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dw-writes · 1 year

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The Invasion...Chapter Twenty-One

Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.

A/N: FINALLY!!! This chapter has been such a long time coming, and it’s lovely and amazing and I really love this chapter :) I hope you will, too!!! (Hopefully the length of this chapter will make up for it being so long since it updated ;;;; )

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

The Invasion and the Spark

Seeing the ‘Welcome to Cairo’ sign didn’t bring you a sense of nostalgia like you thought it would. Relief, yes – the awkward silence would finally cease – but there wasn’t any kind of nostalgia attached to it. It wasn’t home anymore.

You followed Sweeney off the bus and away from the station, both of you not saying a word. What could you say? Well, you knew what you could say, but you weren’t sure how to. You didn’t think he’d listen, either. Not yet. Instead, you two walked.

As you both rounded a street corner, you heard a high and curious, “Mrah?” followed by an excited churr. Both were so loud that you and Sweeney looked up. A familiar lithe dark form darted down the sidewalk, her tail high in the air, her ears forward and eyes focused on your face. She jumped to you from a few feet away, and you caught her, just like she expected. Her small head butted against your chin, and you smiled.

“Hi, Bast,” you murmured. You squeezed her close, shoving your face into her warm fur, and she sprawled across your shoulder and purred.

Sweeney shifted his weight, stepping behind you, and poked the small goddess’s nose. “Troublemaker.”

She gave him a halfhearted hiss.

“I don’t have anything for you,” you whispered as you walked with her, gently scratching her back, “But I still have your pumpkin! So, um, I can give you that back?” She purred louder. “And I’ll need to give IOUs to Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel. I haven’t had time to pick up their gifts yet.”

“Yer gettin’ ‘em gifts?” Sweeney grunted behind you.

You glanced up at him. “Well, yeah?” you murmured, “I mean, I owe them…for the whole…truck? Thing?” It felt weird that those were the first words you’d said to him in hours. Bast’s claws dug into your shoulder as she kneaded the skin.

Sweeney’s steps slowed. You turned around. He was frowning at the ground, brow knit together. “Forgot about that,” he whispered.

Bast lifted her head and licked your chin, trying to help with your suddenly pounding heart. The accident wasn’t even that long ago, and you’d died – almost died? – you’d gone somewhere, and he’d forgotten? You squeezed her again.

Sweeney moved around you to continue the rest of the way to the funeral parlor. He faltered as he stepped onto the porch. It felt like a thousand years since he’d last stood on it. If asked, he’d probably say he felt like a completely different person. But, if asked by someone else, he’d say that nothing had changed. He’d felt it as he sat next to you on a bus through hours of silence. He might’ve gained some kind of emotion, might’ve felt more than a few times that he’d didn’t deserve to die, but it didn’t change his fate: he was overdue, and he could feel the shadow of death seeping into his skin.

At least he knew the face of death.

He shoved open the door, holding it open with his foot to let you and Bast in.

Bast wriggled until you gently set her down. Then, you offered her the old and chewed pumpkin toy, which she took and gave a little shake. She trotted down the hall, led by the tinkling sound of a bell.

“Visitors?” came a voice from further inside.

Sweeney gently curled a hand around your hip to move you aside enough to shut the door.

“No,” he loudly called.

There was a hurried clatter of instruments being set down, punctuated by deep, amused chuckles. You recognized Mr. Ibis’s face despite never having seen him in person. You wondered how that worked. He cupped your face with warm, bare hands.

“Huh,” he whispered, “That place of yours doesn’t lie to anyone, does it?”

“Guess not,” you replied, “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Ibis.”

“Likewise, little ibis,” he said with a smile.

“Little whutnow?” grunted Sweeney.

Mr. Ibis slid a hand around your shoulders and led you through the parlor. “Come, this way, Mr. Jacquel would also like to see you.”

You twisted your hands around the straps of your bag. “I would’ve brought you both something,” you stuttered, “A thank you for what you did for me, but we didn’t stop anywhere that would have anything that could do you justice.”

“Nonsense,” said the familiar, deep voice of Mr. Jacquel, “If anyone holds a debt to us, it would be Bast.”

Mr. Ibis led you into their work room, where a body laid upon their table. You exhaled slowly, trying not to point out the obvious, when Bast jumped into the first clear space she could find on said table and shook her pumpkin at them. The men exchanged a look you could not decipher. A hand on the table slapped at Bast’s tail.

“Hey, no? Get the cat off me!” came another familiar voice.

You ducked free of Mr. Ibis’s arm and around Mr. Jacquel to find Laura’s face. She looked up at you. Her eyes were far cloudier than they’d been the last time you saw her. Still, despite the obvious decay, she grinned. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you mumbled, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Train,” answered everyone else in the room. One voice turned you around to stare at the very familiar form of Mr. Wednesday. You tensed. You didn’t know he’d be there.

He wiggled his fingers at you. “We would’ve been out of here before you arrived, but our dearly departed is making it very difficult for our friends to do their jobs,” he mused.

‘We’ implied him and Laura, and the thought sent a chill down your spine.

“To be fair,” remarked Mr. Ibis, “It is more difficult to put together a dead body the longer it is dead. Especially when it’s been running around in the Spring weather, freezing and thawing, soaking in water for long periods of time--”

“I didn’t hold ‘er under that long,” griped Sweeney.

All eyes turned to him. You snorted in a small attempt to keep your laughter at bay, though it didn’t go unnoticed that he remembered that, but not the accident.

(A voice whisper that maybe you just weren’t that memorable after all.)

Bast’s head slid under your hand. You rubbed her ears with a small smile. With a shake of the pumpkin, she stepped over Laura’s head and down off the table, heading through an open door into an office. You trailed after her. She trotted across the floor to a desk set between two windows, turned towards the center of the office. Across from it was a massive bookshelf, spanning the room, standing all the way to the ceiling, and filled with thick books. You trailed your fingers over them, sliding behind the two chairs that faced the desk.

You stopped at one very familiar spine. You traced the old leather, hooking your fingers over the top and tugged it free. It was heavier than it was in the Library and carried the smell of ink and old paper and homemade glue. The gold leaf had been restored, as had the designs that curled across the spine from the front and back covers – they were branches, decorated with painted green leaves. The front cover was still damaged, still wasn’t the original, but it, too, had been restored to what it could have been a long time ago. Sweeney’s name looped across the front in beautiful golden swirls.

You sank into one of the chairs, staring at it. How different was it from the one you had almost memorized? Would it be different at all? Would it be missing pieces? Would you still be there?

A loud ‘thunk’ drew you from your thoughts and jolted the book in your hands. You lifted it and smiled, shaking your head at Bast as she climbed up between your legs and into your lap. You set the book aside and held her.

The two of you stayed there in the quiet, listening but not listening to the sounds in the other room – Wednesday’s voice, then Sweeney’s, then Laura’s, the Wednesday’s again. You shoved your face against Bast’s fur. She purred.

“I messed up,” you whispered, “I did something I didn’t realize wasn’t wanted and now Sweeney’s angry, and he’s starting to forget things with me and?” Your voice caught in your throat. You squeezed her harder, pulling your feet onto the deep set chair. Bast gave a slight beep. You loosened your grip. She squirmed around, sliding out of your arms to sit on the chair next to you. You scrubbed your face. “What if I messed everything up for good? What if I’m just not as important to him as I thought? What if—”

A paw, complete with claws slightly extended, smacked hard against your cheek and was quickly followed by an annoyed and loud meow in your ear. You pulled away, gasping faintly, looking over at Bast’s very annoyed and narrowed eyes. She yelled again. She stared. You stared. You sighed and brushed your fingers over her head, scratching the spots behind her ears.

