2019-10-20 - The Right Kind of Grey

Sunday mornings are meant to be lazy. Sparrow could definitely be spending her Sunday morning doing a whole lot of nothing, sprawled out in bed and letting the daylight slip by uncounted. Instead, she's up too early and outside, painting the posts holding up the porch awning, starting with a warm sunshiny yellow and ascending to oranges and pinks the higher she goes. At the moment, she stands on a short stool, filling in some violet at the very top, uplifted arms revealing the layers she's wearing, a white tee shirt beneath her black sweatshirt, both of which are paired with obnoxiously rainbow plaid pajama pants, none of which are keeping her bare feet warm while she works. Out of respect for other people's lazy days, her music--some dreamy, drifty pop--plays at an innocuous volume, not entirely impossible to make out from a few houses down, but nothing likely to filter past closed windows or doors either.

On the one hand, Gabriel Quintanilla looks like he might want to keel over. He is dabbing at his nose with a tissue and is coughing from time to time. But it is Sunday and he needs to get work in the garden done. He's got on a henley and jeans and is pushing a wheelbarrow of dirt in a bag from his car parked down near Sparrow's house and towards his own over at Eleven Oak!"

"Morning!" he calls out, then furrowing his brow and eyeing her. As if trying to imagine her in a poodle skirt and see if she matches his Dream.

Sparrow's nose scrunches reflexively at the pleasantness of a friendly neighborhood greeting, like it just doesn't hit the way it ought to. Her paintbrush pauses as she peeks past her uplifted arm at the man with his wheelbarrow with a faint twinge of suspicion. But no. He's in color. Human. Real. So is she. That bright, nearly neon red hair definitely confirms that she's not part of the monochrome world where they met. "Mr. Electrolux," is called out tentatively. Just cuz she dreamt it doesn't mean he did, too, right?

Gabe startles a little bit at the call from his neighbor, looking around, as if trying to see whether anyone else heard that. He then puts down his wheelbarrow. "I've actually got a Dyson, myself," he says, for the purposes of anyone else who might be around. But then he wanders closer, his brows furrowing.

"You too?" he asks, his voice low. "I mean, the dream? The black and white?"

Sparrow, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care who hears, like she might still be harboring some seed of defiance towards the over-involved neighbors from last night's dream. When Gabriel draws nearer, though, she abandons her project, stepping down from little step ladder to start cleaning the purple and pink from her brush. "Me too," she confirms, only looking up after to angle a weird smile up at her neighbor. "First time that's happened with people I don't really know and no one got swallowed up into random darkness and I wasn't filled with any persistent existential angst, so." TMI much? Her smile skews apologetic. "You ever experience something like that before?"

Gabriel shakes his head slightly when she comes down towards him. His eyes focus on her for a moment, and then he looks around again, keeping his voice low. "I mean. You. And me. We're like -- different? And have gifts or whatever?" Gabe doesn't quite have the words for it. "But I never had anything like that before. I thought I was hallucinating from this cold." Sure. Just a cold, Gabe.

"You?"

'Gifts' gives Sparrow pause. Sure, she glimmers. She can't help it. That doesn't make the direct questioning from someone she doesn't quite know any less novel. She caps the paint and sets the brush down on a paper towel before standing to her full height and looking Gabriel over. Aaaand taking a tiny step back at the mention of cold. Nope. Not getting sick. Nope. "You want some coffee or something?" doesn't directly answer any of his questions, but might imply some affirmatives all the same, that invitation to a longer conversation doing the heavy lifting for her.

You know what they say. People who have weird black-and-white dreams together stick together. That may not actually be a saying.

"Some coffee would be nice, yeah," says the detective, flashing a grin at Sparrow. He seems a little freaked out about all of this, truth be told, but is doing his best to clamp it down.

Sparrow isn't inviting the Sickness into her house again, but she gestures toward one of the chairs out on the porch, asking Gabriel, "How do you take it?" as she collects her phone and turns off her music on her way inside. For her part, she seems weirdly calm about all of this, though there might be some underlying anger providing a steady foundation that makes shakier emotions difficult to pick out.

