Chapter Text
Brigette had given him the okay to leave before Laura woke up again, it would be another day or two before she’d be released and they both weren’t needed here.
He promised to be there when she got home, and he is, just not at her house .
Sam keeps the bar closed for the night and makes sure to stock the fridge with everything her mouth watered over but was denied, ready to make anything her heart desired. Sweeney is in charge of everything else that needs getting, and thankfully it gives him something to do rather than worry or go out looking for a fight.
She still looks a little rung out when she comes shuffling in, wrapped up in the quilt he brought her like a shroud. Brigette carries her things, dropping them by the door and sauntering towards Sam's open arms, "There's mon amour, my fiery goddess." She grins as he kisses her like she's been gone weeks not days, and Laura thinks despite their meals on the side, it does really seem like he worships only her.
Sweeney isn't really sure how to approach her, not since the last time he saw her laid out and crying over a feeling she couldn't quite put into words. Luckily she saves him the trouble, shuffling in her blanket burrito to where he's sitting and just leans against him with a content sigh, "You're warm. "
His arms encircle her automatically, and it does feel noticeably different, there's less to her now in more ways than one. Her hand sneaks out of a fold in the blanket, reaching for the cigarette still burning in the ashtray but he's quicker, sliding it out of her reach.
"Nah, got somethin' better for ya." He nods towards the stairs, patting her head when she groans at the idea of climbing them, "Won't let ya fall, bug. C'mon."
He all but carries her up, letting her be the one to give the finger to the hoots and hollers from the bar about not wrecking a house that's closed for renovations and Brigette asking if Laura wanted to borrow a strap on.
It's not cold on the balcony, but her blanket seems comforting beyond a warmth factor so he doesn't bother asking if she wants to take it off. Despite clearly not feeling a hundred percent her smile glows with an impressive wattage for what's set out for her.
A pack of red Virginia Slims, three bottles of vodka ranging from classy to the kind she drank from plastic bottles in the parking lot of her high school prom, a glass of ice and a thimble. She's tearing through the cellophane of the cigarette pack before she can stop herself, patting down her mobile blanket fort for a lighter as if it had any storage capabilities.
"Ya sure they cleared you from the neck up as well as the waist down?" He teases, holding out his lighter and cupping a hand against the wind when she leans forward for the assist. He's pretty sure he sees her eyes roll back in her head at the first drag.
" Fuck , that is-" she struggles to articulate the sensation, letting the blanket slouch from her a little as if a single cigarette is warming her from the inside out, "so fucking good. Better than an orgasm after a dry spell." He holds back what he wants to say about savoring that feeling for the literal dry spell ahead.
She looks over the vodka bottles between drags, raising an eyebrow at him. He responds with a shrug, "Didn't know what ya liked." It feels strange, to have known him this long and never smoked or drank together on a regular basis, more of a voyeuristic system between them from the very start.
"And this?" She fits the thimble over her finger, thinks she can still smell the whiskey in it from her birthday, but maybe just remembering other events from that night that stuck out.
He smiles, not smug or sarcastic, just a relaxed expression that she would maybe define as fond, “Always been a size queen, figured you wanted the comparison. Was that or a sugar bowl full’a dirt.” There's something more to it that neither of them mentions, something sentimental and sweet and a list of other things they are not and will never be.
At least, not out loud.
He sees her gaze at the balcony railing, knowing the look of someone visiting another time while the world carries on around them. At least the film strip of memory playing behind her eyes appears to be a good rerun.
"Where ya at, love?" He cringes that he's repeating something similar to what's been asked of him in therapy, but its fitting.
She shrugs, still looking over the balcony like there's something she sees but can't show him, "Just thinking," she appears to hold heavier words in her mouth, letting lighter ones float to the surface instead, "that I way more than made it up to Audrey. Could at least have given me a shirt that says, 'I fucked my friend's husband and had their baby and all I got was this cool scar'." She shuffles the blanket around, pulling at her clothes to show off the line of stitches that run deep across the cradle of her hips.
He gives an impressed whistle, just barely touching at the hem of her shirt and getting a better look, "Not bad, not bad. Let me guess, I'd hate to see the other guy?" She laughs even though it sounds a bit like she chokes on it, "Yeah, something like that."
She makes him pour her some from each of the bottles, ending with the worst, and demands another game of Never Have I Ever while she smokes and downs vodka like she has a deficiency. She learns he’s been in love three times, hates John Wayne but likes Yul Brynner, and that at his lowest after the military he’d very nearly accepted an offer to be a hitman from a shady old man in a bar with a glass eye.
Once she’s more than feeling the effects of the alcohol, “Gotta work on that tolerance, darlin.”, and the nicotine is buzzing pleasantly through her, he convinces her to head back downstairs. House of the Rising Sun by The Animals drifts softly from the record player while Sam rolls a joint with sticky weed and a sprig of dried lavender. Before he can offer it to her, the somewhat sober part of her brain remembers something, flapping her hand in the direction of her bag by the door until Sweeney dutifully retrieves it for her.
“I got you guys stuff! Or, I stole you guys stuff, whatever.” She starts pulling various things out of the tote. For someone closely monitored and on a decent amount of drugs her skills as a hospital supply thief are impressive: Cans of numbing spray, tiny bottles of shampoo, several packs of batteries and a whole box of latex gloves soon cover the table.
