2019-11-16 - Boxes with Bows

Saturday morning, and the house is quiet. Corey's out of town for the weekend, who knows where Alfie is, and Sparrow may well still be in bed. But some people get up early and go running. Which means some people are almost certainly the most likely ones to hear the door when someone knocks on it at a perfectly reasonable hour for weekend deliveries. The polite woman on the other side of the door has a large, neatly wrapped box with a lid that will come off without tearing any of the wrapping paper and a big, wholly decorative bow on the top. She informs Monica that it's a delivery for, "Sparrow Jones? No signature necessary." Which is to say, please, take it, I have other deliveries to make.

Monica's not only awake. She's had a run, she's showered, she's meditated, and she's downed a (dairy-free) smoothie. Gotta work it. But if it's not sexy, it don't pay the bills! Or... something. Whatever the case, she's presently camped out in the living room, swiping through something on her iPad. But, then, the door. She waits just a minute to see if anyone else is going to get it. No. Then she's up, and padding across the floor in Ugg slippers. She answers the door, she flashes a smile, then blinks. "Jones?" she asks, curiously. But, well, how many Sparrows are there. So she takes it, thanks the lady, then turns back inside, walking the box to the living room. She sets it down. Then eyes it. Then slowly looks around.

"Sparrow?" she calls, just loud enough that it'll carry upstairs, but probably not wake anyone.

Something can be heard upstairs, though who knows what it was. Words, maybe, but not loud enough to actually translate through door and downstairs. Then there are steps, quick enough to suggest this is not just-woke-up lethargy, followed by door opening and a call back of, "Minute!" Door closes again and... Monica is left with the pretty package. All by herself. For, well... actually about a minute.

When Sparrow makes it down, she's got her red hair pulled back into a short, short ponytail, and she's wearing a baggy grey tee shirt with paint spatters on it--mostly dried--and a pair of mostly hidden shorts below it. There are still some smudges of colors tucked beneath her fingernails as she makes her way into the living room with a, "Hey. Hi. What's up?"

Now, Monica may have set to investigating this package herself. If Sparrow didn't answer. But that? That's prompt enough that when Sparrow comes downstairs, Monica's still just standing there, staring. She's got hands on her hips, which actually defines her waist, which is otherwise left formless by her overly-large tie-dye sweatshirt. She's bare legs, then, down to her feet. She looks to Sparrow, and her smile goes big, and her eyes go wide. "Look," she says, and gestures. "You got... box. Can I take a picture?" she asks. And then she's moving to get her phone. "Hashtag, my girl Phil's got a secret admirer!"

Sparrow might've been a bit too caught on Monica to catch the box at first, trailing up from hands-on-hips to meet her gaze, to catch that smile--and smile dopily right back--before... well, yeah, it's pretty easy to notice the Big Obvious Box when it's so plainly pointed out. "Uhm." She starts toward the box with a bemused expression, not entirely uncertain about the possible source, but working through the details. "Before or after I open it? If you wanna take a picture before, you gotta work fast." Because her fingers are already starting to trail along the edges of the lid, getting ready to open it.

Oh, Monica is fast! Soon as she has her phone she's... sprawling out on the floor? Yep! She lays right down on the floor, on her belly, and aims her phone at BOB... or at Sparrow. Both? "It is, like, my dream... to one day have as many people in love with me as you do," she opines, as she watches her housemate. "Cause this is like... damn!" ... Fake shutter sound, fake shutter sound.

Sparrow's nose crinkles at that expressed aspiration, but she doesn't offer any correction. Or count. It's been an interesting year. "You're ridiculous," is warm, affectionate, her curiosity about the box and its contents exceedingly briefly put on pause so she can angle another smile toward Monica. But then the lid is coming up, bow pressed to her chest as she peeks past to see what's inside. There's color, a lot of it, in the form of flowers: a single red rose; a blue hydrangea whose color is so close to aquamarine; a bright, vibrant yellow sunflower; an orange lily; and a black tulip which, really, is closer to a dark, dark gray. Beneath that layer of flowers, peeking out, there's a bottle filled with an amber liquid. She'll need to move the flowers to get a look. Which means she's going to have to set down the lid, but she's currently hiding behind it, the softness in her eyes suggesting an equally sweet smile behind that barrier. There's a very good chance she knows who this is from without needing any note.