Gabriel settles down into the offered chair, plunking into it with a sigh. He squeezes his eyes together. Not going to sneeze. Not going to sneeze. "Uh. Just a little milk and some sweetener, if you've got it. But honestly, I'll take it however you've got it." He waits for the coffee and then offers up, when she comes back, "I'm Gabe by the way. Quintanilla."

It only takes a couple of minutes, the Sunday morning world all quiet. And smelling a little of paint. From where Gabriel sits, it's easy to catch the most glaring imperfection in 7 Oak's landscaping: a dent in one of the shrubs in front of the porch where something fell on it, the greenery not quite yet fully recovered.

Sparrow carries a pair of mismatched mugs when she returns, both containing coffee of a similar slightly creamy shade. She hands the blue one with a cheerful stormcloud on it to the detective and keeps the plain yellow one for herself. It might be a little sweeter than most people take it, but it's warm and rich and lovely otherwise. "Sparrow Jones." Not even close to the name she gave in the dream last night. "Uh. Philomena Sparrow Jones." Closer. She sinks down into one of the other chairs with a quiet sigh. "Not my first shared dream, but also... I dunno. Not like the others. And... yeah. I guess I'm different. In ways that are kinda hard to explain."

When you're Hispanic, you're used to cafe con leche, so Gabe doesn't seem to mind it sweet, even if it is not the usual grumble-grumble, I like my coffee like I like my hearts, black sort of coffee that the detectives take in the movies.

"Hey. You don't need to tell me about hard to explain stuff." Gabe lifts his mug up towards in in a half salute, half cheers. "Nice to meet you, Sparrow. In living color." He gestures. "I'm down at 11 Oak." But then he can't help himself. "You need help with that shrub?" If she thinks on it, she might know Gabe's lawn is impeccable. One of the best on the block.

"Oh nice," comes with a little tip forward to look past 9 Oak to the house on the other side. Or maybe just to the lawn. It's a little difficult to get a good look from here. When Sparrow sinks back, she shakes her head with a, "Nah," about the shrub. "Gives it character," she declares... and then explains a little more honestly--and quietly--"And I'm kinda liking how imperfect it is right now. After last night." A pregnant pause follows as she taps a little at her coffee mug, sorting through some thoughts. "I, uh." Her eyebrows scrunch together just before she looks to Gabriel. "You seemed really comfortable there. In the dream." Is that a question? It sounds like a question.

"Yeah. It was a little Stepford Wives there." Gabe then sighs when she says that he looked comfortable in the Dream. "Yeah. I don't know. I woke up. And here I am, this Latino guy in the 50s, right? So I don't know if they're going to try to firebomb my house and tell me to go back to Mexico? And then there was that girl -- Lyric -- she was all up on me? And it felt easier to just go with the flow, you know? Ride out the storm and then you wake up."

A pause.

"Because it was just a dream, right?"

A crooked grin creeps through the unease as Sparrow eyes Gabriel, that glimmer of humor disappearing behind her mug as she sips, gone entirely when she draws her coffee down again. "Pretty sure I know what just-a-dream feels like." And, to judge by her tone, last night's shared hallucination doesn't quite qualify. "But yeah. Fair. Definitely was not uncomfortable leaning into whatever Pleasantville assumed about me and Bax." She holds out her left hand, fingers momentarily splayed, definitely missing the bling that had been there in the dream. "Until it wasn't. Once that first crack showed, I kinda wanted to tear at all of it." Which gets a wave toward the morning's work, toward the color she's shoving out into the world today, an expression of that lingering urge as if she might be warding off that black-and-white world. Faint grin returning, she circles back to, "Worse things to dream about than pretty girls enjoying your company."

Grant stirs and walks out of 9 Oak. His hair is not brushed for business and there's no cardigan. There's a t-shirt, boxers, a blanket wrapped around him and a violent pink spiky mess of hair drooping down on his head like some sort of tropical plant. He comes out through, awake and with coffee in hand presumably kick started this morning and took care of his Why hullo there's already but she gets a smooch to the top of her head. That's about all of him that's put together so far. in his other hand is a small grey box. He finds a chair on the porch and greets the neighbor with a tired smile. "Lo."

