2019-07-30 - Unexpected Breakfast

Tuesday morning. Some low-key, low-volume pop music comes from the kitchen, not loud enough to wake anyone up, but just enough to assure someone in the house is already awake should the other inhabitants stir. It's just late enough that those with school or day jobs should have long since been on their way, but it's the middle of summer. Who needs to worry about that now? Sparrow certainly doesn't. She's nothing but relaxed as she sits at the kitchen table with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, reading something lazily on her phone with an occasional upward flick of her finger to scroll the text. However messy the kitchen might've been last night? There's no evidence it's been used, the space sparkling clean. Even the cereal and milk are put back where they belong. Not that the girl in MLP pajama shorts and an oversized navy blue sleepshirt is likely to claim any responsibility for, uh, being responsible. Nope. People who eat Fruity Pebbles are not responsible, surely.

A wobbly Wintersleep band shirt in white, with ink-black graphic of web-slinging whales and a simian head shooting flames from its eyes makes its way down the stairs on a bleary Alfie in search of a caffeine fix. Like many of his t-shirts, this one is oversized, hem at his thighs, covering much of his boxers beneath. Bared legs revealing that the tattoos do pick up, extending down thighs and calves to his ankles. His feet are bare of both socks and tattoos as he navigates his way across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen, to a coffee maker he checks for water and grounds before turning it on. He brushes his hair back (long, only on top) and makes a gesture like a half completed wave in the direction of Sparrow, her phone, and her Fruity Pebbles, whether or not she looks up. He hasn't seemed to notice the resident cleanliness yet.

It's possible that neither of the two people that are down in the common rooms of the house even realize she was there, not that Ash is particularly quiet as a mouse, but sleeping is actually a thing. There is now, however, the sound of someone coming down the stairs and heading in the direction of the kitchen and that person is not Corey. Although she is wearing one of his t-shirts, and panties as she zombies her way through the house and to the kitchen, an empty glass in her hand that she puts into the sink like this is all so very, very normal.

Sparrow looks up, not only to catch that wave, but to track the uncaffeinated, inked zombie's progress into the kitchen and over to the machinery which has clearly gone untouched this morning prior to his visit. With a wide smile and a wave of her spoon, she croons a cheerful, "Mornin'!" to Alfie. "There's cereal in the cupboard. Gonna have to wait for Corey if you want something fancy like waffles or omelettes but hey, sounds like he's up too." A little louder, she calls, "Alfie wants eggs!" to who she assumes is Corey. When it is, instead, Ash half-dressed like her brother who walks into the kitchen instead, her eyes widen, her lips part... and, after missing that half-a-beat, she notes ever so casually, "Eggs are in the fridge." Obviously.

Alfie says something garbled by the lethargy of distinct tiredness in reply to a cheerful 'Mornin'. He stays leaning against the counter as he waits on his coffee, a mug yet to be fetched. He yawns, mouth opening wide long before he lifts his forearm in front of it out of politeness. A gesture that turns to rubbing the sleep from his eyes before he answers the guidance as to breakfast with a singular groggy, "Coffee." Though he doesn't call out any denial of eggs being ordered for him. He blinks at Ash's arrival and abandons his - albeit terse - contributions to the conversation to look between her and Sparrow, as if to suss out what the appropriate way to behave would be, under these circumstances. He follows up Sparrow's mention of eggs with another round of, "Coffee." Though toned as an offer this time.

"You want eggs?" Ash glances back and forth between them, the slightest of amused smiles tugging at the corners of her mouth, "I'd be happy to make eggs, but I'm not really sure if I'd make them as well as Corey does." She doesn't go right for the fridge though, just in case they don't actually want her to be making any eggs, although she seems to be weirdly willing to do it. However the repeated coffee references cause her to nod, "Yes, oh my god...yes. Coffee would be amazing." All on board for the coffee train.

It then seems to slowly occur to her, and Ash pauses, "Ooooor I can walk back home. You guys can kick me out and I won't be upset."