Snap, snap! ... And then, oh, Monica just can't wait! She scrambles off her belly and to her knees. "Ohmygod!" she squeaks out, as she looks inside. "Look at that. Red, orange, yellow... green leaves, obvs, blue... and black. That's pretty close to violet," she says, smiling brightly. And then taking a picture. "This is some, like, grade A romance shit, Phil. Any chance you're planning to dump him so I can swoop in?" she asks, with a grin. And then she takes a picture.

"He knows I like grey," Sparrow says so very quietly of the nearly violet, the kinda rainbow, why it ends in that off shade. The redhead looks damned near bashful the way she's hiding behind the lid like that. Not that it masks the blush in her cheeks, the way they rise with her smile. Not like she's gonna hold the lid forever, anyway, setting it down beside the box so that she can reach in, carefully nudging aside the flowers to pull out the bottle of Highland Park 18 Year Scotch. With a little handwritten note attached, the print neat and blocky with the occasional flourish. The way she holds it to read it? Yeah, it's not difficult for a snooping roommate to peek, should she so choose. Hell, she might even get a picture. 'Best enjoyed in the company of someone who can provide stimulation of the body, mind and soul.' Unsigned. "I think I'm keeping this one."

Yes, Monica wants a peek! And she happens to know the best possibly way to get close enough to Sparrow to get a gander. She slides right on up to the other woman, then a hand goes out, and up the back of the redhead's shirt. It rests on the small of her back, on her bare flesh, just above shorts. "I'm just going to guess that's good scotch," she murmurs. Then gives a little giggle. "Who is it?!"

Well. That's certainly distracting. Sparrow looks to Monica before she gets to the end of that admittedly brief note, her hips canting just a teensy bit closer to the Colombian goddess. "It's, uh. Surprisingly good scotch." She laughs, quiet, a little giddy, and adds, "Barely tastes like rocks at all." Holding the bottle to her chest, she tips her head to her roommate's shoulder and murmurs, "Yule." Weird names attract, right? "He's a doctor. Medical examiner." Which means definitely older than Little Miss Barely Legal Enough to Drink This Bottle of Scotch She's Clutching. "He's fucking magical, Monica. So smart. And gorgeous. And fun and easy to sink into and just..." She flicks a look down at the flowers, smiling all the more girlishly. "Romantic." Who knew Sparrows went in for that kinda thing.

"... Yule?" Nevermind the attempts at seduction. That's jarring Monica right back to reality. Her nose scrunches up. "Damn, girl. Like-... okay, so... No slut shaming. But, like... I straight up cannot keep track of the number of men in your life." Beat. "Women, too? Like-... I'm super afraid I'm going to say shit and blow up your spot?" She blinks. "If these guys are that into you-... why are they cool with you sleeping with AJ all the time?"

Sparrow probably shouldn't keep hugging the scotch as if it were a teddy bear. It is not a teddy bear. Her smile doesn't falter one bit at Monica's commentary, though her brows to rise toward her bangs while she listens, snorting a laugh at the can't-keep-track. "Cuz I'm awesome?" she ventures, that arrogance only barely softened by how damned adorable she looks with that dopey smile and that booze-snuggling. "And honest," sounds a bit more sincere, and maybe a touch less certain. "And it's not that many." Yes, it is. "And you definitely don't need to censor yourself for me. Seriously. This is my chaos. I can manage it." With a look back to the box, to that near-rainbow, she murmurs, "Just gotta make sure it doesn't all fall apart when I stop having time for anyone else, right?" none too optimistically.

Monica leans down and kisses Sparrow's cheek, then draws away. "Castles... made of sand... drift into the sea. Eventually," she says, the words softly sort-of song. She steps back over to the couch and flops. "But good to know. I was pretty awkward with Gabriel. And then Garrett was all hashtag me too... and I was-... um. I was not ready for that news. But so long as you're not going to hate me forever for forgetting a name or some shit, we'll be fiiiiine."