"Right?" says Gabe as Sparrow speaks of him and the pretty girl that ended up as his 'wife' yesterday in the dream. "I just figured, if it was just a dream, my subconscious could enjoy it." But then he woke up and it's real and -- "I have no idea if I should try to find out who that girl is and call her, or." But then Grant comes out and kisses Sparrow on the forehead and he laughs. "So you two are together?" He holds up a hand. "I'm Gabe, by the way. 11 Oak."

Sparrow's head tips toward the telltale shuffling, smiling up at Grant when he makes his way out. That smile goes a little dopey as her eyes close for the head-kiss, all happy for all of a heartbeat. Then Gabe's asking about togetherness. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out right away. Give her a second. "I mean. Not really?" She looks to the walking blanket for confirmation. Are they? Have they ever been? Easier to assert, "Definitely not married." Beat. "And he doesn't live here." Which might only serve to undermine that not-really-together thing she's trying to sell. Way to go, red. Moving on! Ahem. "You should totally find her. Lyric's rad. From what I remember. From, like, a few years ago." Townie. "And definitely cute. Though I would not ask her to cook you any roasts for the first date. Definitely not progressive."

Grant drinks his coffee and looks at Gabe while he speaks going for the gist, key words, and contextual agreement from gesture and body language. He looks back to the dopy smile and the curious shift answering the question. Settling into his chair he shakes his head declaring, "I've not had my shit together for... yet. Who really does though?" G-Bax, steering the conversation entirely off road. It takes a moment for him to gather, "Us? We is when we is, and we ain't when we ain't, and she's always amazing. " Truth. He croaks in that morning drawl, "Sometimes life's an organic thing you shouldn't overthink man. You miss out on it." He sips his coffee and says "DJ. She's a DJ." The coffee is set down and the small box in hand opens and he pulls out a wire and a small battery pack attached that fits in his fingers that's as purple as his hair and a tiny brush that snaps into the lid to give it a scrub.

Gabriel wasn't all that invested in whether Sparrow and Grant are actually together, so he just nods his head at that sort-of-kind-of answers that both of them provide. "Well. Hey. Nothing wrong with just enjoying life," he suggests, a sort of platitude that navigates him around the issue.

At the explanation of who Lyric is, Gabe just nods. "And a good kisser." He can attest to that much. "A bit young. But. God. I thought it was just a dream." Crossing over to Real Life seems to freak him out a little. "I don't know if I should apologize or what."

Sparrow angles a look that pretty plainly reads you-get-me to Grant when he sums their is-and-ain't up so succinctly. And, well, declares her pepertually amazing. "That's true." No modesty. She blows an air-kiss his direction in response and signs a sloppy, one-handed, <<You're kinda awesome too,>> his way. Yeah, she caught that bleary-eyed half-awareness. And the box. Gabe's comment about Lyric's age earns him an amused look as she notes, "Older than us," even as she holds up her empty hand to suggest that it's really, really not by much. "I vote for a thank you for her graciousness and an invitation to get to know her better to maybe lay some fitting groundwork for kissing her again. Cuz it is always worth pursuing the good kissers." And, to that, she toasts, mug lifted a little and coffee sipped.

Grant signs in short hand <<Yes. Me? Mes.>> He gets the first scrubbed and set aside to work on the other one. Able to hear, or not? He's fine with. Having asymmetric input and getting vertigo? Not so much. As he's looking down and taking care of his morning routine and not looking up he says with a mumble. "DJ at Platinum Cabaret." see he's helpful on the 'who'. Sorted he starts fitting things into his ears, ticking them behind and putting the brush back in the case which is set to the side for now. No pockets man. "Sooo you some sort of vacuum cleaner salesman or what's up?"

