2019-12-09 - Christmas Quarters

It was an afternoon invitation, Yule's free of work - at least for the moment - to see if the red headed drummer wanted to come lounge, check out Christmas decorations, and see if there might not even be an ambush of siblings given the unpredictability of the Duchannes family next door. She was told to just come on in, that he'd be there. That might make, at first blush, it an odd thing when she arrives and the door is locked. Outside? The trailer has blue icicles that line it, not yet turned on given that the day hasn't faded into darkness yet, and wreath hangs from that door with a big, red bow.

Inside, when she gets in? The only lights on are Christmas lights, strung along the ceiling. A tiny, and real, tree sits on the side table. It's not a Charlie Brown special, but is bushy and full, making one wonder if there isn't a really nice tree with just the very top of it missing somewhere out in the forest. It's been decorated as well, though it has a couple of bare spots right out in the front, as if still waiting for a few more ornaments to be found and hung. So far? A single present rests besides the tree, a package about the size of a shoe box but a touch wider and not quite as tall. Silver wrapping paper has been meticulously wrapped around it, and on this one? The red ribbon and bow that goes around it does help to hold everything in place, adding another layer of intrigue and difficulty to whomever will need to unwrap it. And if one were to look at the tag, right on the corner? It's says, 'TO: Sparrow' in a nice, neatly written block handwriting that would be familiar.

Yule himself is lounging, a pair of flannel bottoms on in red and black checkered patterns, with a black sweater pulled on, and socks that cover his feet as he lounges on the couch in the very front of the trailer, reading his newspaper. The one other thing that might catch the eye? Right there on the edge of the kitchen counter is a book, the cover in spanish, but one thing that is universal? Among other names of poets, is Neruda.

Though it's only a ten minute drive, at most, from there to here, at least a half-hour passes between acceptance of the invitation and eventual arrival. Sparrow can be heard pulling up, shutting her car door, trying the door knob. The little laugh which answers its immovability doesn't carry through the door, her own private amusement that Yule will just have to imagine on his own. A few seconds later, door unlocked, the redhead steps in and peeks around. Today, she's in a big, comfy dark grey sweatshirt with a white-line sketch of Totoro on the front. Over a familiar white button-down, of course. The denim hem of a short skirt peeks past the low-hanging edges of the dress shirt, her legs otherwise bare down to her red Docs despite the chilly weather.

Repocketing her keys, she moves first toward the tree to take a peek at that present, her second laugh easily caught, even quite as it is. The eyeroll that goes with it? Definitely missed. She looks to the back of the trailer first before catching a faint crinkle of paper and following the sound toward the front of the trailer. "Am I meant to wait?"

A finger lifts, all to tug down the corner of his paper, peering over it to observe and watch as she first goes towards that package, lured as directly as he had certainly expected her to be towards it. "Of course you are. The anticipation is half of it, isn't it? The build up. The guessing. The wonderment. But I'll give you a hint." A beat of a pause, as he offers a faint smile towards her, "It's not a pony."

That paper is folded up, back down and into it's smallest, normal state of being. "But, I will send it home with you sooner than later, since I don't know that I'll be here for Christmas itself. And I won't have you wait longer than that." Comes his words of offering, even as his eyes drop down briefly to the front of that sweatshirt. "I love this time of year," He's mentioned it more than once, after all. "All the little rituals created. Like ornaments. I never had a big tree in NYC either, but I'd always buy a new ornament or three each year. Or have them made. Something to celebrate the new things in life, that time of year." It's a gentle pat to the spot next to him on that front couch, an invitation rather than a demand, leaving it up to her how much she wishes to explore first before settling in. "So. I have a favor to ask of you."

"You wouldn't even know what pony to get," Sparrow quips dryly at that absolutely useless hint, the arch of her brows making plain how very unimpressed she is with his as-yet-unmeasured pony-picking-out skills. The curiosity turned to her shirt is answered in kind, short and shallow, one unasked question for what's read as another. But she's already on her way over, as soon as the paper is folded up. And until he pats the spot beside him? She might've been angling for a more intimate position than where she ends up, plunking down all nice and polite, only barely edging into his personal space without any hint of disappointment for that redirection. "I think I get where this is going, but if you wanna draw it out..." She grins over at Yule and waits patiently, eyes wide and expectant as her hands hook on her bare knee, legs neatly crossed.