Sparrow's eyes close reflexively for that affection, lashes--wholly lacking in mascara, gasp--still touched to her cheeks even as Monica drifts off. She peeks a sidelong look over her way when she hears the flopping. And then finally stops clutching that bottle to her chest as if it were precious. If only she knew how much it cost, maybe she'd never set it down. But she does. So that she can start picking up the flowers and kinda arranging them as best she can. Do they even own vases? Someone's probably sent over a vase. "Gabriel's chill," she tells Monica. "Real easy to be around. And Garrett might be the nicest guy on the planet. If you're into either, you get that it doesn't bother me, right?" But that's not the point, is it? "Are we still down for rules and wine?" Girl, stop.

"No, I get that-..." Monica pauses, and blinks, and laughs. "Babe, it's like, what... 9:30...?" she asks. Which apparently is relevant to this conversation?! "No, I mean... I get you're like super open and stuff. I'm just super not into, uh-...What'd you call it? Chaos?" she asks. Nose scrunch. "Not into chaos. Much happier just... being chill."

Sparrow clearly has no clue what time it is, staring at Monica wide-eyed. Sure. 9:30. Why not! But then she's moving. Toward the dining room which almost never sees any use. Probably a vase in there, right? Her laughter sounds quieter over there, on the other side of the wall, but it's not impossible to catch. "Fair, yeah." A cabinet opens, some glass slides around. "I'm still figuring chill out. Alfie's good at it. Just, ya know." She falls quiet there, maybe because she's actually found herself a vase, the cabinet door closing. When she comes back into view, the flowers are loosely arranged in a wide-mouthed milk glass vase which still needs some water. "Only so much I can learn from him while he's sleeping."

"Did you try sucking information out of him?" Monica asks, with faux-innocence. Her smile then goes big and bright. "I don't date. I especially don't date guys who are fucking my housemates. I don't date housemates. I don't fuck people I like." She flaps a hand. "I mean, not that I really fuck anyone and I'm sure I'm full of shit and my rules are, like, uh-... self. Uh. Delusions...?"

"Yes," Sparrow confirms--lies?--with a wide-eyed expression. "I just latch on every night. Like a lamprey." She even makes a really weird face... that almost certainly doesn't resemble a lamprey at all. But it is vaguely terrifying. Her face falls toward attentive neutrality as she listens to the rules. And the undermining of said rules. "I don't think you know what chill is either," is her only answer to all of that before she's stalking kitchenward to go get some water in this thing.

Monica can't help snort out a laugh at that face. And before it's over? Yes, her phone is up, and she snaps a picture of Sparrow-suck-face. That has her smiling, to be sure! But then the rest, and she just laughs. "I'm perfectly calm, babe. I mean-..." she gives a little wave around. "Obviously not everyone's definition of chill. But..." she shrugs a single shoulder. "Easy. Happy."

Does Sparrow have enough self-consciousness to mind suck-face maybe ending up all over? Nah. Hell, she seems delighted by that reaction, from the laughter to the camera snap. When she returns from the kitchen, the flowers are gone left on the counter, which has her going back to the bottle to pick it up on her way to the couch to flop down near Monica. "Just sounds like a lot of nonsense that you don't actually abide. I know it's not at all that you don't have follow through, cuz look at you, so, like. Why bother with the bullshit if that's all it is?"

"Uh-... do you see me fucking anyone?" Monica asks, lifting one free hand and one iPhone hand into the air. "I mean... I definitely abide it. I just meant, like..." She considers for a moment, then drops her hands. "When we're in charge of ourselves, we make our own rules for ourselves. And the best part about that is that we usually go easy on ourselves when we break 'em," she says, with a sunny smile. "So. Should some prince charming ride along and buy me not-rainbow flowers and legal-to-fuck scotch... I might consider breaking my rules." Beat. "But, like, why would I want threeefffffoooooiiiive boyfriends?"