"Sure." Was Alfie offering coffee to Sparrow, too? She accepts a cup all the same, gracious creature that she is. She sets her spoon down in her bowl, still half-full of its muted, milky rainbow, and taps a couple of things on her phone, killing the music and saving whatever she was reading for later. Or never. It takes all of five seconds, but it's five seconds of silence after Ash's offer to leave, and it's punctuated by a very direct look at the girl in her brother's shirt. "Ooooor we can skip right to the whole you break my brother's heart, I break your face part and move on. I mean, it's understood, right?" Her expression remains flat, save for her expectantly arched brows, for all of a heartbeat before she smiles. "Over medium. And if you can figure out how to make toast without a toaster..?"

Drips become drizzles as the coffee machine begins to produce the ground-bean mana that it is thusly titled for. Alfie slides along the counter to pull and cupboard open and produces three coffee cups in robin's egg blue - close, in shade, to the blue of his eyes. He sets both onto the counter next to the machine as he continues his coffee watching vigil. Not long now.
He waits until after Sparrow's flatly produced reply before he voices his own as if deeming his less important under these circumstances. "I vote eggs," he says, stringing together an almost-sentence at the options that Ash provides for them. "Scrambled with salsa and cheese. Do we have salsa?" he continues after a beat, filling the post-warning air with a gradual increase in the quantity of his own words. "I hope we have salsa."

There are a number of ways this can go. Ash could get upset. Ash could argue, say something defensive. Instead there is just a momentary look at Sparrow, one blink and then Ash moves towards the fridge to see about those eggs. When Alfie begins to add things to this order she begins to look more and more dubious of the situation, "Like salsa in the eggs, or just dumped on top of them?" She's still working on this idea of toast without a toaster.

"Ooh!" Sparrow's already moved on. Probably. Nevermind the way she tracks Ash's movement toward the fridge. "That sounds good. Sign me up for that." Salsa eggs, whether in or on. And, indeed, there is a half-empty jar of medium, chunky salsa in the fridge which surely accompanied a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips which are likely tucked away in a cabinet somewhere. Snacking staples. There are plenty of things their kitchen is missing, but the basics for easy munching are not among them. All that business concluded to her satisfaction, she plucks up her spoon again and gets back to her cereal.

"Like, added and mixed in the frying pan, the minute before it's done," Alfie explains in a voice that gets quieter and quieter as he approaches the end of the sentence. He turns when the coffee maker is down to drips and empties the pot evenly into the three cups, while late drops sizzle on the exposed hot plate beneath. Three cups of coffee. He sets one aside and picks up the other two and places them on the kitchen table - one for Sparrow and one for Ash - before he returns to the counter to claim the last for himself. He watches Sparrow curiously, from there, for her lane change back into business as usual. He sips. Making his way toward a humanlike state with the help of a stimulant.

"Right." Ash agrees with a nod that is probably more determined than confident. Eggs she can do. Slightly fancier eggs might be more of a questionable problem. But she gets out everything that she might need, eggs, butter, salsa, cheese. Then after a moment of hesitation she grabs milk as well to get everything piled up onto the counter. Then a much larger problem occurs to her, and she glances over like she's about to ask the pair of them if they know something before she notices that cup of coffee set down for her. She moves in that direction, picking it up before retreating back to the task of finding things to cook with, "I take it Corey's got an excellent dating history?"

Sparrow smiles all warm and easy to Alfie when he delivers that coffee. Which she doesn't yet touch. When Ash comes to collect her cup, she watches the other woman, tracking her all the way back to the counter. Her gaze shifts to Alfie at Ash's question, her brows arching as she flashes a small grin. He might know that what's about to come out of her mouth hasn't a lick of truth to it, depending on how much attention he paid back in high school. "Excellent," she agrees. "I mean, up until recently when his longterm high school sweetheart broke up with him for some jerk she met at NYU. He's been all sorts of broken up about it. Like, it's only been a week since I didn't have to listen to him crying himself to sleep at night." Bullshit. Every last word of it. So casually delivered before she starts drinking down the fruity milk from her cereal bowl.