"But I know exactly what crop to get you." Comes his counter towards her pony thoughts, both of those eyebrows arching upwards in a look of feigned innocence. A warm bit of laughter comes flowing from him for those last words, even as the arm closest to hers stretches out on the back of the sofa, body turning to better face her. He doesn't seek to broach that distance, only to make it clear his full focus is on her, attentive as he explains, "Nope. Just wanted you to know why it is important. Normally I'd pick something out. Add it up. But I'd like you to make one that captures... us. Or maybe we figure out a way to do it together. Either way. Just don't make it so large it topples over my whole tree." Comes the one criterea set fourth for this particular endeavor. The sweatshirt? Whatever he thinks of it, it's not the redirect he goes for just yet, tucked away for later. "Had something happen," Work, it sounds like, given the vagueness, but the what isn't the important part. "made me think about our tarot card reading. Not that it hadn't been on my mind now and again since we got back."

Sparrow laughs, bright and delighted, even as she holds out her right hand and curls her fingers into a loose fist. "Something that'll fit my grip just right?" she teases right back, brows arched in pointed, albeit playful, challenge. Unlike Yule, she has no problem closing the distance once his arm stretches out behind her, tilting in close to nuzzle at his cheek contentedly. Today, there's less of him on her, nothing applied to that familiar shirt, the contrasting notes of plum and vetiver, honey and opium tar, lending her a sweetly floral allure, rooted in smoke and shadow. No kiss comes. No catch of teeth. Just that happy press of her face to his as she listens.

When she draws back, a flicker of something more serious crosses her face, an answer to that unspecified something. Quietly, she tells him, "And I had a dream last night. Or something. I dunno." Brighter, she pushes forward with, "But!" as her smile comes back. "Let's start with this, yeah? Do you still carry cash?"

"Oh, I'm certain it will fit just right," Though the part about her grip? That's ever so convienently left out. A deep breath is inhaled and savored, catching those different notes, a low note of pleasure found for them even as he takes a precious few seconds to just bask in that affection and closeness, the nuzzle of cheeks and faces. "Pretty sure I'll have to wear my spurs to deal with you." Comes the last note of his quip back towards that challenge, a sly smile touching on his features even as his arm lowers down to lazily encircle her, no desire further than just a wish for more touching.

"Yeah? A dream?" But just what he means by that is delayed by what feels like a sudden veer into entirely different territory, and up one brow arches in a clearly intrigued fashion. "Yeah, I do. This sounds like the beginning of some horribly cheesy magic trick that is heavy on trick and light on magic." Comes his note of playful challenge in return, encouraging her to continue on with this train of thought. "Why?"

Sparrow's eyes flash wide and unconvincingly innocent at the suggestion of spurs, the little grin which tweaks at her lips implying that she might, just maybe, be thinking about someone riding someone, but she doesn't linger there long. Neither does she circle back to the dream just yet. Sinking into that arm wrapped about her, she assures, "More magic than trick, promise," with that confident smile she wears so well. After a look over his person, at those pajama pants in particular, she turns her curiosity to the rest of the trailer and asks, "Where do you empty out your pockets, Nine?"

A warm bit of laughter spills to life again for that thought of more magic than trick, and it is adoration that dances in his features momentary for the sheer confidence she posesses in the statement. "Then I eagerly await to see what it is you have in store." Up a hand lifts, a single finger pointing towards the far end of the trailer as he explains, "Second drawer down on the side table next to the bed." The one just below the very first one she went snooping around on when she was here that first night. "At least, I'm assuming you are still looking for cash, rather than thinking about what might be left in my pants." He murmurs when she glances down to his particular attire for the afternoon.

As soon as Yule points, Sparrow presses in again, this time to nip lightly at his cheek, a playful bite that barely grazes skin before she's up and off to follow those directions. The way her fingers trail over that well-wrapped package on the way, one might worry, briefly, that she might get lost or waylaid, but her resolve holds in the end. "Always thinking about what's in your pants," comes with a shrug, like this was just her burden to bear, one she's learning to live with. Once she's disappeared into the bedroom, needing to slip to the side to get to that end table, the drawer can be heard opening, a little rummaging being done. Chances are, when he checks back later, all the bills are still there, nothing stolen despite the ease with which could've pocketed a twenty or three. What she comes back with are a pair of quarters, caught between thumb and index finger, held up and rubbed together to make a quiet scraping sound. Just to show him. "I'mma assume you don't have an Art Emergency Kit just lying around here," comes as she pockets the pair of coins. "I'll be right back, alright?"