“I need to apologize,” you whispered to her. She purred, headbutting your palm. “I know,” you confirmed, “I just dunno how.”

“Perhaps I could offer some advice.” The voice startled you, made you jump and twist to face the owner, who merely smiled and held a hand up in apology. “You didn’t hear me,” said Mr. Ibis with a small nod. Bast climbed across your lap and jumped down to the floor, weaving through his legs and out to the front parlor. Mr. Ibis motioned to the empty seat next to you. “May I?” he asked.

“It’s your house,” you replied.

He sat, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, and said, “That may be, but you are a guest occupying the room. I would hate to interrupt you.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Ibis,” you said, “What, um--” You turned in the chair, bringing a leg up so you could face him better, “What advice do you have?”

He crossed his legs at the knee, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair as he hummed in thought. “Not every story is easy to hear,” he said after a moment, “But every story has an ear that it's meant for, despite the feelings of the owner.”

“What if he didn’t wanna know?” you whispered.

“I’ve found that Fate doesn’t care about the wants of man,” he answered, “Or anyone, for that matter.”

You smiled a little. “Awfully cryptic,” you pointed out.

He shrugged with a smile of his own. “It’s a habit,” he said, “But it’s not terrible advice.” He waded through your contemplative silence. “I am glad to see you here, in one piece,” he said.

“I’d planned to bring you something as repayment, but we didn’t stop anywhere that would’ve done you justice.,” you replied, scratching your jaw, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said, “We both agreed, as we told you many times – it was a debt that Bast owed.”

“Still,” you sighed, “I want to.” Then, after a moment, you added, “Repayment for your advice.”

Mr. Ibis had the grace to chuckle. “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to that, I suppose.”

You smiled. He was much more personable than you’d thought. Maybe it was because of who he was, or maybe it was because of who he’d become. You looked down at your lap, twisting your fingers together while sorting through all the different things you wished to say to him.

Mr. Ibis stood before you got a chance. “You know,” he murmured as he rose, “Mr. Wednesday is staying a while before he leaves again.” He shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. “If you want to speak with him about anything.” He left, heading back to the workshop.

You waited a few more minutes, then stood and headed to the greenhouse. The door creaked when you pulled it open, protesting as you crossed the threshold. You stepped out into the room. It was warm, and sticky, oppressive even, and the weight of the air and the man in it pushed through your skin to your soul. Wednesday didn’t acknowledge you as you crossed the room to stand in the shadow of a sapling tree. He didn’t have to; he knew you were there.

(“An ash I know there stands, Yggdrasil is its name, a tall tree, showered with shining loam.”)

You stared at the branches of the growing thing and wondered if its branches could hold weight yet.

“Been a while since we talked, hasn’t it?” he asked as you approached.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, “Saw you last at that Motel America.”

“Yes, but when did we last talk, huh?” He arched an eyebrow, then looked down, pushing a large paper bag to you with his foot. “I believe I owe you quite a bit of backpay. All those weeks where we didn’t talk.”

A sour taste flooded your mouth as you took the bag. You knew it had a hefty sum inside, but you couldn’t fathom taking it. You’d put it into a bank, maybe. Tell your sister about it. “At the Rock. When I ripped into you,” you finally answered, “That was the last time we talked. Before that, it was when you offered me a job.”

“Huh. Has it really been that long?” he mused. He cocked his head to the side. “Ripped is such a strong word for what you did. I’d call it more of a light scolding.”

You scoffed. You rolled the words you wanted to say around in your mouth as you stared at the money. You knew it was stolen, it had to be. And you were worried that it didn’t bother you. “I wanna talk about Sweeney’s deal,” you finally said.

Mr. Wednesday hummed, wagging a finger. “Aren’t you two on the outs for you overstepping your bounds already?” he asked.

You shrugged and stood. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from him, it’s that if you’re already in trouble, you might as well keep digging,” you said.

“That’s terrible advice,” Wednesday countered.

“I never said it was good advice,” you said. You balled the cuffs of your shirt in your hands. You knew that he knew whose shirt it used to be. In fact, you were sure that almost everyone knew of your relationship with Sweeney. It was hard not to. Wednesday couldn’t do anything by pointing it out. “He’s done everything you asked of him. I think it’s fair if you released him from employment.”

“He’s done when I say he’s done,” Wednesday flatly replied.

“If that’s the case, then you could have him work until his death,” you huffed.

Wednesday smirked something that said, “That’s the plan.”

You shuffled your feet, frowning, trying to reorganize your argument. “You,” you started with a sigh, “You said you’d give him a war that he could die in, and, in exchange, he’d work for you.”

“Exactly,” said the god with all the contempt of an upset child, “And he hasn’t fulfilled his end of the agreement.” He gestured to nowhere. “Have you met the man? It’s easier to pull teeth from a rotten mouth than to get him to do anything resembling a job.”

“Doing the job right when you ask wasn’t part of your agreement,” you argued, “Only that he do the job. And, for the time that we’ve been together, he’s completed every job you asked of him.” You slowly sank to the floor, curling your legs around the bag of money. “Whined and bitched and complained about them the whole time, but he did them.” When Wednesday said nothing, you continued, “And the deal was that he’d do those jobs if you gave him a war he could die in. The power word in that is ‘could’, and we are in the middle of a war, aren’t we?” You glanced up at him. “You made sure of that.” You unrolled the top of the bag. “If you’d said you’d give him a war he WOULD die in, that would be different – the deal would be fulfilled when he died, and he couldn’t get out of it.” You tilted your head. “Learned that, too – the fae are pretty fickle about their deals.”

“And I’m sure you’ve learned, that the fae like to handle their own dealings,” Wednesday finally said. You scowled. “You’ve learned quite a bit since I first offered you this job. I’m impressed.” His hand patted the top of your head in a condescending manner. “Almost impressed enough to do what you ask, but I digress. He’s gotta want out of his little deal, and, from what I hear, he’s been itchin’ to die lately.” His fingers fell from your head as he turned back to the door. “Wonder why.” He paused a few steps away to say, “You’re awfully trusting to believe the words of a man who couldn’t even remember that you died.”

Then, he left the greenhouse.

You stared at Yggdrasil, picking apart the brown paper bag, letting his words circle in your head like they would a drain.

Bast quietly sat next to you.

“We don’t need to tell him about this,” you whispered to her.

She headbutted your hand and rolled onto her side. You stayed sitting for a while, staring absently at the money, scratching Bast’s stomach until she was drifting off into a catnap. You only pulled your hand away to shoot a text off to the Morrigan, then returned it to her belly when she patted your arm. You would’ve stayed until the sun set, but the door behind you was shoved open by a violent hand.

“I need your opinion,” Laura demanded as she stalked towards you. You looked up, grabbing the bag as she wrapped a hand around your arm and yanked you up. “Your boyfriend is being insufferable.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” came the automatic groan as you followed her. She ignored you, dragging you through the building to the room she’d been lying in when you’d arrived, depositing you near Sweeney’s elbow. He leaned against the open window, puffing angrily on a crumpled cigarette. He glanced at you, huffing through his nose, annoyance clear in his eyes. Across from the both of you was Mr. Wednesday, looking for all the world like the cat who caught the canary.

Laura crossed her arms. “Option A,” she presented with a jerk of her head towards Wednesday, “Leave now and get my fucking humanity back, be alive again. Guaranteed.”