At the mention of the Platinum Cabaret, Gabe's eyes flash. It appears that the detective has heard of the place. And who it is associated with. "Huh. Well. That's a good idea," he says, neutrally, to Sparrow, accepting her advice. "Just. It's going to sound like such a line. 'Hi, we kissed in our dreams.'" He laughs. But then there is a question about what he does. "Huh? Oh. No. I'm a detective. Homicide."

"Ooh," Sparrow perks slightly at the mention of where Lyric DJs, waiting until Grant can hear before she poses, "We should patronize sometime." Looking to Gabe, she notes of the strip club, "They put together a fantastic amateur night." There's even a teasing up-and-down of the detective like she might be imagining him taking the stage. Sip. "It's a good line." And she might even be willing to expound on that advice, but the whole homicide detective thing catches her off-guard, like she hadn't expected Mr. Lawncare to be... well, that. "So, uh. Not to put you on the spot or anything, but are we safe? Cuz while I know these dreams are freaky and shit--" Understatement. She knows it's an understatement, the little twist of her lips expressing her mild irritation at how that might've sounded like she's downplaying that otherworldly strangeness. "--the whole bodies dropping like flies thing is way more concerning on a very real and immediate level."

Grant blinks and looks up to Gabriel with a wry grin "Yeah there was this dream the other night where I think I hit on my therapist." The amusement's too much as he drinks his coffee enjoying the brisk lazy morning. "That's gonna make for a really awkward next session lemme tell ya." Looking back to Sparrow, "At least the food didn't kill us like that dinner party I was at. So there's that." Stretching, but pulling the blanket around he doesn't seem overly alarmed by the event. "DIdn't have seahorses though. Not the best I've had." An eyebrow goes up and he looks to Gabriel with his face frozen for a moment. Detective? Is this fear? Is this concern? "PLEASE tell me your cellphone goes Bung-Bung! when you get a message like Law & Order???" really. His priorities are astounding.

Gabriel might have heard something in there about another dream and a dinner party where food killed, but Gabriel needs to keep his freakouts limited to one thing at a time, and Pleasantville is his current thing. So here we go. He has two questions pending. And he takes them in reverse order. As for his cellphone: "Uh. No. I keep it on vibrate, actually." Then, over to Sparrow. At her eyeing, he says, "I'm Latin, but I'm a cop. The dancing ability basically cancels out to 'white dude.'" He can be self-depricating. "As for safe? I mean, most murders are done by people the victim knows. I think our recent serial-killer spate is done. So ... yeah. No less safe here than anywhere else. But I get it's a lot." His answer is a little more hope than experience.

"It was boring," Sparrow says of the food in last night's dream like that's a way worse offense than a little attempted murder, referring very specifically to her creamsicle. The rocket pop was decidedly amazing by comparison. She masks her faint frown for his 'not the best' behind her mug, drowning her Dream-related feelings in coffee. Better to focus on Gabriel and counter, "But you're cute. So." Her empty hand holds out flat and rises up, marking him slightly higher than average white guy. Nothing to be done about it. "Definitely a lot," is a little quieter. "I mean, Gray Harbor's always been off, but the actual body count--" Rather than folks just disappearing. "--has been a bit much." Still, she nods, some measure of gratitude for the answer--or maybe the work.

Grant reaching over he lays a hand on Sparrow's arm. watching her curiously, "Oh shit." He signs to her <<*Scared, you? >> There's not a question there but observation and empathy. Her arm gets a pat of support and he works on his coffee. "Well I dunno about anyone else but I can still feel the damn pomade in my hair so... if I can borrow your shower, Phi, I'll be happy to trade you lunch to show you how very grateful I am. Eeh maybe sushi, I'm craving something with a lot of colour in it."

Sparrow's painting can wait, the porch posts standing mid-rainbow for the time being as she bids Gabriel goodbye, collects his cup and follows Grant in. "Sushi sounds absolutely divine," she declares. Outside, the world is still grey, but it's a better kind of grey than last night, an imperfect sort of grey that casts a gloomy pall across Gray Harbor without actually draining it of its color. It's a grey she can tolerate. Especially while keeping colorful company.