Sweeney is prompt, as he always is when he's capable, though it's obvious he hasn't prepared in any particular fashion other than to see his over-shirt buttoned beneath his jacket.
This is the same dance as always, but hopefully it will end better this time. Dorian doesn't strike him as the 'things will fix themselves if you just have a positive attitude' kind of fellows. Which is great.
Dorian opens the door. He gives Sweeney a little nod before saying, "Come on in."
There aren't any drinks or glasses on the table. Dorian moves to sit down, keeping a casual eye on Sweeney as he does so. "I thought we could have a little conversation first. Nothing wardeny, I wouldn't know the first thing about doing that. Just shooting the shit."
Hmm. None of that sounds particularly appealing, but this is the deal, right?
Sweeney exhales slowly and steps inside. He lingers near the door as Dorian situates, seemingly hesitant to sit. But once fully set, Sweeney moves to join him, standing by the other chair.
"An' what shit is it yer lookin' ta shoot?" he inquires dryly.
Godric told me that you had this odd sensation where you occasionally were a different person. He also told me not to tell you about it, but I'm horribly nosy so I want to find out more.
Yeah right. Dorian's not saying that. Instead, he lightly teases, "We could always go for fuck, marry, kill if we're looking for an icebreaker."
There's a shit-eating grin that fades to a more neutral expression. "Or you can tell me a little about yourself—I don't even know what year you're from. In exchange, I'll tell you whatever you want to know about me."
"Don't really do years that far back," he answers bluntly, no more eager to talk about himself that do any of those things with Dorian. All a bit too sudden, even in a place like this.
Sweeney shrugs. "Maybe a millennia, give or take." He's not sure when he was first created. It's far too distant for him to recall much. And he only has that because Ibis put the memories back in his head.
Remaining by the chair, he stares down at the man, his interest unchanged. He doesn't give a shit about knowing Dorian better.
"Well, you've got more on me. I'm only a hundred and fifty years old." He can very much tell that this is pulling teeth for Sweeney. However, Dorian's a stubborn bastard. And Rags filled him in on a few details.
"How about this then. You answer five questions of mine. And in exchange, I'll give you one book, whichever you want from my bookshelf. If we stop at any port with an antique store or a pawn shop, you'll be able to get a decent amount of money if you haggle correctly. We'll make this an official deal and everything."
He can hear Shitbird on the man's tongue. At least he's trying, even if he doesn't have the thief's skill at it. Ten questions for that fucking asparagus. Ten for the snack bar.
Sweeney's gaze slips up to the ceiling, considering how best to address it. His eyes find their way back to Dorian. He blinks slowly.
"Ain't 'bout what I want." Most of the time. There are some classics he won't deny. "It's 'bout what's valuable ta ya." That's the thing about offerings and sacrifices. It's intent.
He lifts his hand, his fingertips slipping across his thumb as they shift to a fist just long enough to flick back up. A gold coin is nestled between them. He shakes his head tightly.
Dorian frowns for a moment, thinking things over. After a moment, he gets up, walks over to his bookcase, and rummages around for a moment. When he returns, he's holding a record. It's a single, 33RPM, by a band called Dorian Gray and the Hedonists. He sets the record down on the table and pushes it over for Sweeney to take a look at it.
"Back home, I had more copies of this in my basement. But on the Barge, this is the only copy I've got. I used to be in a band. It was one of the greatest periods of my life until it wasn't. Five questions in exchange for this, we drink afterwards."
It's obvious even though Dorian's keeping a neutral tone in his voice, there's some nostalgia in his eyes at the idea of his old band.
The coin vanishes as promptly as it came, but his eyes are already fixed on the table.
Interesting.
He doesn't dare to touch it, but he does twist his head as he studies it from his high vantage point. Sweeney's eyes slide from the vinyl up to Dorian.
"Five questions. Any other terms?" He's seeking simple clarification, since it's not the original offer.
Good. There's a small little smirk on Dorian's face as he looks over at Sweeney. Turns out that Shitbird's information was on the right track. And, fortunately for him, Dorian has a whole magpie nest of mementos and important things that he can use for bribery.
"Asking you for further clarification on a question doesn't count as a question. If you give me a one or two word answer, I reserve the right to press you for more details."
"The addition's acceptable, Lilliput." Another thing Rags mentioned that Dorian wants to try: nicknames. Of course, Dorian wouldn't be Dorian without giving a nickname that's kind of pretentious in some ways. "Do we have a deal?"
Sweeney holds his hand towards Dorian, palm up, implying that he expects the item to be placed there instead of picking it up himself. Sometimes, it's the little things that makes one feel like themselves.
Dorian gets the implication. He picks up the record and places it in Sweeney's hand. There's an odd sort of ceremony to his actions: he gets that this is important. He's taking this part seriously.
"Question number one. All inmates have died. How did you die?"
A bit of a brutal question to start things off, but Dorian will swear up and down that he's not a nice person.
He shifts the records between his hands, then slides it into the interior of his jacket. It's off to the Hoard before if deforms the lines of the denim.
Sweeney watches the man keenly while he asks his question, then answers it with casual indifference.
Gugnir. That's Norse. So this grumpy Irish drunk of a fairy somehow had dealings with the Norse pantheon. Interesting.
"Hmm. I met Freya once—lovely lady." But that's a conversation for later. "Question number two. When you graduate, what do you want to do with your life?"
"Hm." The sound is low in acknowledgment of his dealings with Freya, but clearly with no follow up curiosity.
The next question's easy. He's gotten it so many times at this point. Sweeney pulls the cigarette down from behind his ear and nestles it between his lips. He mumbles around it while he digs in his trouser pocket.
"Fuck if I know."