You wondered what caveats came with that.

She waved a hand to Sweeney. “Option B: go deal with some crazies in New Orleans that an even more crazy fuck puts his trust in who MIGHT be able to make me alive again,” she snarled.

You snapped your head up to Sweeney. “Mardis Gras Jesus?” you asked.

He snorted and something like a smile tugged up his mouth. “No,” he scoffed, muttering, “That bastard’d never flash his branch and berries for plastic beads.” His eyes flicked down to you, then the smile faded, and he looked away.

Your chest hurt. You hugged the bundle of money to your chest. “Which one do you wanna do?” you asked.

“I wanna be fucking human,” she snapped, “I wanna be fucking alive.”

You took a deep breath. “Then go with your gut, Laura. You’re not gonna listen to what I say, regardless, because what you wanna do is what you’re gonna do,” you said. She was already turning to Wednesday before you finished.

Sweeney clicked his tongue, finishing the cigarette between his fingers like he was timed, and stalked through the parlor. You took another deep breath, exhaling, staring at nothing as you tried to calm the burn that built in your chest. You needed to talk to him, and you knew there was no better time than the present. You scooped up your backpack as you walked into the office again, shoving the bundle of money inside, and carried it with you to the only shut door in the back of the building.

The handle turned when you tried it. You stepped inside and pulled it shut behind you. Somewhere beyond it, you heard Laura heading out with Mr. Wednesday, chasing a lead on her humanity. Before you, sitting on the bed you almost hoped you would share, was the option she’d spurned. He dropped one finished cigarette and brought another to his lips, puffing away while glaring at the floor. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t even think he realized you were there.

The dainty pawing through the door spurred the words to fall from your mouth, “I’m sorry.” You dropped the bag by your feet and repeated yourself, “I’m sorry.”

Sweeney finally looked up. He froze, prey caught in a crosshair, coughing on lungs full of smoke when the breath caught in his throat.

It didn’t stop the words from spilling out – just like before – you needed to learn some kind of filter to hold back the emotional word vomit. “I’m sorry for overstepping and looking into something you didn’t want to know, and then telling you, and upsetting you, and I didn’t mean to, I thought you’d want to know, want to remember, because you just looked so sad all the time when you talked about your past and I just wanted to make it better.”

He stood up while you rambled, tugging you away from the door and into his arms as he squeezed you close. You dug your fingers under his jacket and twisted them into his tank top.

“And ‘m sorry for asking if you were coming back, I dunno where it came from, I dunno why I didn’t think you would, I dunno why I asked,” you continued, the sentences slurring into one another as the emotions crested into your throat. “Please don’t be mad at me anymore, Sweeney, I know I broke something, and you don’t have to fix that just because I said ‘m sorry, but please don’t be mad anymore, I’m sorry. I thought--”

“I told you thinkin’ was dangerous, luv, and look what happened,” he mumbled. He squeezed you tighter.

You responded in kind, turning your head to shove your face into his dirty shirt. You stayed there, breathing in the smell of him, ignoring the obvious signs that he needed a shower to stay in the cloud of him. You turned your head enough to mumble, “Do you really not wanna die?”

“No,” he rasped against your hair, “I really don’t.”

You squeezed him again, then sighed. “I talked to Wednesday,” you whispered.

He tensed beneath your fingers. Carefully, Sweeney sat back on the bed, tugging you into his lap when he refused to release you. “What about?” he hesitantly asked.

“You,” you replied. You felt his head move and looked up to meet his gaze. “In my defense, you weren’t talking to me.”

“’s been a day, luv,” he pointed out.

“And, around you, that feels like years,” you argued. Your heart skipped. You hadn’t meant for the words to sound so intimate, and yet, they had. You tried to recover with, “It was about your deal.”

Sweeney released you, holding you by the arms to get a look at your face. If you weren’t so close – not physically, but in every other way that counted – you would’ve missed the glimmer of hope that shot through his gaze. “And?” he asked, voice wavering with uncertainty.

You looked down at the coin that rested above the hem of his shirt, then at your hands that sat in your lap. He squeezed your arms, then released you. You stood. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I thought I gave him a pretty good reason to let you out of it, but he’s gotta hard on for keeping you in his employ.”

He grunted, but didn’t say anything else. You rubbed your neck, taking the spot next to him on the bed. “What was all that, by the way? With Laura?” you asked.

“Dead Wife wants to live, obviously,” he muttered, “Grimnir gave her one option, I gave her another.”

(The voice asked why he wanted her alive so badly.)

“You really want your coin back, don’t you?” you teased.

Sweeney groaned and covered his face, flopping backwards onto the mattress. “’m tired of this shitty luck!” he swore into his palms, “Bran willin’ if I get it back in my fuckin’ lifetime!” He shoved his hands into his hair. “And fuck knows ‘m tired of ‘er!”

“What was your option?” you asked, “You didn’t give me a good description beyond something close to Mardis Gras Jesus.”

His head lolled towards you, and he grinned that slow, lazy grin of his. You kicked off your shoes and sat further up onto the bed, crossing your legs and waving for him to start. He, in turn, kicked off his boots and sprawled out next to you, spinning you a tale of the Loa in the South, all while twirling his handcrafted charm around his fingers.

His voice filled the room with his story, his words carefully weaving together a history you had barely heard of. You turned and laid next to him, staring at the darkening ceiling. He talked for hours, as though making up for the time that he wasn’t talking, that he wasn’t lost somewhere in his head while you two traveled to Cairo. His hand eventually found yours as he told you of the two that he still planned to meet – Maman Brigette, and the Baron Samedi. His thumb rubbed a circle into your skin.

“Wait, you still wanna go?” you asked as you sat up, staring down at him, tracing his features in the muted street light.

He shoved his free hand behind his head and watched you in return. “Obviously,” he said. He waved your intwined hands. “Look, Grimnir’s option’s gonna fuckin’ sink like a bag a rocks, right? And while I hate the cunt, the Dead Wife’s gonna need ‘em and I will not miss the one sure fire fuckin’ opportunity to get my fuckin’ coin back.”

You extended a finger towards his face. “I tried to give it back to you,” you pointed out.

He opened his mouth to argue, stopped, snapped his jaw shut and scrunched his face at you. “Shuddup, luv,” he grumbled.

You smiled, letting your two hands fall into your lap. Then, you whispered, “You remember it now?”

He frowned a little, squeezing your fingers. “’s fuzzy. Like it’s tryin’ to all line back up right, but backwards.”

You gave him a squeeze back. “Let’s get washed up,” you said after a long moment, “And get some sleep. Okay?”

He nodded, sighing, and sat up. “You go ahead. You look like shite, luv,” he said.

You rolled your eyes and released his hand. “Thanks.”

You took your time showering. You knew that, in reality, it hadn’t been that long since you’d showered. Hardly a day. But, you thought as you pressed the hot cloth over your face, it wasn’t just dirt and sweat you were washing off, and you knew it. Your muscles sagged beneath your skin as the hot water hit you. Maybe you’d actually sleep well.

At some point, as you forced yourself to relax beneath the water, the door open, and Sweeney grabbed your clothes, setting some clean ones on the counter while shouting, “Shit better not stink like the dead when it’s washed!”

“I promise it won’t,” replied the familiar voice of Mr. Jacquel.

The door didn’t close. You waited for him to say something, anything, as you turned off the water. Instead, he threw a towel over the curtain bar. You dried off. He threw you your clothes one article at a time, tossing them high into the air. You tried not to laugh but felt the amused giggles bubble from your lips. Once you were dressed, you shoved the curtain aside and stared at Sweeney’s wide grin.