Sparrow's mouth opens. And then shuts. No, she's not gonna snark there. Neither is she gonna flirt. She listens. And dips her head in concession to the wisdom in Monica's words, her smile easy, untroubled, maybe still a little dopey because of the bottle she's holding and the references made to it, to her charming prince. That smile widens as she rolls her eyes for the question at the end. "I keep thinking I could trim back to three. Like, two and a half when you consider how Bax has never been that. But then I think, mm, would I really wanna say no to the rest given time and opportunity and no hurt feelings anywhere?" She shrugs, high. "Why would I? And if I'm going that far, why not farther, put out a little effort." Her shoulders finally sink. "I dunno. I'm happy, too."

"I mean, if you're honest? Then, like-..." Monica flaps a hand again. "There's no problem. And, like, theoretically... were we not living together? Maybe it'd be... you know. You know." She sounds just a bit awkward there. But moves on quickly. "Just too much for me I guess. I couldn't, like, not think about it all the time? But I'm glad you're happy. And... like... Log seems cool, judging by gifts. Garrett is so sweet. And Gabriel, he seemed great! ... For a cop." Beat. "Don't know... Bax?"

"I am super-good at not thinking," says Sparrow, the chemistry major who has got to think about some things some of the time. "These things, I mean. The more I think about them, the more I collapse in on myself. Like, even if it's just one. Numbers don't even matter there. I'm just really shit at thinking where feelings are concerned." One shoulder shrugs up as she adds, "Which helps with the honesty. Don't overthink it. Just blurt it out." Sinking into the corner of the couch, she notes, "Bax is my, I dunno. Bax. We've been whatever we are since high school. Middle school? I dunno." She waves a hand. Does any of that matter? "And Yule?" Log. "He's..." Eyes close as she exhales, lower lip caught beneath her teeth. "Exquisite. Perfect. I dunno. Dangerous. For all those sand castles. The fucking tide coming in, ya know?" Which might be more honesty than she meant to let out, but she's only blushing a little when she flashes a smile, almost shy. "We could still go out dancing or something, I dunno. You and me."

Monica turns a bit, then pulls her feet up, to sit cross-legged on the couch. She watches. She listens. She's in no hurry to do the nothing she has planned for the day, and watching Sparrow closely is a perfectly good pass-time. Just look at all those expressions! "Well. Dancing would be wonderful," she concludes, with a nod. "And you can always come run with me, if you need to not think! ... About things unrelated to how much running sucks?" She flashes a smile!

"Dancing would be wonderful," Sparrow agrees, surely why she proposed it. "Like a totally way more fun thing to do with our bodies other than running." Beat. "Though Yule runs too. I can send all my boyfriends off running with you for maximum awkwardness." She's almost certainly joking, her tone going all dry like that, but who knows. She lets that hang for a little too long, like she's haunted by the thought. That expression? Yeah, vaguely haunted. Briefly. "Anyway. We're doing Thanksgiving here. With our family. And whoever else comes by. If you're in town. But I totally get if you've got your own family stuff or, I dunno, just don't wanna meet our parents."

"Oh, yeah. He can do like Garrett and 'let me set the pace'. Aye kay aye, stare at my ass the whole run," Monica says, with a grin on her lips. If it's true, she's surely not upset over it. "But, yeah, dancing." She nods. "Oh, uh-... no, I'm going to see my dad. In Yakima. Make sure he's-... not... come... fully unhinged?" she offers, with a face. "Speaking of, I promised to call him today. So-..." She unfolds those long legs and rises up. "Dancing. Soon?"

Sparrow's nose scrunches at the report on how that other run went, head shaking as if to suggest that wouldn't happen with the other guy, Monica's grin met with a hint of pensiveness. But dancing! And no Thanksgiving. Vague concern for Monica's dad flashes across her features, but she doesn't ask. She just confirms, "Soon." And... doesn't ogle too much. Not today. Not when she can tip that bottle down from her chest and stare at it instead. Like it might do something. Let's hope it doesn't.

"Don't drink it all at once!" Monica calls, as she scampers on upstairs, to have a loud conversation in Spanish.