There's no way to know when that would be. As such, there's no way to predict who he'll be by then. Or what. Too many unknowns.
Ok, so this fucker might be better at this than he thought.
Sweeney's lips thin and his jaw flexes for a moment as he tries to figure out how best to answer. It doesn't mean he has to like it. He just has to do it. There's a touch of restrained bitterness in it.
Dorian's mental note to self just grows even longer. Because who the hell is Swamp Rat? He's certainly not going to waste a question on that, not when he can bother Rags later.
"Question number four. What do you miss the most from your world that you can't find on the Barge? For instance, I miss shitty takeaway, the ability to travel wherever I want, and my best friend Oscar."
His dead best friend Oscar. His best friend who's been dead for over a hundred years. But he's not telling Sweeney that just yet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[Fuck, this man's gotta really be into his after-dinner drinks to start so fucking early.]
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Sorry in advance. ]
See you then.
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This is the same dance as always, but hopefully it will end better this time. Dorian doesn't strike him as the 'things will fix themselves if you just have a positive attitude' kind of fellows. Which is great.
He raps three times on the door.
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There aren't any drinks or glasses on the table. Dorian moves to sit down, keeping a casual eye on Sweeney as he does so. "I thought we could have a little conversation first. Nothing wardeny, I wouldn't know the first thing about doing that. Just shooting the shit."
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Sweeney exhales slowly and steps inside. He lingers near the door as Dorian situates, seemingly hesitant to sit. But once fully set, Sweeney moves to join him, standing by the other chair.
"An' what shit is it yer lookin' ta shoot?" he inquires dryly.
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Yeah right. Dorian's not saying that. Instead, he lightly teases, "We could always go for fuck, marry, kill if we're looking for an icebreaker."
There's a shit-eating grin that fades to a more neutral expression. "Or you can tell me a little about yourself—I don't even know what year you're from. In exchange, I'll tell you whatever you want to know about me."
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Sweeney shrugs. "Maybe a millennia, give or take." He's not sure when he was first created. It's far too distant for him to recall much. And he only has that because Ibis put the memories back in his head.
Remaining by the chair, he stares down at the man, his interest unchanged. He doesn't give a shit about knowing Dorian better.
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"How about this then. You answer five questions of mine. And in exchange, I'll give you one book, whichever you want from my bookshelf. If we stop at any port with an antique store or a pawn shop, you'll be able to get a decent amount of money if you haggle correctly. We'll make this an official deal and everything."
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He can hear Shitbird on the man's tongue. At least he's trying, even if he doesn't have the thief's skill at it. Ten questions for that fucking asparagus. Ten for the snack bar.
Sweeney's gaze slips up to the ceiling, considering how best to address it. His eyes find their way back to Dorian. He blinks slowly.
"Ain't 'bout what I want." Most of the time. There are some classics he won't deny. "It's 'bout what's valuable ta ya." That's the thing about offerings and sacrifices. It's intent.
He lifts his hand, his fingertips slipping across his thumb as they shift to a fist just long enough to flick back up. A gold coin is nestled between them. He shakes his head tightly.
"I don't need ta sell yer books."
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"Back home, I had more copies of this in my basement. But on the Barge, this is the only copy I've got. I used to be in a band. It was one of the greatest periods of my life until it wasn't. Five questions in exchange for this, we drink afterwards."
It's obvious even though Dorian's keeping a neutral tone in his voice, there's some nostalgia in his eyes at the idea of his old band.
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Interesting.
He doesn't dare to touch it, but he does twist his head as he studies it from his high vantage point. Sweeney's eyes slide from the vinyl up to Dorian.
"Five questions. Any other terms?" He's seeking simple clarification, since it's not the original offer.
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"Asking you for further clarification on a question doesn't count as a question. If you give me a one or two word answer, I reserve the right to press you for more details."
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"If I don't know the answer, it doesn't count against ya." Sweeney's run into the problem with Rags, and that had been their arrangement.
His brow cocks, silently questioning if the addition is acceptable.
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"The addition's acceptable, Lilliput." Another thing Rags mentioned that Dorian wants to try: nicknames. Of course, Dorian wouldn't be Dorian without giving a nickname that's kind of pretentious in some ways. "Do we have a deal?"
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Sweeney holds his hand towards Dorian, palm up, implying that he expects the item to be placed there instead of picking it up himself. Sometimes, it's the little things that makes one feel like themselves.
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"Question number one. All inmates have died. How did you die?"
A bit of a brutal question to start things off, but Dorian will swear up and down that he's not a nice person.
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Sweeney watches the man keenly while he asks his question, then answers it with casual indifference.
"I was speared through the chest by Gungnir."
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"Hmm. I met Freya once—lovely lady." But that's a conversation for later. "Question number two. When you graduate, what do you want to do with your life?"
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The next question's easy. He's gotten it so many times at this point. Sweeney pulls the cigarette down from behind his ear and nestles it between his lips. He mumbles around it while he digs in his trouser pocket.
"Fuck if I know."
There's no way to know when that would be. As such, there's no way to predict who he'll be by then. Or what. Too many unknowns.
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"Question number three. Who would you consider the top three people on the Barge you feel closest to?"
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Sweeney's lips thin and his jaw flexes for a moment as he tries to figure out how best to answer. It doesn't mean he has to like it. He just has to do it. There's a touch of restrained bitterness in it.
"Shitbird, Swamp Rat, an' Annie."
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"Question number four. What do you miss the most from your world that you can't find on the Barge? For instance, I miss shitty takeaway, the ability to travel wherever I want, and my best friend Oscar."
His dead best friend Oscar. His best friend who's been dead for over a hundred years. But he's not telling Sweeney that just yet.
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