“Whut?” he asked, leaning against the sink.

“You’re a dork,” you replied. He scrunched his nose and shrugged, fighting the genuine smile that tried to stretch across his lips. You found yourself mirroring it.

(You both thought the moment was out of time – a space for just the two of you, outside of the chaos that swirled around.)

You tossed him the damp towel as you stepped past. “Your turn.” Then, you turned and added, “I’ll make sure to throw your clothes in with the extra dead smelling ones.”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ ass,” he grunted. You pulled the door closed and listened to the shower start, counted to ten, then opened it again to collect the clothes he left on the floor. “I mean it!” he shouted after you.

“No promises!” you replied. You pulled the door shut, holding the wad of clothes to your chest, and smiled. It felt normal. You felt normal. You pushed away and followed the sounds of Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel to a small closet off the parlor, where a stacked washer and dryer had been hidden behind a sliding shutter door. You handed over the clothes when Mr. Jacquel offered.

“Mr. Ibis,” you asked as the washer started. The man arched an elegant brow. “Your books--”

“Are not for casual perusal,” he cut in. However, he smiled, and added, “But a book from your library is yours to read, of course.”

“Though, many have been known to try,” added Mr. Jacquel. He gave your arm a pat as he passed. “Would you like a beer?”

“Sure,” you politely agreed.

Mr. Ibis scooped powered soap into the washer. “You want to know if I have your book,” he stated more than asked. You leaned against the shutters. “Why?”

“I wanna know if it says what’s in store,” you answered. You stuck your fingers between the slats. “If things turn out different than they’re predicted to.”

“That’s something you’re not meant to know,” he said, “Neither am I. Only prophets and fortune tellers know outside of those pesky omnipotent godheads.”

You smiled. “Maybe I’ll just find a Jesus, then,” you teased.

“He would be able to answer you, if you asked the correct way,” Mr. Ibis replied. He turned on the washer and closed the lid. “You could read your Library’s book, however. It was originally yours.”

“Maybe I will,” you sighed. You pushed away from the shuttered door. He closed the small closet. “Mr. Ibis?” you asked again.

“Yes?” he curiously replied, stopping half a turn from your elbow.

You hesitated. “Do you know who he is?” You turned to him. The twilight that fell through the room mingled with the yellowed glass lamps and turned the space into something it wasn’t. If you let your mind wander far enough, you could imagine that you stood amongst the dunes in Egypt before a god who knew anything and everything that would ever be written. “Who he really is?” you added.

“I do,” said the Ibis headed god, “Would you like to know?”

The sun disappeared behind the trees of Cairo, leaving behind the mocking glow of the lamps above your head. Mr. Ibis adjusted his glasses.

“Not yet,” you finally answered, “Not if he doesn’t really want to know. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

He smiled. Then, giving your arm a squeeze, he excused himself.

You wandered back to the office.

Sweeney stared at the floor of the shower, thoughts swirling down the drain he couldn’t even focus on. So many memories fought for their rightful place in his head, so many that he didn’t understand how he could’ve forgotten. He knew there were more, past the foggy images of his wife and child from centuries past, memories that sat in the gray-green space that made his mouth turn sour. He scrubbed his face and slid down the wall until he sat in the cramped bathtub, shoving his head against his arms while digging his ragged nails into his neck. He groaned, swearing at the stabbing pain that lanced through his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew he should’ve brought a beer with him, or something.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes. How did you get into my apartment?”

His eyes opened. That memory was so clear – when he really saw you for the first time, heard your voice for the first time, when he knew without understanding that he could never leave your side for the first time, despite the events that immediately followed. Everything after was just as clear and grew sharper by the second the longer he lingered on the memories until he thought they were imprinted into ceramic of the bathtub. He slid his hands down his shoulders and squeezed his arms.

“You’re gonna leave me? After everything, you’re gonna just leave me?”

“No.”

He stood, scrubbing his hair and face and body to ensure he’d rinsed off, then shut off the water. He shoved the curtain open and squinted at the clean clothes that sat on the sink counter, then examined his fingers. They were pruned. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been in the shower. He dressed, shaking his head to fling the excess water free, and shuffled out. The room was empty, as was the hall when he entered, and the kitchen when he took the long way through the home. He snagged a bottle from the fridge and wandered to the front room, then the parlor, and finally the office, where he found you, curled up in a chair with a book in your lap.

You were almost halfway through it, when he bothered to look away from your face. It must’ve been good, too, as you hadn’t noticed him. He leaned against the door frame, twisting his fists around the neck and body of the bottle in his grasp. Then, he just watched you: watched your eyes dart across the pages, watched your mouth quirk with the scenes that played through your mind, watched the glow that filled your face as you enjoyed something.

Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to have you look at him like that. He pushed away from the wall.

“’s that?” Sweeney’s slurred voice surprised you, drawing your attention away from the book in your lap. He leaned back against Mr. Ibis’s desk and twisted open a bottle of the Egyptians’ red alcohol. “Been a long time since I caught you readin’,” he mumbled around the bottle.

You shrugged, closing your book, staring absently at the cover. You couldn’t remember what it was about, not really. A monster princess. A desperate prince. No plot or descriptions stuck in your mind. “Thought that, maybe, I’d be able to distract myself,” you whispered. You set the book on top of the one you’d pulled from the shelves earlier, centering them in the middle of the side table. He was staring at his book when you looked up, eyes trained on the spine, hand absently holding the bottle to his mouth.

“That mine?” he finally asked.

You nodded. “You can’t read it,” you quickly said, pushing it towards the back edge of the table when he stepped forward. He huffed. “Mr. Ibis said so.” You shook your head. “Besides, the first third of your book is empty.”

“What, you readin’ my book now?” he asked.

You tapped your fingers against it and sighed. “It’s actually the one from the Library,” you said.

He squinted. “What Library?” He stepped closer and turned around, sitting on the ground in front of you, leaning back on your legs.

You pulled them up into the chair and adjusted yourself, threading a hand into his clean hair. “I told you about it. The place that I dream of a lot. The place I ran into the Egyptians after the car crash,” you explained.

Sweeney relaxed. “Right,” he mumbled, “You told me ‘bout it at the Rock.”

At least he remembered that.

You swallowed a lump in your throat. “Right,” you murmured. You combed your fingers through his hair, disturbing the style. He tried not to move, even when he drank from the bottle still dangling from his fingers. The quiet was comforting.

Eventually, he leaned his head back to knock against your shins. Your fingers paused their ministrations. Something hung in the air, like the room knew he wanted to speak. You drew your hand back from his hair and watched him lean forward, clumsily turning around. He hooked an arm around one knee while he glanced at you, then let his eyes fall to the book beside you.

“Been thinkin’,” he mumbled.

“That’s dangerous,” you quickly cut in.

He nudged your chair, a smile creeping across his face. “Been thinkin’,” he started again, hesitated, then sighed, “Maybe I wanna know the rest of it.”

It took you a minute to piece together what he was saying. “The rest of your story?” you asked, sitting up, “The rest of your memory?” He nodded. “What made you wanna do that?”

“’memberin’ the first parts,” he rasped. He rolled forward, tucking his legs under his massive frame with ease as he grabbed your knees with both hands, pulling you to the edge of the chair. He knocked his forehead against yours. You closed your eyes, tracing your fingers over the backs of his arms. “’s all still fuzzy, like some bullshit dream or yer arm when you sleep wrong, but ‘s comin’ back,” he whispered into your space.