There's a brief twitch of Alfie's lips toward a smile in reply to the one Sparrow gives him, as a residual of his empathic Glimmer sometimes makes the mirroring of expression kind of habitual. "I only just got back to town," Alfie replies where Corey's dating history is concerned, wielding the statement like a cross against any culpability where navigating relationships might be concerned. And he shrugs at the tale that Sparrow offers, if he is looked too for confirmation. Can neither confirm or deny that, regardless of the grin that he clearly saw. He will be Switzerland, holding the wallets and purses and watching the fallout. He takes another scalding sip of mana. Neither Ash or Sparrow's coffees are given cream or sugar by Alfie, likely an extension of him not having considered adding either to his own. And further evidence that he hasn't shared living space with anyone (under normal circumstances at least) in awhile.

If Corey or Sparrow, or even Alfie, like clean, neat, tidy kitchens while people cook they should never ask Ash to cook, because she's a wreck in the kitchen. There are banging noises, and lots of seemingly extra dishes that really don't need to be used, but are. However much of a mess she's making it she does get the eggs started, and probably can manage to not underdo them. Being over done is a big risk though.

"Yeah? Well, I'm sure that nothing could go wrong then, but I guess I should maybe break it to him really slow that I've got ten boyfriends. Yeah?" She glances over her shoulder at Sparrow, eyes wide, questioning. Worried about the potential fallout.

Sparrow's lips smack happily when she brings the bowl down, satisfied with that post-cereal treat. Getting to her feet, she makes for the sink, giving her bowl and spoon a quick wash. The former even gets a quick towel dry before it's put back into the cabinet, though she keeps hold of the latter. Her hand wraps around it as she holds up a fist to lift in Ash's direction. "Just remember what I said about your face." And ignore the faint hint of a crooked grin that might give her game away. She steals the milk and grabs some sugar, taking both back to the table where she sits back down to doctor her coffee. "And know that I am absolutely going to tell him you're the one who touched his preciouses if he asks." There might be a brief, worried flicker toward Ash's handling of the cookware. "But ten sounds like a lot to juggle. Where do you find time for all of that?" With a flicker of a look toward Switzerland, she asks, "How many boyfriends you got, Alfie?"

Alfie extends his sip, hiding behind his cup and watching Sparrow and Ash over the rim of it as the latter replies with a bombshell of her own. This could be the car wreck he's unable to walk away from watching - but with a broken metaphor in that one of the cars is already making him breakfast. More than one reason to stay in orbit of the kitchen interaction. Though he shows no concern for messes or the treatment of the present cookware. Switzerland. He only perks up and lowers his cup with raise of both brows when he's directly addressed, by Sparrow. He swallows.
"None?" he says, like it's a question. "I haven't really done much dating," he casually admits, afterward. "Like, at all." He offers something like the slightest hint of an apologetic smile, for not being available as a metric for measurement of manageable juggling. He glances at the eggs, assuring himself that they are being attended despite the conversation in play.

"Maybe ten is a bit much." Ash glances down at the pan, "And I'll tell him that you both made me cook breakfast upon threat of breaking my face. Totally will explain away any unsteady hand." She lifts her hands, and they are solid, but she wiggles them to mimic having shaky hands anyways. Then she goes back to doing what she's doing, grabbing the salsa and dumping it and the cheese into the eggs when they get near to being done. The question of time just gets ignored, instead she starts to head in the direction of plating food for the pair of them. "There's plenty of hot guys around here...just keep your eyes open and you'll run into like a dozen."

Sparrow barks a loud, genuine laugh at Ash's quick counter, at that obviously faked wobbling of otherwise steady hands. Were Corey not such a heavy sleeper, it might be enough--when paired with the smell of eggs and coffee--to wake him up. "Which, I mean, that's his fault really. For not dragging his ass down here to feed us." For Alfie's count, she lifts her mug in his direction, a subtle gesture that doesn't come with any count of her own. Instead, she tells Ash, "That sounds dangerous," of the streets filled with hot guys.

