plant magic or something like that."
Dorian's expression says that he knows 'plant magic' is stupid as hell, but how else is he going to describe it? It's plant magic. That's it.
Sweeney would never assume it wouldn't be available, just that it shouldn't be counted on. Not that he thinks Dorian would do that necessarily. Just getting things out in the open before any issues arise.
He nods once in acknowledgment. "I'll keep an eye out fer seeds in port. I know there's a bunch'a types in the greenhouse, but I f'gure that may not'ta made the cut." Being that tobacco is a pure indulgence (and something that's apparently regulated for some Inmates). Course, so are fucking flowers, and they have plenty of those.
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"Do ya want somethin' general? Or ta the specifics of the day?"
He'll toast to most things, but if the man's asking, he takes that duty more seriously than the question is likely intended.
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His fingers slide down the sides of the glass to bring it off the table, though he doesn't raise it above his chest.
"To full bottles, full purses, an' full beds. May cunts keep to their corners."
Deed done, he doesn't stand on ceremony, tipping back the glass to empty it.
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"Now this? This is good. The Admiral needs to get his shit together so we can drink like this more often."
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He decides against mentioning it. The man in the larder had had a good point about the Admiral potentially cutting him off from the few things he enjoys. Still seems like Wardens shouldn't really have to deal with that bullshit.
"Well, fer some of us, I s'spect we ain't s'pposed ta have too much fun 'round here." He nods, his gaze slipping around the room for a bit more examination.
"But I guess we'll see what Port looks like."
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"But if the reason you were brought here was that your doormat personality led to the deaths of hundreds, then of course you would need to learn to take initiative. And as far as I'm concerned, deciding you want a little drink is perfect initiative."
Dorian's bedroom is odd. It's a mixture of old bones (old flooring, old furniture, wallpaper that is very early 1900s) with new innards. The rug under their feet is new, some of the books in the bookshelf are new, the house has been refurbished and reworked so that the lighting is fluorescent and electricity runs through the room. It feels like a historical house except someone keeps slipping in more and more modern details.
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"F'gure I'm just gonna do what I need to ta be left ta my vices. I ain't lookin' ta rape or murder or burn the fuckin' boat down, so if the Adm'ral takes issue, he's o'erlookin' some bigger issues.
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"You know, if we figured out why you're here and got your ass graduated, you'd be able to be left to your vices on your own terms, not on a prison ship slowly running out of supplies. I'd be happy to help—not as your warden or as your boss, just as someone who enjoys your company."
And someone who knows just how dangerous it is when things are static. When you can get in that rut of doing what you need to do just to be left alone.
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Sweeney's lids close long enough for his eyes to slip up beneath them. Opening again, he looks to his cigarette, before taking a drag and returning his focus to Dorian.
"This the point where ya tell me 'bout how I can go anywhere once I check all the right boxes?"
He hates that word.
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And also because though he knows that the Admiral say people can go anywhere once they graduate, all of the recent events make Dorian a little hesitant to accept the idea that it's true. They're supposed to be under the radar. How the hell would that effect graduation?
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"So yer...wantin' me ta bare my sins ta ya then?" The question is mostly cautiously seeking clarification, but also implies that that might be a dick move.
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"If you want," Dorian shrugs. "Or you can talk about this with someone else. But you're never getting off this damn boat unless you talk about things with someone."
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"An' who said I was lookin' ta get off it?"
He's not. Not while it's keeping him out of Hell. Not while there's nowhere for him to go where he isn't starving and without his Luck or his chance for a battle.
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Dorian is very much on Team Having Your Own Bathroom Is Good.
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"An' who says I ain't lookin' ta be a Warden?"
He also sees benefits to it, though less in having a shower and more in having a Lounge key.
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There's a teasing tone in Dorian's voice. He's somewhat serious, but he's also giving Sweeney shit for the sake of giving him shit.
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"I am the kinda drunk that likes ta pick fights." He blinks slowly before his gaze slides to the table and back.
"Just ain't the sort that gets drunk on a quarter of a bottle of Scotch."
Doubly since he's been working on his moderation. Makes it easier to take the man's shit without giving him what he may be unintentionally asking for.
Doubt blood will come easy outta this carpet.
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"In that case, shall we both get a little drunker? I've got a bottle of gin squirrelled around here somewhere."
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"You pour, I'll drink."
He's been an Irishman since long before there was an Ireland. He's perfectly content to partake of whatever the man puts in the glass.
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"As far as I'm concerned, I'll happily ration the food but not my vices. I've used up the last of my cigarettes already—better I go through nicotine withdrawal now, when everything's relatively stable, than when we're a week away from going proper Donner Party."
He pours them both straight gin, filling up the glass three quarters of the way full. While Dorian could make a cocktail if needed, Sweeney seems like the sort of man to take his alcohol straight.
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"Mm." It's a short sound of acknowledgement that's pressed through Sweeney's nose as he pulls a drag.
He exhales and taps his ash, not mindful of where it falls. His fingers slip down the sides of the glass from the rim, catching it and sliding it along the table's surface until it finds the edge, where he drifts it downward to hang by his thigh.
"Might be better comin' from you or whoe'er in the Greenhouse could get it through, but there'd be a boon in plantin' a few rows of tobacco." His supply is ample, but he isn't about to be sharing it, especially on that scale. Besides, it be nice to have something fresher on occasion.
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"Because you're right. I think people would be fine sacrificing a little patch that could grow food in exchange for not having to deal with the entire Barge hitting withdrawal all at the same time."
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"'less ya got some way ta magically speed up the process, it's still gonna take ya 'bout four months from seed ta cigarette. Three if yer lucky." Growing shit takes time. Sometimes that isn't convenient.
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Dorian's expression says that he knows 'plant magic' is stupid as hell, but how else is he going to describe it? It's plant magic. That's it.
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He nods once in acknowledgment. "I'll keep an eye out fer seeds in port. I know there's a bunch'a types in the greenhouse, but I f'gure that may not'ta made the cut." Being that tobacco is a pure indulgence (and something that's apparently regulated for some Inmates). Course, so are fucking flowers, and they have plenty of those.
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