“And?” you breathed.

He settled between your knees, his hands following your legs back to the swell of your ass, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your shirt to graze along your back. It was different than the other times he’d touched you – slight, hesitant, like you’d grow fuzzy and vanish the way his memories once had. It wasn’t like when he’d cornered you after a shower, or the hotel when you’d sparred, or when you found him after his coin was filched, or the alley, or any other time you’d wanted to grab him by the collar and pull him in, but it wasn’t unlike them, either. His nose brushed your face, his mouth a breath away from yours, and his cheek slid against yours as he set his head on your shoulder.

You squeezed him close, praying to someone that he couldn’t feel how hard your heart pounded in your chest.

(He did, and he, in turn, hoped that you couldn’t feel how his beat in time with it.)

“Dunno how you’d do it,” he finally mumbled into your shoulder, “But you got that kinda magic to find that kinda thing.”

“That almost sounds like a favor,” you whispered.

He snorted, his arms tightening until something gave in your back, then he released you. He sat back on his heels, eyes darting across your face. “Maybe,” he replied, “’s for information, anyway.” His fingers trailed into your hands. They dangled between you both.

You shrugged. Your eyes dropped to your entwined hands, then back to his face. “What do I get out of it?”

“Oh, now, ya need somethin’ for a favor, huh?” he teased.

“That’s how it works,” you said, “Nothing’s free, right?”

“Not in this line a work.”

You snorted. Glancing up, you found him watching you again. He squeezed your fingers. “Mr. Ibis knows,” you whispered, “I asked him. We could find out now.”

You would’ve missed his widening eyes if you didn’t know him so well. He twisted his hand in yours to hold you differently, then finally looked down at them. “Maybe after Nola,” he grumbled. He brought both your hands up and kissed your knuckles. “Gotta think of how to repay ya.”

You could think of something, if he really wanted to know.

Sweeney stood and tugged you from the chair. You let him. “When are we leaving?” you asked.

He traced the line of your jaw, then released your hands with a groan. “’m ready to get all this fuckin’ over with when you are, luv,” he grumbled.

You picked up the book you’d been reading. “Then let’s go.”

Bast lifted her head as you and Sweeney entered the hall, tracking your movements back into the bedroom you both shared. She watched you pace back and forth as you repacked your backpack to make room for the money Mr. Wednesday had given you and watched again as you both exited the room as quietly as possible and slipped down the hall to the door. She followed you both to the patio, where she released a loud and obnoxious cry to gain your attention.

(“You were going to leave without saying goodbye?!”)

Sweeney snorted as you scooped the minute goddess into your arms. “Yer easy to miss.”

She hissed.

(“I will destroy you, leprechaun.”)

Bast lowered her head onto your shoulder as you started to walk. She didn’t pay attention to your conversation, choosing only to enjoy the rumble of your chest as you spoke, until she was lulled into a comfortable doze. She was particularly unhappy when Sweeney pulled her from your warm embrace and set her on the ground.

“Gotta go,” he grunted.

You knelt and pressed a kiss to her head. She preened, sitting up to headbutt your chin, and watched you board the bus with wide, loving eyes.

What a liar, she thought as you waved at her, that the leprechaun turned out to be.

You sat back as the bus rolled out of the station, setting your head on Sweeney’s shoulder with a sigh. He turned his hand over for you, and you held it loosely between both of yours as you drifted off to sleep.

Sweeney woke you up at the bus station in Jackson, Mississippi, stretching his arms over his head with a groan and a yawn. You stretched as best as you could and shuffled off the bus after him, mumbling about needing something to eat and drink so you could take your meds before the next bus. He didn’t say anything in return, only tugged you along with him through the station. You stopped at the bus schedule and map next to the closed service desk, squinting as you struggled to wake up. Sweeney kept walking, heading for the bathrooms across the station, then returning a few minutes later.

You reached out to grab the back of his jacket as he walked behind you. “Hey, serious question,” you said when he stopped, “Everything else is real – are things like werewolves real?”

“You jokin’?” he mumbled, standing behind you, “Why’re you askin’? After all this time?”

You tapped the map, finger covering Jackson multiple times. “This book I read a long time ago – a series really – had werewolves in Jackson. And vampires in Shreveport. I never gave it any thought, obviously, but now—”

He snorted. “I only know a one werewolf, and that’s ‘cause the idiot was cursed by a fuckin’ god.”

“Oh, hey, I know that one,” you said. Sweeney draped an arm around your shoulders as he stared at the map. “I did a paper on him in school. Really weird story.” You slid your fingers between his. “You think that means there’s other werewolves out there?”

“No idea,” he mumbled, “Don’t care too much.” You looked up at him, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Gotta few hours before our next bus,” he sighed, rubbing his neck.

“You need coffee?” you murmured.

He snorted, “Or somethin’.” He looked around. “Think there’s a place nearby. Some fuckin’ coffee shop or some shit.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” you asked. You followed him to the door, trying to give him a smile through another yawn.

“Dunno how yer so awake,” he grumbled.

You shrugged. “Dunno,” you repeated back at him, “I’ve never been one for a lot of sleep at one time. I think it’s all the depression naps – they really fuck up my sleep schedule. I’m used to it.”

Sweeney eyed you as he held the door open. “That ain’t healthy, luv,” he commented.

You snorted and waited for him to catch up to you, holding your hand out for him to take. He did, and carefully draped his arm around your shoulders, letting your arm dangle across your chest. “What’re you now, a health professional?” you grumbled.

“Know enough to know that ya gotta sleep well ta be well,” he replied, “Been around long enough to figure that one out.”

You hummed and leaned into his side as you walked. As he led the way, you asked if he’d been to Jackson before, which he told you he had. He didn’t give you details. You wondered absently if it had been a job for Mr. Wednesday, then asked it aloud. He only grunted. You wondered what the job was for, but knew he wouldn’t tell you. You knew your leprechaun well enough to know that he hated talking about his work for Wednesday.

Maybe, if you found out who he really was, you’d be able to free him from the deal he’d struck with the one-eyed bastard.

Sweeney slowed as he looked down a road, pausing for a passing car before dragging you over to the coffee shop he’d had in mind. You looked up at the sign as you approached. Full Body Brew was not what you were thinking. The name immediately called an image of a surly bar, or a strip club, or both. It definitely didn’t bring to mind a small café on the corner, with a full moon for a sign and blinking ‘open’ in the window. A bell rung as he pushed open the door for you.

“Holy fucking shit,” someone loudly swore from the front counter. Sweeney let out a tiny, annoyed groan. You looked back at him, arching an eyebrow as you shuffled into the café. He smoothed both hands over his head and down his face, as though he was trying to hide something. “Look what the cat dragged in,” came the same voice. You turned to it, as did a few other patrons sitting around the cozy, autumnal themed coffee shop.

The man that had spoken was a tall man with broad shoulders, though not at tall nor as broad as Sweeney. He had a grizzled look about him that didn’t fit with the youthful fullness of his cheeks that sat on either side of his Romanesque nose. He slapped a rag down on the sink in the back counter and patted the shoulder of a woman before he rounded the bar.

“Lou,” grunted Sweeney when he finally dropped his hands.

Lou slugged Sweeney’s arm. “Been a while,” he mused as your leprechaun rubbed the assaulted spot, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you owe me.”

“Ain’t here to square up, just here for coffee,” Sweeney grumbled in reply.

Lou’s eyes swiveled to you. They were impressive – daunting, even – and the longer you stared the more you realized just how round the irises were, how golden the brown of his eyes was, how they took up almost too much of his sclera than a normal iris would.