"My threatening demeanor and intimidating stature will really sell that claim," Alfie says, with utter dryness, as to being a party to said threat. He steps out of the way, free of the counter as Ash moves away from the stove to plate them food. "That looks right - good, even," he states, in a point of fact tone. Eggs, salsa, and cheese. Everything he asked for in a breakfast. "Thanks," he adds. And he arches a brow at the cup lifted in his direction before carrying his own to the table to sit, finally. "Especially if you're driving when you run into them," he quips, as a follow-up to Sparrow's reply to the local population density of those high on the scale of hotness.

"You have to hide the bodies..." Ash at least doesn't leave a mess? Well, no, she sort of cleans in the fact that the used dishes are getting set in the sink and have water run over them before she grabs her coffee. "You guys will have a garden, so there will be plenty of need for things like fertilizer. I bet I could convince Jens and Marcius to help dig the hole." She takes a quick sip, undoctered, of her coffee, "Maybe not, though."

"The problem becomes the hot-guy-shaped dents you have to keep getting banged out of the hood of your car," Sparrow points out as if this were a legitimate concern. "Guess I gotta add some auto shop to my fall cirriculum." As she collects her plate, she does a quick count of, well, plates. The one prepared for her is offered over to Ash without word, brows arched. It's not like she--who insisted on eggs in the first place--hasn't already had something for breakfast.

"That just sounds like more witnesses to worry about," Alfie adds, where Marius and Jens are concerned - on the topic of hiding the bodies. Having drifted easily into the absurd end of the conversation as he settles into his chair, hooking his feet around the legs of it as he leans forward with his forearms enveloped with crossed arms on the kitchen table - his coffee cup, set aside with room for eggs before him. Though, he'd get up, given enough time, to collect is own where it sits, without comment. And to Sparrow, "There's so much I have to learn about driving." Like hot-guy roadkill dents will be an important subject on some test along the way to being licensed.

"You sure?" Ash doesn't seem particularly worried one way or another about getting to eat any of the eggs, but she does also look willing to actually take the food if it is being offered. "Most of them dodge out of the way, unless you're hitting them at like, GTA speeds or something. And they'd be fine...totally wouldn't rat us out for a hundred bucks."

Sparrow nods and extends the plate further, letting Ash take it. No word. No worry. Sinking back into her seat, she reclaims her coffee, pale and sweet, and takes a happy sip. "We can be study buddies," she tells Alfie. "Just like old times." Nevermind that the current cirriculum is entirely imaginary. The easy smile which accompanies the sentiment seems wholly sincere. One finger extended from her mug to point at Ash, she says, "Sounds like you're footing the bill for the hush money. We'll try to be responsible and not take too many out." Only after she's said that does the wordplay hit her, a little snort of laughter at her own inadvertant joke giving her away.

"The voice of experience," Alfie dubs Ash. Bowing his head to this end, in brief, from his perch on the chair, leaning over the table. And he lifts his chin to watch as Sparrow offers the plate of food back over to Ash, a quiet observer to that particular interaction. Just like old times. That hint of apology in the slight smile that he manages makes a reappearance and he unhooks his ankles from the legs of his chair to stand and cross back to the counter to fetch his plate and a fork. "You can bring your mix CD," he says to Sparrow, a little late in his reminiscence as to ye olde study times as he carries breakfast to the table and sits once more.

Ash accepts the plate, and finds herself a fork to go along with it before she starts to eat the food with the quickness of someone that lives in a house with two giant guys that probably steal anything not consumed in ten seconds. Or someone that is used to eating in the thirty minute break of retail. She does at least pause, "Whoa....mix CD?"