It's the briefest pause he encourages her when she begins to stand, that arm pulling back to make it easier at first, until it grips her arm to hold her still. In she's drawn after she's had her way with his cheek, so that he? Can claim a kiss right upon her lips, nestling in to savor it. It's a slow, smoldering thing that is more contentment than desire, the true welcome and greeting that had been saved for her until that very moment. As lips part, his fingers unfurl, letting her head on her way. Those quarters are eyed, one dark brow arching upwards with approval for where he thinks it is going, before a soft snort of amusement comes from him. "No. Not unless super glue and a small sewing kit counts as an Art Emergency Kit." It's delight and amusement for this process she goes through that he doesn't bother to hide, head dipping into an understanding nod. "Yeah, sure. Go and feed the meter, Cards. Better put in as much change as it allows." Not that there is a meter to be seen anywhere near the trailer park.

Sparrow might be inclined to accuse Yule of being a thief, stealing a kiss like that, but she's off to go take his money. And she'd be very hard pressed to argue that her side of that affection was anything but enthusiastically willing, the way she presses in like that as if threatening to pin him there and abandon whatever other magic she had planned for a more intimate trick instead. But he legs her go and, after a moment's hesitation, she goes.

"Meter's already full up," she croons on her way out the door, like she took care of that imaginary task before bothering to come in. He might hear--see?--her open the bumper-sticker-spackled trunk of her red Kia, reaching in to pull out what may have once been a clear plastic case with a black handle. It has long since been painted over in a flood of abstract color, neon brushstrokes lending texture to layers of indigo and midnight. She brings this in with her and sets it down where she had been, sitting opposite Yule with the Art Emergency Kit in between them. When the lid is lifted, he might even catch the letters in pay-attention-to-me orange just above the latch: EAK. Okay, so maybe it's an Emergency Art Kit. She can't be perfect all the time. Inside, there's an assortment of paints, pastels, chalks and pencils, wires and ribbons and beads, brushes and tools and glue. And googly eyes of various sizes. "Can keep it simple, just wrap 'em up and hang 'em, or get as fancy as you'd like," comes with a lazy smile. "One red and one green, maybe? Dark shades with white stars?"

While she's outside? Yule returns to his paper, though it's only unfolded just barely enough to read a touch of what he had missed before, not expecting her to be gone for long. When the kit makes it's appearance, his eyes trail over it, and forward he leans to peer into it, even as he thinks out loud, "You are either far more prepared than what you like people to believe you are as an agent of chaos," A beat of a pause, "or you have a lot of art emergencies." Once more, the paper is put to the side, and he slips a but further to the front of the couch to better turn and twist to see the potentials. "Green and red," That part is easy enough, "With green and red ribbons twined together to hang it on the tree." Stars? Yes, that seems to suit well, but his thoughts are more focused on simple or fancy, on just how he seems it coming together. "It should be easy. We don't overthink it, just find what appeals to us together, and we will know when it is ready. I like the thought of stars, yeah. Constellations." A single finger extends out, poking and nudging around a few of those various tidbits as he looks them over, all to see what is underneath.

"First, you underestimate the chaos-causing capacity of googly eyes." Sparrow, who cannot google her eyes, gives her brows a little waggle. "Second, you might also underestimate the number of art emergencies which occur around here. And third?" This one gets a conspiratorial grin, the sort that lets Yule know she's letting him in on a secret, giving some insight into the truth. "I forgot to take it back in after visiting my parents last weekend." No mention of what she was doing there, but it clearly required the Kit. As he talks through the idea, she pulls out different components: red, green, black and white acrylic paints; red and green ribbons; a small tub of sealant; thin copper wire; pliers; brushes; and a pair of aluminum star-shaped beads. Not that she obstructs his inspection, working around his curious digits while she digs. "Easier if you've got an idea in mind first," she teases quietly, again revealing herself to be a planner despite her purposeful presentation to the contrary. "Gonna need a page of that paper, some paper towels and a cup of water." She got them this far. Next step is up to him.

It's her counting that has a small chuckle escaping from under his breath, and those brown eyes shift their focus evenly between his explorations and which ones she pulls out, each found to be to his liking. Only once she is done does he start to offer his own list, "First? The only chaos-causing eyes I want to see in my life are yours. Googling or not," As if that is merely secondary to the point she had been making about why there is the need to carry them around in the first place. "Second? I disagree. Sometimes? The best kind of easy is the sort that just spontaneously happens, dropping right next to you before you even realize there was an idea to be had." Up a brow lifts, looking directly to her as his case in point. "Thirdly," It's here he begins to get up, head leaning in so tantalizingly close to hers so that noses brush, lips nearing for a kiss that doesn't kiss. "I'll take that as a hint you'd like me to get those things, though I do enjoy pleases." Teeth snap in a faux bite that doesn't quite land with that playful tease of a thought just to round out his list, and then without that kiss gifted, he's standing up, heading further into the trailer and to the kitchen for the paper towels and the glass of water. "Use the front page, yeah? Done with that."