(“He was a wolf, but kept some vestige of his former shape. There were the same grey hairs, the same violent face, the same glittering eyes, the same savage image.”)

You almost took a step back.

“Now who’s this here?” Lou asked, “Never seen you with a travelin’ partner before.” If you listened close enough, you could almost catch an accent. It was different than you’d ever heard before, like his mouth was struggling to form the sounds of letters but not the English words themselves.

Sweeney didn’t give him your name. Instead, he pushed past the once defiant king and headed to the bar of the coffee shop.

Lou crossed his arms and leaned towards you. “He been like this a lot?”

You gave him a slight shrug. “Only when he doesn’t sleep well,” you answered.

“We ain’t payin’ for this!” Sweeney all but shouted at the man.

With a roll of his eyes, Lou headed back towards the bar. You took a seat on a long booth bench, setting your bag on top of the four top table, and waited. Sweeney eventually returned to you, holding a cup in each hand and a donut in his mouth, which he offered to you after biting a large chunk out of it. You pull bites from it with a disgusted grimace and downed your drink faster than you should have. He, in turn, took his time with his drink, lounging back in his creaking seat across from you, sprawling out in your space and you eventually into his.

You rolled a piece of fluffy cooked dough between your fingers, watching the tiny pockets of air squish into one space. “What made you decide?” you whispered. Sweeney hummed, lowering his cup from his mouth as he watched you. “You said it was remembering all the other parts that made you decide, but what,” you popped the ball into your mouth, chewed, gave yourself time to think of how you would phrase the question, swallowed, “What was it out of them that made you decide that you wanted to know everything?”

Sweeney should’ve known that you’d ask such a question. You were good with them, the prodding types, the ones that really dug in and forced out answers that people were never expecting to give. You’d done it ever since you’d met him, after all. Why would it have changed? He swallowed the mouthful of dreadfully delicious coffee and looked away from you, watching another couple across the small dining area as they shared a pastry between them, too. Their fingers brushed one another’s as they ate and talked and laughed.

You nudged his leg with your knee and whispered in a voice only ever meant for him, “Sweeney?”

He returned to you, as he always did.

He set his coffee down and leaned into the table, pulling your somewhat sticky hands into his. You, in turn, leaned towards him. He didn’t look at you. He wasn’t even sure if he could speak. Words tumbled up from his gut like claws and wedged into his throat and he almost thought he’d be sick. You gave his hands a squeeze, a small one that enveloped his fingers.

He pried one hand free and waved it as he spoke. It helped the claws fall back down. “When ya first told me everythin’, it was all jumbled up, like someone did one a those stupid puzzles that don’t make sense,” he murmured. He dropped his hand back to the table, next to your wrist, and tapped a nervous beat on the wood surface. “But then things got clearer. Everythin’ got clearer, not just the shite I was rememberin’, but all the shite that’s happened, all the things we—” The words swelled in his throat and clamped his mouth shut. He cleared it, leaned back, and picked up the coffee again. After another few deep gulps, he sighed and dropped the empty cup next to yours.

“Do you only wanna remember because it makes everything else easier?” you gently asked.

He covered your hands with his free one, then finally met your gaze.

Words tumbled out of this throat and onto his tongue with little grace and the weight of dull white star. “Maybe it means I can be better for ya,” he rasped, “Rememberin’ it all. So I don’t fuck it up again.”

The ambiance of the coffee bar was deafening. For you? He wanted to remember for you? What in the world did that mean? You knew what it meant, actually, but did it really mean what you thought it would or did it mean something else to him? He wanted to be better for you? How? What? Thoughts swirled in your head a mile a minute and made you wonder why you had yet to set a fucking alarm for your meds to remind you to take them every day so you wouldn’t be questioning if you had or hadn’t.

His eyes dropped away from yours and the jumble of thoughts almost straightened out. Words that had been said to you over and over again filled the spaces instead, and you squeezed his hand a second time.

“Sweeney,” you sighed. He almost pulled away. You held firm. “You shouldn’t want to remember for me,” you continued, “You should want to remember for yourself.”

“Now why would I wanna do somethin’ like that?” he asked, “Haven’t wanted to do fuck all for myself for centuries. Can’t see a reason to start now.” You opened your mouth to protest. “But, for you? I can do that easy enough. Been doin’ anythin’ for you from day one.”

The longer you thought about it, the more you saw his reasoning was far too similar to the times you told yourself that no one else would feed Bast but you, so you couldn’t really go anywhere.

You closed your mouth and let the heat flood your face. You traced the length of this fingers. “I think I can accept that,” you whispered.

He smiled, slow and beautiful and just for you, and the world was quiet for a moment.

A whistle cut through it, jolting your attention away from your leprechaun, and you looked up at the man that stood next to your table. Lou arched an eyebrow. “How about that debt, hm?” he asked.

Sweeney groaned and rolled his eyes, rising from the table. “Be right back, luv,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss against the crown of your head, “Then we’ll head off.”

You watched him leave, watched him head towards the back room with Lou, the both of them quiet beneath the din of the coffee shop. You thought about everything that had happened over the last few days, wondering if you could pinpoint when it was that he decided that he wanted to know everything, and that he wanted to know it for you. You wondered if you should tell him that it wasn’t the best thing he should do, that he shouldn’t hinge his ability to finally learn who he was on how he could be better for someone else, but knew that it wasn’t much different than what you did every day before you met him. You wondered if he would continue to heal after he’d learned everything, if he would finally accept all of the other things that he refused to see in himself and work to be better for you in those aspects, too.

Of course, it was only fair if you did the same, right? You fumbled around in your bag for your phone and pulled it out, scrolling around for the clock app to set an everyday timer for your meds. Finally, you thought, you’d be able to make sure you took them every day, and you’d know for sure that you did. It was a small step, but it was a step in the right direction, just like the kind that Sweeney was taking in accepting that he wanted to know who he was.

“C’mon,” grunted Sweeney as he wandered back. You blinked, looking up at him when he grabbed your back. You hadn’t realized how long you had been thinking, but his conversation with Lou was over, and it was time to go. You stood and shoved your phone back in your bag, thanking him for waiting for you to do so before he slung the thing onto his back. “We gotta go.”

“That was quick,” you pointed out as you followed him from the shop. You glanced back to see Lou wiping down the counter again, just like he had been when you’d walked in. It was almost as though you were never there. The door swung shut on the scene.

“Clearin’ the air,” Sweeney said, “Makin’ sure he knew I didn’t owe him shit.”

“Is that it?” you asked suspiciously.

He glanced back at the shop and pulled his hand from his pocket, twirling a set of keys around his finger. “And we’re borrowin’ his car,” he added with a smirk.

You took the keys. “Does he know we’re borrowing it?” you asked. You pressed the lock button and spun towards the chirping car.

“Not at all,” he said, “Part of borrowin’, ain’t it?”

“Certainly part of your borrowing,” you replied. You opened the door and dropped into the front seat, swinging your bag around into the back with a sigh and a crack of your back. Sweeney glanced over as he climbed in. You smiled. “So?” you asked, “Give me directions. I have no idea where we’re going.”

It didn’t take you long to get to your next destination – Baton Rouge, a few hours at most, given the stop for gas and the train the two of you got stuck behind. Sweeney suggested leaving the car at the train station so Lou would have an easier time of finding it, which surprised you until he locked the car and threw the keys into the tall grass by the building. He took your hand and pulled you down the sidewalk.