Sparrow angles a wide, low-lidded smile to Alfie at his addendum, a lazy sort of pride to her posture. "Count on it," she promises before turning her attention to Ash. "I've got study mixes, workout mixes, sitting all lazy-like on a Tuesday morning in the kitchen mixes, unpacking mixes, roadtrip mixes, party mixes, gettin' some mixes, don't need none mixes..." She seems to think a few seconds before just sipping at her coffee, her fuel for making up mix themes all spent. "Though I'm not sure I've got anything that plays CDs anymore..."

Alfie, by contrast, eats with the lazy lethargy of someone who hasn't had to worry about time crunches in quite some time. He transports a forkful of cheese, salsa, and egg to his mouth and returns his fork to the plate until which time he sees fit to have another. He nods, bobbing his head. Further compliments to the chef. "Soundtracker extraordinaire," he confirms as praise for Sparrow as he reaches for his coffee to wash down his singular mouthful. "I might have a CD player at my parents' place," he notes, after swallowing. Though nothing local to within the house they're in, within this digital age.

"That's cool. I think my car still has a CD player, but I always just use Spotify." Ash offers, but then she quickly finished the eggs, moving to set the plate in the sink, "Hate to eat and run, but I work today and should probably shower and change for that. If you two, or Corey, get bored you can drop by for drinks at the bar."

With a double-tap of fingernail to phone, Sparrow nods toward Ash to confirm the more modern preference for Spotify. They're not in middle school anymore. Though, she does add low and teasing, "Unless nostalgia does it for ya," to Alfie. Though her brows arch curiously at the mention of 'the bar,' she doesn't ask which one, instead quipping, "Don't forget your pants," before sipping at her coffee some more.

Alfie and Ash's plates are before and after pictures of a missing meal. Alfie considers reaching for his fork to make more of a dent in his own. "Thanks again," he offers Ash, as she prepares to depart. He even provides some of a smirk at Sparrow's comment regarding their present company's intention to depart in a hurry and their current state of undress. But, instead answers what was directed at him. "I mean, nostalgia is something I haven't given much of a try," he admits.

"No time!" Ash calls as she makes a run for it, the stairs. She runs for the stairs. As funny as it might actually be for her to run across the lawns naked, she doesn't. Instead she heads up stairs, finds her pants, shoes and the rest of the things she came with before exiting with a quick, "Bye!"

Sparrow laughs, short and half-snorted, for the parting comment from Ash. For a moment, that's all she contributes, letting quiet scored by the footsteps up the stairs and overhead, the occasional scrape of fork against plate and intermittent sipping settle in the kitchen. It's nice. And almost certainly a rarity where she's concerned, her penchant for sound assuring that the peace won't last long. With a sly bit of side-eye to Alfie, she teases, "If you're up for a little experimentation..." An exaggerated brow-waggle follows as she watches him. "Remember the first time we were paired up? When we created Tiny Tommy Two-Tails?" Biology. Seventh grade. Experiments with flatworms.

That slight smirk keeps as Alfie feeds a couple more forkfuls of eggs to himself, while Ash is still upstairs. "Did you catch which bar?" Alfie asks Sparrow, as an afterthought, after Ash has darted away the second time, bound for parts outside the realms of 7 Oak. He scrunches up his nose some in an expression of 'oops'. Something he'll have to remember to ask, next time, given that he drifts back into the return to the conversation with a certain ease. Brow again lifting for the tease. "Always," he says, like a kind of flirtation game of chicken. One that provides the contrasts of the old and new Alfie.
His expression softens as he recalls. His brow going from lifted to knit into concentration with its partner. Like his older memories must be summoned with some degree of effort. He nods, eventually. "Probably the first time I chose fun over a letter grade," he admits. "Mrs. Chapman was pissed."