Sam’s laugh rumbles from low in his chest, presenting the joint to her as if it were the key to the city, “The baron accepts your kind offerings, mon chere .” He bows, tipping his hat to her as Brigette laughs, “I’ll add as consort that the lady keep the batteries, somethin’ to hold her over in the meantime.” She winks at Sweeney, who just rolls his eyes and tries to be casual about the arm he throws behind Laura’s chair, a failed attempt to avoid looking like a protective guard dog.
“You’re holding my hair if I get sick from a fucking cross fade.” She warns as he does the polite thing and lights the joint for her with his zippo.
The record is changed to something she doesn’t totally recognize - a sullen female singer from the nineties, and Sam demands a truth from each of them before the lavender smoke is permitted to touch their lips.
Brigette could have saved a man in her care, but knew enough to let him die in the field.
Samedi is fairly confident he has a son, but doesn’t know for sure.
Sweeney is afraid that one day, the madness that touches him will refuse to let him go.
Laura let curiosity get the better of her and read her files. It was a boy.
To her credit, she does get sick only once that night and holds her own hair.
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
“Are you gonna ask?”
It's too vague, feels like a test, and Sweeney treads carefully. He’s never seen her drunk before, only witnessed her riding the waves of emotions that accompanied pregnancy, but it's cute so far as he can tell. She’s less guarded, openly as affectionate as she is abrupt. It's not much different than usual, in a way, maybe just touched with a bit more vulnerability.
He holds her in the dark, blankets kicked off as the alcohol did a far better job of warming her up, "I could,” he offers, kissing at her forehead and touching every part of her he can reach, ever careful of the sensitive reminder running across her lower stomach. It feels like years she’s been gone, holding tight to a time traveler that's seen and done so much while he just sat here that he can’t possibly know where to start to catch up, “or I never have to. Up to you."
She curls up against him and shakes with silent sobs, tears hot where they drop against him, purging something from deep inside he has no hope of reaching right now.
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
She feels herself leveling out over the next few weeks, thanks to cigarettes, alcohol, and the freedom to eat what she pleases without searching for it on an approved list prior to ingestion.
That, and the support net doesn’t dissolve like a tissue in the rain.
She still spends the nights she can’t sleep downstairs with Sam and midnight snacks, finally able to have her own drink instead of inhaling the fumes of his. She helps Brigette with her herb garden- no longer salivating at the sight of potting soil - and can more or less remember the dance steps she taught her. She makes dinner for Salim and Kai, and while it's not impressive in any capacity, they’re appreciative as they are smitten with one another.
Sweeney is somehow the unchanging constant in the chaos.
They can ignore each other for days at a time, circling back around every night even when she complains that he takes up too much room and he argues that she’s a sweaty furnace for syndrome so small. She still crawls into bed and breaks down from time to time, letting him hold her and silently grateful he doesn’t ask any questions when she doesn’t have any answers to give back.
The forced celibacy gets to her first, and she talks him into giving it a try three weeks in to disastrous results and an agreement after forty eight uncomfortable hours that maybe alternative activities will have to suffice until further notice.
He lets her climb on top of him one night, no intentions aside from closeness, looking up at her like she is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. There's something he's wanted to ask her, something he held back for fear she'd say no and he'd fuck up everything they’d clawed so hard to hold on to. Two hard people made fragile by proximity was dangerous and needed to be handled with kitten gloves.
But fuck it, might as well make another possibly bad decision.
They’re making out like teenagers for lack of anything better to do, taking his shot when they come up for air, "For that IOU, how about a pint at Mary's bar?"
"I guess. Where's that?" She’s straddling his hips, doing the math in her head down to the second of when science says they can finally go farther than a PG-13 rating without putting her back in the hospital, or at the very least in need of a donut pillow.
"Dublin."
"Like, Ohio?"
" Fuck no."
He watches the gears turn in her head, the usual mischievous glint gone and replaced with something unreadable. He's about to recant, just tell her to forget he asked, but before he can she answers with no trace of a question in her voice.
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he kisses her so hard he swears he can taste dirt.
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Two months later they're drinking in the airport bar.
Really, it's the third one that day, but he can't say no to her when she wants to stop at every watering hole they pass to make up for what she's missed. He'd never say it out loud, but it's downright adorable every time she orders the biggest drink they offer, wrapping her small hands around it and pulling it to her with her eyes wide and excited. It makes something in his chest flutter warmly, seeing her happy.
"Wanna join the mile high club?" She asks, spinning in her bar stool after downing her drink as if daring her body to keep down the contents of her stomach. He's suddenly reminded of ordering her buckets and ginger ales when they first met.
"Not a chance, darlin. You are travel size. I'm damn sure not." He finishes his whiskey, hearing their boarding announcement and putting his foot out to stop her bar stool.
She frowns, but hops down before digging in his jacket for a wad of bills to leave on the bar. The thimble hanging from her bracelet jingles as she stands on her toes to kiss him while he's still sitting and at a convenient height.
It's something, seeing her this way. A far cry from the sad girl kicking her car in a parking lot, fucking up her relationships and shamelessly throwing up in the bushes. Not that those aren't things this version of Laura would still absolutely do, but she's no longer doing it with nothing behind her eyes. She feels alive, resurrected.
"Let's go , ginger minge!" And she's unapologetically a bitch, he's in love with every second of her he gets to experience.
It only takes a few strides to catch up, slinging his arm around her while they walk to the gate, “Get ready, bug. You’re gonna love the Twelve Pubs of Christmas.”