“What is with you and Lou anyway?” you asked as you walked. You eyed the sky. Thunder cracked somewhere, but the dark clouds above you hadn’t broken open just yet.

“Years of bullshit is all,” he answered with a shrug.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s it?” you asked, “Is this just a weird prank war?” Sweeney shrugged but said nothing else. “Alright, keep your secrets,” you mumbled. He tugged you into his side. “Why’d we come to Baton Rogue anyway? New Orleans is still a good drive away.”

He tilted his head as he puffed on a cigarette. “Wanted to buy time,” he mumbled around it. You felt him shiver, his arm trembling around your shoulders with the quick shudder. “The Loa freak me out more than anythin’ else we run into,” he added.

“You sure it isn’t because you don’t wanna see any more family?” you teased.

“Shuddup,” he huffed. The thunder cracked above you again, and a few drops of water fell onto your head. You swore, looking around. Sweeney tugged you ahead. “’s different than the fucking Weird Sisters, okay?” He pulled you into an alley just as the clouds broke above.

The first dribbles of rain quickly turned into a downpour. It was warm, warmer that it would have been if you were anywhere else. Sweeney ducked closer to you and to the overhang of the roof above you with a loud, caustic swear. You laughed. He didn’t.

“I hate fuckin’ Louisiana,” Sweeney muttered. He shoved his soaked locks from his face.

You smiled. “I love it.” You looked around, following the alley. “I’ve only ever been to Shreveport, but it’s so beautiful here.”

He snorted. “You’ll love New Orleans, then.” His hand pressed into the small of your back, balled up your shirt, and pulled you back towards him. A car lumbered down the alley cross-section.

You looked up. Sweeney stared at you, let his eyes follow the curve of your nose down your face to your lips. His fingers brushed your jaw. You licked your bottom lip, mirroring him while trying to control your breathing. The rain was hot. His skin was hotter.

Fuck it, he thought.

He grasped your chin when his fingers reached it and tilted your face up as he leaned down and closed the gap between you, swallowing your anxious gasp. His mouth felt just like you thought it would – a little chapped, a little rough, but warm and desperate. His hand fell away from your chin to your throat, slipped around to the back of your head as he held you in place. You twisted your fingers into his jacket and pressed closer, as close as you could, until you felt his heart pounding in your chest. He coaxed your mouth open with his own and let his tongue wander between your lips. God, you wondered what other magic that tongue could do.

He pulled away enough to tilt his head the other way, to push your bag off your shoulder and really pin you against the wall. You took the chance to say his name, a soft moan, a whispered prayer that had him growling against your mouth.

It was delicious.

His hands dropped to your ass, gave it a squeeze, and picked you up. You squeezed your thighs against his hips and felt him settle against you, his cock growing hard as you rocked into him. You gripped his hair with both hands, smoothed your thumbs over his scalp, pulled him closer. You thought he would devour you whole with how he kissed you, stealing your breath until your head spun. He tasted like cloves and tobacco and whiskey and the deep veins of gold that were hidden in the tiniest bit of luck.

Thunder clapped overhead. You both jumped, foreheads knocking into each other. You snorted, and grinned, and took the opportunity to suck in air while Sweeney was hovering and breathing just as hard.

“’s not something for an alleyway,” you slurred, more than a little drunk on him.

“The fuck it’s not,” he rasped.

“I would rather it not be in an alleyway,” you corrected while trying not to laugh. His nose brushed past yours, his mouth hovering over your lips. “Not the kinda moment I want strangers interrupting,” you whispered.

He grunted out an answer as his mouth slanted against yours again. You didn’t stop him. You kept trying to talk – mumbling about how you couldn’t stay in the alley forever, or how you had to get to New Orleans if he wanted his coin and his memories back.

“They ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he finally huffed, leaning forehead against yours.

“Neither ‘m I,” you breathed. You trailed your fingers through his hair and down his neck. You wanted to stay there with him, to savor the moment but the brick of the building bit into your back, and the petrichor was making you sniffly, and you were uncomfortable but not emotionally, never emotionally with him.

He leaned into you more as though he was trying to melt into you. “Mean it?” he whispered.

“That I’m not going anywhere?” you asked. He nodded. “I already said you’re stuck with me, Sweeney.”

For once, his brain was ahead of his mouth, running a mile a minute to edit the words that spilled from his lips, “Can’t be stuck with someone ya want.” Except he knew it wasn’t ‘want’ that he wanted to say. It was something else entirely.

A bright flash of lightning and loud clap of thunder had you jumping all over again. You patted his arms and insisted he put you down. When he did, you asked if he knew of a place to get out of the rain. He didn’t, not off the top of his head, but it wasn’t something that his unruly charm couldn’t figure out.

He took your hand and dragged you out of the alley and into the first little store he saw. It was a local shop, one that was obviously for tourists and not meant for real practitioners unless you knew what to ask for. Besides the shopkeeper, there was only a family inside – a mother and father, and two girls who appeared to be in their late teens. They looked up when you both ducked inside, you tucked against Sweeney’s side, and their eyes lingered on your leprechaun like they had never seen a man before. The shopkeeper, though, gave him an ugly glare, and kept an eye on him as he finished answering a question from the mother.

“What is with you and grudges?” you whispered.

Sweeney held you close as he moved to another side of the shop, his mouth dipping low against your ear as he replied, “’m old, luv. It happens.”

“Not nearly as much it happens with you,” you countered, looking up at him. His other arm looped around your back, pulling you flush against him as you both lingered. “It’s kinda funny.”

“You say that now but just wait until we’re stuck in the rain without a bed or a bucket to piss in,” he replied, his eyebrow quirking up.

You inhaled slowly and sighed, “That’s disgusting.”

“I’m sorry,” came a voice you didn’t know. You looked up. One of the teen girls was peeking around the corner of the aisle, her sister close to her back. Her brown eyes were wide and a flush highlighted her nose when she noticed she was seen. “Sorry,” she repeated, stepping out from her hiding spot, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard—”

“We,” corrected her sister, who stepped out behind her, “We overheard that you guys don’t have a place to stay.” She shrugged and crossed her arms. “That right?”

Sweeney’s eyes narrowed for a moment. You saw him consider how he could work the situation in his favor and pinched the first patch of skin you could reach. He winced, looking down at you with a huff.

“They’re teenagers,” you whispered.

“Teenagers have parents,” he hissed, then paused, “Sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to them with a smile. “You know, it’s not safe to talk to strangers,” you said.

“We’re not stupid,” the first one snapped, crossing her arms.

The second twin swatted her arm with a sigh. “It’s raining, and the place our parents are renting is pretty big, and they’re the “charity is a virtue and pays back tenfold” kinda people, so we’re sure you could stay for a bit,” she said.

Sweeney narrowed his eyes, squeezing you closer to him. “So, why—”

The first of the twins held up her hand, cutting him off from what he was about to say. She looked back at her sister. They both stepped closer to you. “We’re really hoping this makes sense, okay?” she said, then took a deep breath, “Isn’t that what wrath does?”

You stood straighter, a smile slowly spreading across your face. “Holy shit,” you whispered. You patted Sweeney’s arm and stepped out of his grasp, taking a hand from each of the twins. “You worship the Morrigan,” you breathed.

“So, it makes sense?” asked the second twin.

You nodded. “Yeah! Yeah, it—” You nodded, smiled, and introduced yourself, then Sweeney.

The twins shared a small smile. “I’m Alianna,” said the first twin.

“I’m Orianna,” added the second. They exchanged a look. “We have a third sister, but she’s back at the house. Didn’t wanna come out because she wasn’t feeling well. That’s Lisanna,” said Orianna.