"Something to ask Corey," Sparrow asides on the question of which bar, "if I decide I wanna let him know I know." If one were to guess, she might be leaning toward not bothering, though it's difficult to pinpoint, that vague indifference about and noninvolvement toward her brother's love life subtle enough that even a natural empath might have difficulty identifying it. The 'always' fired back at her gets a far cleaner response, a little ping of mischief and interest, curiosity piqued. "Worth it," she croons, never having fussed over her own grades, never her own future at stake. Still smiling, her mouth opens, another thought along that same trail of memories ready to come out only to be derailed by some heavier thought that stills her lips and dims her humor, eyes dipping down to her coffee for a second. "You seem more like that Alfie now," preceeds a peek up to study his reaction.

Worth it. Alfie nods, utter agreement. He loses his thoughts on the bar for the dip into their past. "I mean, I had a note sent home. But still totally worth it." His plate of freshly cooked food is forgotten in this, this half-present half-time traveling moment of reminiscence that draws him out of his distracted shell. Though there's clear anxiety that goes with it, as he notices the somber edge of talking about a past when you know where it's headed. It arrives when Sparrow looks to her coffee. "Yeah," he agrees. Not the letter grade craving Alfie with all the club activities and none of the free time or freedom. "I don't know where the other Alfie went," he admits. "I don't know if I miss him. But I do know that I can't fill his shoes. Not if I want to stay-" he pauses, shrugs, and offers a more complete apologetic smile. "I was going to say 'sane'." He readjusts, bare calves brushing against the legs of his chair around where his ankles are again hooked.

"There." It's quiet by Sparrow standards, almost whispered, accompanied with a little nod toward Alfie as she looks to his lips. "You keep doing that. Smiling like that. Like you're answering something I'm not saying, and I don't know what to do with it." Sinking back into a more normal cadence and volume, she goes on, "Not that I need to do anything with it. It's yours. Whatever that itch is that makes your lips go like that. But--" She pauses, a glance turned toward the entrance to the kitchen, a couple seconds spent making sure the house is truly as quiet as it seems, no likelihood of unexpected guests or suddenly awake brothers walking in. Satisfied, she looks back to Alfie and tells him directly, "It's okay. Whatever it is? It's okay. Nothing owed. Nothing needed. We're good. You be whatever Alfie you need to be." With her smile coming back, crooked and impish, she adds, "Though, I mean, sane's good. If that's what you're choosing between."

Alfie almost fully forms that expression all over again, like an apology for his state of apology. He looks down at his plate to divert it, to send the trajectory of that smile elsewhere rather than its reflective target. And all the guilts and things meant to have been said stay there, as well, diverted and stored. He nods, slow, but with gradual acceptance as Sparrow assures him that they're good. If he doubts it, he doesn't dwell in that doubt. He lifts his regard from plate and sets in back on Sparrow. Not reverting back to distracted, but not falling into nostalgia either. "I'm glad," he admits. "I chose to check out this house when I did. Life was probably never going to be quite as fun without you around," he claims. That he missed her, unstated, but so entirely telegraphed.

"Well, I mean." Sparrow flashes her wide, trademark smile, entirely confident, totally cheesy, certain that the world is definitely more fun with her in it. A deflection of her own, a bright mask to hide anything softer underneath. "Less fun, less food and lacking soundtrack." With a quick flick of her gaze down to his shirt, she admits, "Though I'm not sure I can keep up with you anymore." Not that it sounds like a bad thing, especially give how she leans in a little, subconsciously, as if getting closer to the band tee might let her somehow hear their music. Whatever her thoughts had snagged on a moment ago, seems all cleared away by that all-good.

Alfie only tapers off the extent of the smile that he reflects, meeting Sparrow with a bright smile of his own that might have been more of the default of his in years past. "I have faith in you," he says, as to her keeping up with him. And, as she leans, he grabs his own shirt, low in the front, and stretches it out as if to make it easier for Sparrow to see. Sure, that lifts the hem some. Baring more thigh, more tattoo, and a return flash of boxers. "After all, I wouldn't have tanked a biology assignment for the sake of Tiny Tommy on my own," he claims, drawing the past into the present rather than sinking back into it - pinpoint access, rather than a dive into a stream where he has full knowledge of the drop that lies ahead.

