Mad Sweeney 🍀 | American Gods (wholovesthesun) wrote in madisonvalley, @ 2020-02-03 12:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !log, mad sweeney (wholovesthesun), ~2020 february, ~~lyra belacqua (alethiometer) |
Who: Lyra and Mad Sweeney
What: Lyra's concerned about the bum on the bench
When: Monday, February 3, evening
Where: That one bench
Status/Rating: Complete/Language and talk of alcoholism
It was late evening on a school night. Fury was good about not putting too many rules into place, but Lyra was trying to see just what she could get away with. Like how late she could stay out on a school night without getting a stern look. And, apparently, she was pushing the limits by approaching a red headed man on a bench in the middle of winter.
As she approached Sweeney, her daemon switched from an ermine to a smaller mouse and scrambled up to her shoulder.
She blatantly ignored Pan's protests and spoke to the man. "Are you okay?" she asked.
--
Slumped on the cold wooden bench, Sweeney wore the same clothes he did everyday: the white tank top with his shirt and over that the ratty blue jean jacket that had felt the pierce of Gungnir but came out whole again on the other side of things, ratty socks with holes in the toes were tucked away in a pair of dusty old brown boots older than many human lifetimes. Beside him were the newest additions to his menagerie: a bottle of something cheap and high in proof and his phone. At his feet were a few scattered remains of fast food wrappers.
Sometimes the pain was too much, most days it was like breathing itself was too much of a hassle. The sweet release of death, of a battle fought wasn't as sweet as he had hoped. There was no freedom of it, not even the fiery abyss he had known somewhere in the back of his head that was coming for him eventually. On nights like these and most other nights, there wasn't much to do except drink to stave off the cold. The fancy plastic in his jacket pocket was almost completely used up as he lived moment to moment on it, choosing not to use the apartment until absolutely necessary when the night got too bitter and he ended up stumbling out that way. If anything, his self-loathing and the constant imbibing kept him warm enough.
The young voice snapped him out of his alcohol-induced trance, head lifting as bleary bloodshot eyes found the owner (and, strangely enough, her shoulder seemed to be twitching). "What d'you want..." He mumbled, not a whole lot of malice or energy behind the words.
--
"I want to make sure you're okay. That's what I want." She settled onto the bench beside the red headed man. Pan, her daemon, scrambled down onto her lap.
"Who are you?" she asked. "I'm Lyra. I'm from Oxford….. are you drunk?"
She hadn't spent much time with drunk people before, so she wasn't completely sure. She picked up the bottle of cheap, strong alcohol and took a sniff from the bottle. She wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell.
"Can I try it?"
--
Now he was certain he was seeing things, watching owlishly as a part of her shoulder moved down onto her lap.. Luckily, a long squint at the errant shoulder bit had him focusing in on a small mouse. This made all the sense in the world to him, just another part of Madison Valley Indiana’s charm.. Heh.
She wanted to see if he was okay? Snorting at the sheer audacity of the statement, he looked up from her mouse back to her hopeful face, eyes narrowing in suspicious skepticism when she sat down beside him, throwing out questions and picking up the bottle beside him.
“No,” he breathed out, shifting a little ways down to give her more room, long legs tucked under the bench. Inelegantly, Sweeney snatched the bottle away, the liquor sloshing harmlessly around inside, tone while his usual brusqueness, held a note of gentle chiding.
“You’re too feckin’ young, child.”
--
"I'm older than I look," she said, though she knew she wasn't old enough for alcohol. Not by a long shot. "One sip and I'll ignore the fact you called me fecking young. And a child." Even though she knew she was both things.
As Lyra was trying to convince Sweeney to let her try the alcohol, her daemon shifted into a white ermine and let out a rather loud "Lyra!"
She rolled her eyes at this, and leaned back against the bench. "Fine," she muttered.
--
See, the normal person would’ve screamed like a 5-year-old girl as soon as the little shoulder bit turned into an ermine and then properly stood up on the bench shaking with unmitigated fear soon as it talked. Sweeney wasn’t like normal people and was hardly a 5-year-old girl… Shoulders slumped, he simply gave the ermine a slightly annoyed look before lifting the bottle back up to his mouth and draining the remains. Giving the bottle a toss behind the bench, he listened to the shatter of glass as it met the asphalt.
“You should lis’sen to yer friend,” he leaned back against the bench, wiping messily at his mouth. “I know of two ravens that’reequally as opin’nated.”
--
"Pan is very opinionated," she told Sweeney. "He said I shouldn't come over to talk to you. That you're a strange man. But you looked lovely and sad. I wanted to make sure you're okay." She leaned back against the bench. "What are your ravens' names?"
As she spoke, Pan just sighed softly and curled up in her lap.
"Why were you drinking? It's not that bad here, is it?"
--
"I'm fine," he snorted out a humorless chuckle. "They're not mine, they're Grimnir's flyin' rats." Blinking, he looked up at the streetlight above the bench, watching through bloodshot eyes as it haloed. Eyes closing shut for a brief moment, Ibis's words reverberating in his skull. His eternity in Madison trapped with a battle he can't win. The ultimate 'fuck you' to the unluckiest leprechaun.
Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times to clear some of the mist, unsure how long he had closed his eyes but the girl was still there. "I drink because it helps keep the demons at bay, child.." Squinting, he attempted to focus on the young girl and her ermine seated beside him. "I 'member you from the network.." He breathed out, lifting a hand to point at the nearest building in where he hoped one could purchase alcohol.
"Be a sweet an' get me another bottle.."
--
Lyra laughed softly at Sweeney's words. "If you won't give me alcohol, what makes you think they'll sell me some?" she asked. "I'm too young, remember?" She was amused by this, though.
"Are you going to be okay? I know you said you are, but I'm just making sure."
She stroked Pan's fur as she leaned against the bench. "Who is Grimnir?"
--
“Odin, Wednesday.. Whatever the hell he calls himself here…”
Sweeney sighed, swaying slightly as he fought with the darkness and his heavy eyelids. A last ditch effort was given as he attempted to focus on the small blurry form beside him. She was saying something, asking questions like all little girls did, but her words sounded like they were under water.
Murmuring something incoherent, Sweeney leaned against the back of the bench, deciding that a few seconds of silence was needed, just to rest his eyes. Shortly after closing his eyes, his breathing evened out to a light snore, chin pointed to his chest.