Sweeney groaned, and whispered, “Fuckin’ triplets.”

“So, wait,” Alianna stuttered, “We really did hear from the Morrigan?”

Your smile grew. “I have a phone number to give, of a friend. He went through the same thing not too long ago,” you said.

Orianna patted her sister’s arm. “Lemme go ask mom and dad, okay? I’ll be right back!” She took off, almost tripping around a display as she went. Alianna sighed and followed her, waving a hand at you as she went.

Sweeney dropped his head towards yours. “This smart?” he mumbled.

“You were literally just thinking about taking advantage of them,” you replied.

He stepped around you, putting the display between him and the shopkeeper, and danced his fingers over the shelf. “That was before I knew they were the fuckin’ Morrigan’s little lackeys,” he grumbled. You watched him tug a small purple stone keychain off the shelf and palm it. He turned to you. You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. He held out his empty hands. “What?”

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned, and you leaned around him. Alianna bounced next to the older couple you had seen walking in. Their dad crossed his arms and stood as straight as he could, trying to look intimidating in the small space of the shop. Their mom smiled and placed a hand on his bicep. A cross sat at her throat, glittering in the sun.

“Ali and Ori said that you needed a place to stay,” murmured their mom, “Our Airbnb™ is pretty large, and we do have an extra room.”

“You’re not gonna rob us, are you?” asked their dad, eyeing Sweeney up and down.

“Sweetheart,” their mom sighed.

“It’s a good question!”

“They need help. We can help them.” Their mom smiled again, and gave her husband a squeeze. Their dad sighed, stepping away, then turned back to whisper something. His wife’s smile grew. “C’mon. We have to walk, because we didn’t drive down here, but it’s a nice walk.”

You nodded, patting Sweeney’s arm in a similar fashion of the wife, and tugged him towards the door.

“Just what the hell are you doing?” hissed the shopkeeper as you and Sweeney passed.

You slowed, turning to watch Sweeney twist around on his heel and wave at the shopkeeper. “Findin’ someone else to bother since ya look like I killed yer fuckin’ dog,” he replied.

“You cheated!”

“Can’t cheat since I can’t lie, ya know,” he shot back. He turned back to you, holding the door above your head. “Maybe I’ll come back for another round of poker later, hm?”

“Fuck you and fuck off, Sweeney,” cursed the woman.

Arianna lingered at the door as you stepped outside, leaning in to whisper, “What was that all about?”

“He’s not great at making friends,” you replied. You shrugged and fell in step next to her, feeling Sweeney walking behind you. “He actually broke into my apartment the first time we met,” you mused.

She stared at you, eyes wide, and quietly asked, “And now you’re dating him?”

“Uh,” you tilted your head, then looked back at Sweeney, “Date isn’t really the right term for it.”

“Ain’t a term for what we have, luv,” he shot back with a wink.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

Orianna pushed her way between you and Sweeney, looping her arm through yours. “Okay, so, you’ve been all over the place, right?” she asked, “Where?”

Alianna took your other arm. “Please, tell us everything.” She looked at her sister. “And then tell us again when we get to Lisanna, because we’ve never been outside of Louisiana before.”

“New Orleans is literally the most exciting place we’ve been,” said Orianna.

You snorted. The walk back to their Airbnb™ was filled with the details of your adventure, from the moment you met Sweeney, to when you met Wednesday, and to all of the other gods that you’ve met. You spun tales of near-death experiences and dead wives and cats that weren’t really cats, of faceless men and shapeshifting women and ravens that coped attitudes. Cross country cab rides. Airplanes with medical goddesses. Normal women that became witches. Transporting to a rooftop under the light of the moon. The more you spoke, the lighter you felt, as though finally putting everything you had done and accomplished into one wild story drove home the importance of your work and your connections. Of your existence.

“Hey!” called their dad, drawing you out of your cloud of memories. You looked up to see you had arrived, their sprawling temporary home looming high over you. “Sweeney, right? Give a guy a hand and get the door? These shopping bags are kinda heavy.”

Sweeney touched your back as he ducked around you, jogging ahead to the door. As he opened it a third girl rushed out, jumping down the front steps, and made a beeline for you and her sisters. She tugged on their arms and pulled you aside, around the side of the house. “Hey, so, yes, they texted me at the store, and you have to tell us everything!”

“Again?” you teased.

“A—” she glared at the girls on either side of you. “Yes. Again.”

The four of you sat outside, you telling your story again, them asking questions and sharing what little they had learned from the Morrigan. The air grew cold the longer you sat, and the sun slowly lowered to the horizon.

Sweeney wandered outside, his hands cupped around his mouth as he lit a cigarette. Your voice was a gently thrum in the air, relaxing his shoulders in a way that the smell of nature and the sound of the river couldn’t. He couldn’t see you well in the fading light, but he could find you even if he was blind. It was a pull you had, and it made his eyes trail down the bare trees along the river bank until they landed on you. He paused, smoke curling up his face as he slowly exhaled, the breath stolen from his lungs as you smiled. He’d never get tired of watching you. He kept his distance as you continued to talk to the sisters. He watched your mouth move, watched it fall open as you laughed at some comment the three sisters around you had shared. His heart raced and his palms grew damp at his sides.

He stayed out until the couple called everyone in for dinner. Their father’s voice startled him, made him jump and swear and stare at the all too human man who glanced over at him with a wicked grin. Sweeney grunted, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket. He took two long, angry puffs on his cigarette as he watched you stand and trail after the sisters. When it was spent, he flicked it out into the grass.

You wrinkled your nose at the action, stopping almost toe to toe with him. “Hey,” you whispered. Sweeney hummed and hunched his shoulders. “What’re we gonna do after this?” you asked.

He frowned. “After what?” he asked, then sniffed, “The Loa?”

“Yeah.”

He scratched his chin, his shoulders falling away from his ears as he finally looked away from your face for the first time. “Find the Dead Wife. Get my fuckin’ coin back…” He trailed off. His eyes found yours again. “Disappear,” he rasped, voice catching in his throat.

Your heart lurched. Thousands and thousands of thoughts raced through your head too fast for you to catch but just slow enough that they made your stomach drop further and further. You hesitantly asked, “What about Wednesday?”

His fingers stilled in his beard. They lifted away, almost too slowly, and gently – nervously – traced your jaw instead. He stepped closer, tilting your chin up as he cupped your face in both of his still damp palms. “Fuck ‘im,” he murmured, “Won’t find us.”

The thoughts stilled. Your stomach clenched, the nerves fluttering around inside almost making you sick as the dread turned to excitement far too quickly. “You promise?” Your voice – your fear and worry – were swallowed by him as he kissed you for the second time. You gave his wrists a gently squeeze and prayed the two of you could vanish when the time came. The prayer sank deep into Sweeney’s chest, igniting smoldering ash into a small flame.

A throat clearing pulled the two of you apart. The woman smiled when your eyes fell on her, and she waved through the open door. “Supper’s ready,” she said, “If y’all are hungry.” She hurried back inside.

You turned your attention back to Sweeney, who tilted his head. His palms squished into the fat of your cheeks. You made an unhappy sound, and he grinned. “’m starvin’,” he mumbled.

You wiggled your fingers into his palms, freeing your face from his torment, and tugged him inside. He kicked the door shut behind him.

~*~Thanks for Reading~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~

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#american gods #Pablo Schreiber #mad sweeney x reader #mad sweeney #mad sweeney/reader #the invasion #the invasion series

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