Ceramic quietly scrapes wood as Sparrow sets her mug down while she tilts her head to get a better look at the stretched out shirt, smile growing wider. She leans closer still, one elbow on the table, and offers ever so thoughtfully, "If you're still in need of a good bad influence..." as her other hand reaches forward. Fingers catch on the leg of his boxers, under the fabric if they're loose enough, to give a little upward tug--if she manages it--to see if she can gauge how far up the ink goes. Shameless, and without explanation.

"Without a doubt," Alfie starts, as he leans back from the table to be as little a hindrance to Sparrow as she leans closer still. And as her hand starts to reach. "That's the best influence I could ever hope for." The leg of his boxers lifted, the ink trails briar thorns and symbols of inside jokes, of a personal nature to the point of lacking explanation and universally accepted symbols of fortune and freedom, caught among those pointy ends. The tattoos stay along the outside of his thighs and his hips, beneath, likely connecting directly with those of his torso beyond the shadow of his underwear. He follows her gaze from his angle with curiosity.

Sparrow traces her thumb in an imperfect arc along some of that dark ink as her smile grows wider, a brief tease of a touch that breaks off well before her inspection does. She studies those esoteric markings, a language she doesn't speak, as she accuses, "I'm beginning to think you might be the bad influence," with no small measure of amusement in her low-spoken tone. "Goading me with always and yes and... please." She looks up at that, dark brows lifted in inquiry. Does that last one fit? What she actually asks, though, is, "Are you a bad influence Alfie James Robertson? Should I be worried?"

Soft, smooth skin. The inked images don't change the texture of what Sparrow traces. Alfie breathes a little softer as he watches Sparrow's exploring inspection with his undivided attention. He lifts his brows a little, at that accusation, the robin's egg blue of his eyes portraying an innocence that isn't present in this moment when he follows up with a soft repetition of, "Please." And just a hint of mischief. He tilts his head right after, as he considers the dual question. To which he nods. Vaguely. Only to elaborate. "I think you're a bad influence. And I think I'm a bad influence. And that combining two bad influences might be a volatile mix. But I don't think that's anything to worry about, if it's what you're going for."

Sparrow's lips part with a skewing of her smile at the echo of that single syllable. She's not paying attention to that pale pretty blue of Alfie's eyes anymore, instead watching his mouth, how he forms every phoneme of that explanation as if the shape of the words might matter as much as their substance. Somewhere partway through, right around that suggestion of volatility, the hand holding the fabric of his boxers plants properly on his thigh, three fingers outside, index and thumb tucked under. She braces there, against that soft, smooth skin, as she leans forward, assures confidently, "I'm not worried," even if she'd been asking if she should be all of half-a-minute ago. Gaze flitting between his eyes and his lips, she goes in for the kiss...
Only to bump the table with her hip hard enough that her cup wobbles and falls about the same time her mouth finds his, spilling coffee as it rolls in an arc until stopped by its handle. If there weren't suddenly a rush of cream-cooled coffee soaking through her pajama shorts, she might have ignored the whole thing in favor of more interesting indulgences. Instead? She practically squeaks at the sudden stimulus, pulling back sharply.

Accelerant. That might be a good term to explain the process in which Alfie's own excitement, reflected in Sparrow's attention to his lips, and reflected once over in his empathic imitation serves a cycle that draws the beat of his heart to a rapid pace. And that draws a hitch out of his hips as her hand makes claim to the surface area of his thigh. It's easy for him not to hinder this cycle, that he must be aware of by now, with a trusted face with so much history. He falls into it, lets him pull him under, and lets their surroundings fade away. And it's because of this, that he doesn't see the spill coming.
Panicked confusion sets in first. About the sound that Sparrow emits and the way she withdraws so quickly. Did he do something, misread things? Clarity isn't much better, within the moment, as cooled coffee reenters a state of drizzle onto boxers and hem of prized band tee both. He jumps to his feet, following her up out of the chair, and into his own impact of hip-to-table that loudly jostles it and sends the same cup spinning across toward the table's opposite edge.