"No promises," Sparrow replies quietly to the first point, preemptively implicating herself in any googly-eye-associated vandalism that may or may not find its way into Yule's life. Her humor dims a touch at his second point, head shaking as he stands up and leans in so very deliciously close. How can she not tilt in, breath held in anticipation? Let out on laughter, then, when he doesn't quite bite, as she tracks his departure. "And I enjoy watching you walk away, but I'll keep that in mind for next time." Once she's done checking him out, she considers the space they've got to work with, the limited flat surfaces in the trailer... and then slides off the couch onto the floor to set up the newspaper there.

As she gets everything arranged, she explains, "I don't disagree about that kinda easy, but I do think you can't just apply that logic everywhere. Maybe there are other people who can make art without some idea in their head already and have it not come out sloppy, but that's never worked for me. I map. Always. And it goes its own places while I'm working, sure, but I always have some idea of where I'm going. So that I know when I get there." Looking up to peer down the trailer at him, brows arched high, she preemptively quips, "And you know I'm not like that in every facet of my life, so don't even try getting all cutesy and philosophical on me. I see where we're going in my head, Nine, and I'mma get us there, alright? You tasked me, and I happily oblige."

"Never could get the hang of art, myself. Lack of raw talent, for starters. But things like that? Can be learned. It was more the," His brow furrows as he considers, a cupboard opened to pull out a glass first, before on the facet comes to start filling it three quarters full with water. "vision, yeah? Tracing is easy. Making something again that has already been made. Couldn't carry a tune well, so singing was out of it. But science? Science I always just got. Yeah, I get mapping. It's the same thing in my work. You have to know where you are going... even if you have to take detours because you find unexpected things." Nope, not an ounce of contesting her point that it's an all or nothing.

But that's all because his mind has been dwelling on something else she said, a thread to pull even if she hadn't meant it in that way. Paper towels are recovered, but he doesn't yet head towards her, leaning against that counter to watch as she begins setting up shop, so to speak, right there on the floor. "Yeah? Where are we going in your head?" Fingers curl around the glass, and with both of those things carried with, he comes to that spot on the floor, crouching down to carefully find a place where it won't easily get knocked over.

"For most of history, visual art has been pretty much entirely man's attempt to replicate what is rather than what they imagine," Sparrow points out, not entirely buying that line about vision. "Problem we've got here is that we have no idea what starry Christmas Quarters look like. Neither of us have ever seen 'em. So, we gotta figure that out for ourselves." While she talks, she mixes paint, creating gradients in red and green, from bright to black. Quarters set down in the center of the page, she nudges one in Yule's direction, giving him an expectant look. "We'll start with color. One side, let it dry, then do the other and sides. And then we let that dry. Then we'll spatter on some stars, hand paint one or two. Let that dry." She can't help the laughter creeping into her voice. "Flip, repeat. And once that's dry." She taps the tub of sealant then adds with humor that would be try were it not for the giggle caught beneath it, "Then let that dry. Art is not for the impatient. We might wanna distract ourselves for a little while at that point, before we come back to frame 'em in wire and affix the stars and ribbons." She was not kidding when she said she knew where they were going. Not even a little bit. She might be blushing just a teensy tiny bit now that she's reached the end of her craft-babbling. "You ready?"

"Their perception of it, yeah? Sure, the movement to portraits and wanting to capture what is reality. But even then, when you look out upon a canvas, the /art/," Which in Yule's mind, is different than just putting things down on paper, "Creates purpose. The artist makes choices, when looking at a landscape, what they want to draw attention to. Which parts will be detailed out, versus which are left with less. We could say the same about photography. But just because you have a camera? Doesn't mean you are an artist. It's knowing the moment to capture. Knowing where to focus, how to line up the shot. That, at least to me? That /vision/ rather than just saying, 'Hey, here is a hill, I'm going to draw it?' is what makes it art." Those tones are warm, engaging, every bit of him curious to see her own thoughts on that particular perspective, enough so that it takes him a second to realize that, yes, they are actually doing something here with their hands.

There is a dubious expression cast down towards the quarter, but as she outlines that roadmap, it draws a sense of understanding. All doable, and patience? Is something the man is all about. A finger comes down to slide the quarter she nudged his way a touch more to his side, and the colors he tries to drag his way? Aren't the greens, but the reds, clearly in a mind to make the one that represents her, rather than himself. "Yeah. I'm ready. And I'm certain we can find something suitable to distract ourselves with, when the time comes to that."