For a few seconds, there's only movement, sound, the pervasive smell of coffee spreading over everything. The scrape of Alfie's chair against the floor, the clatter and roll of the mug, the drip-drip-drizzle of spilled liquid. And then laughter. Loud and bright and briefly muffled by hands scrubbing over Sparrow's face, red and smiling when her hands come down. Brown eyes set on Alfie, that short distance away, and she steps purposefully forward, hands that had touched her face a second ago reaching out for his. "I'm gonna try this again." She hesitates just a second, studying his expression, making sure he's still as in that moment as she is despite the minor disaster still spreading right over there. Then she takes another step closer and follows through. No pulling back this time. Her lips press firmly to his, that contact softening only after it's held long enough to assure nothing's going to interfere again.

Alfie's laughter joins Sparrow's, complete with a little snort and a blush that settles into his cheeks as he rubs at his newly sore hip. It's the kind of nervous laughter that arrives half from humor and half from the shock of panic interrupting another strong emotion, causing an overload of sorts. Making for a more fidgety Alfie that is helped toward stillness by fingertips on his cheek as his blue eyes lift to meet her gaze and her assurance. "Please," he says, casting aside any doubt that despite mess and injury and moment interrupted, that things have changed at all. He reaches to her own hip, with his opposite hand. He lifts his chin to cover that minute difference in height, and his eyelashes brush against her cheek when they shut due to his eyes not closing until he's absolutely certain that their lips are about to lock. A contradiction in motion as warm, soft lips meet in a firm crush that is entirely reciprocated as the tension of that earlier panic leaves his posture entirely.

Sparrow's hips settle unevenly against his, weight more firmly present where his hand holds, shirt and shorts cool and damp from the spill they're both ignoring. Her chest against his, he can surely feel how she's stopped breathing, breath held as if time's stopped, as if there weren't still any dripping keeping imperfect measure just out of view. Not that those details seem much to matter right now as lips move against lips, parting in eager exploration as fingers seek out curiosities of their own. Just as the hand not curled against his jaw and keeping him right there, so close, sneaks under the low hem of his shirt, lifted intentionally, purposefully, and makes contact with skin, the angle of the kiss shifts. She opens her eyes, looking past Alfie, toward the entrance to the kitchen, the stairs beyond. And she stops, breaking the kiss reluctantly, murmuring a distracted, "Bad influence," against his lips. She probably means to withdraw, to clean up, to not do this right here in the middle of the coffee-covered kitchen... but she doesn't manage to put any more distance between them than that easily bridged inch between their lips.

A rocking motion to the kiss as lips part and allowance for the teasing of tongues unfolds, shoulders back and hips forward, drawing in, then reverse. Hips on his drawn back alongside fingertips angling and touching jaw. Sparrow's hand beneath Alfie's shirt drawing him more and more out of surroundings and into the act. His boxers cling to skin where soaked. When they part from their kiss without really truly parting, his shallowness of breath falls upon Sparrow directly in front of him. His eyes half open, hooded across those blue irises that check what's going on, as if awakened from a shared dream to see what has broken their spell of slumber. He makes a sound, something like agreement with the assessment. And he proves it through tease, nipping lightly at her bottom lip, tugging, releasing. Playful, with a face that fails to showcase sins committed.

Sparrow whimpers at that nip, as she leans into it, as fingers against his flank curl tighter and pull closer. Damned near everything inside her is ringing yes. It's just that one big blaring warning buzzer going off that has her pulling back again, forehead to his to keep distance between their lips. "Shared space. Corey." With a quick surge forward, she steals another firm kiss before releasing, stepping back, fingers fleeing skin. Despite the bright color in her cheeks, she smiles wide and jokes, "I hadn't expected that to be so successful." She flicks a look down his body which inevitably allows her to catch the puddle of coffee at her own feet which, in turn, sets her to motion, moving to snag some towels.