"Alright." Light and easy acceptance. Sparrow not only issues no further objection now that Yule's explained what he meant, but she regards him all the more fondly for it. When he angles for the red paint, she issues no objection, only tells him, "Don't overthink it. Can be as many or as few shades as you'd like, high contrast or smooth gradient," with a comfortable shrug. She lets the quarter stay on the paper as she starts to paint, creating an hombre effect, from blackish green on one side to a brighter shade on the other, swooping along a lazy curve. It really, really doesn't take long, small as the canvas is. "Even when I'm working on something I've mapped out, it kinda goes its own way once I'm in it. Deciding what to keep, what to change, what ideas to let go. I guess you do have to have an eye for it. Or the confidence to just do it even if you're not sure it looks right. Perfection doesn't get much done."

When her paintbrush falls still, time for the quarter to take a few minutes to dry enough that they can move on, she murmurs, "I was painting last night. That idea that hit while we were heading out to Seattle. Water." It's more complicated than that, but that's not really relevant to what she's trying to tell him. "Really in it, ya know? Just... happy. Feeling it. And--I don't... remember when it changed. Just there was sad, sorta. And other people, some I recognized, and this storm on the horizon. Like the Nothing from The Neverending Story." Looking up at Yule, she tells him, entirely straight-faced, "I made myself a werewolf, like Gmork, and slipped between worlds, out of that one and back here, back to where I was."

Yule listens while he concentrates at first, and he? Keeps it simple. It's a gradient that starts with a half circle in the upper left of the quarter with a brighter red, working it's way gradually darker by the time the curving line of paint is put down on the far edges. Those changes in contrast aren't blended, but nor does he pick shades dramatically apart, letting it gain detail up close, while looking smoother from further away. "Yeah. That's the key, right? One can follow all the notes in music, but if you focus on the process... you miss the /it/, whatever the it is that makes it art. That confidence, like you said, to just trust it'll work out when you go off plan."

He isn't quite as quick as she, though not far off, and when she gets to the story of what she was panting that his eyes lift up to focus on her. "So it was a Dream," His chin tucks down, that tone of understanding and emphasis, and rather than trying to make sense out of what was a creative world? He just absorbs it, letting it be without him poking and pucking at it all. Only her thoughts on it, "From happy to sad. How was it, at the very end? When you went from there back to here?"

"A lot of that comes down to the performance," Sparrow says of music. "Consider the same piece played by two different people. Like, mm." Her eyes roll up as she searches her brain for a good example. "Alexander Scriabin, yeah? He's got this one prelude, opus eleven, number eight, which... like... One of the most famous recordings of it has Sergei Rachmaninoff playing it, and I know that it should evoke something. This great composer playing another great composer, right? But I find it so fucking tepid, so boring. I guess it's art?" But it's not for her. "But then just pick up the pace a little, give it some passion? Some mania?" Her shoulders sink as she lets out a sound. "It's mad and frantic and fucking gorgeous." Catching that maybe she's gone a little astray, she flashes a faintly apologetic smile and refocuses. "Which is just to say that it's a little trickier when it comes to music. Or dance. Or whatever."

She sinks down more comfortably, pressing her shoulder to the couch cushions as she glances down at her green coin, still a little glossier than she'd like. "It was probably a Dream?" doesn't sound certain. "I don't remember falling asleep, but I don't remember how I got there either, so." Shrug. "I felt... powerful when I got back. Badass. I made a tear in the world and left because I meant to leave. I felt like I had some control."

"Far too common is the great mind who strays from their own road, believing they can take anothers creation and make it magnificient. But, I digress," A flicker of a smile as he catches her own redirection from that long tangeant they have gotten off on, watching his own coin as it dries. Here and there he puts on a second coat to even it out, to make certain it covers it as much as he wants it to be, in no rush to get to that second side. And does he take the time to ever so carefully paint the /edge/ of the quarter too, in a red so dark it might as well be black? Yes. Of course he does.

"Yeah? Sounds... like a Dream. Not just a matter of falling asleep. And sounds far better than my own experience yesterday," His tongue dips out, a moment of pause and actual hesitation from the man who so seldom gives into such uncertainty. "Quasi work related." He murmurs, leaving it up to her to pull or not.

Sparrow's blush brightens as Yule notes his digression, knowing full well how much farther hers had taken them. Though she gets back to her own quarter, starting on the other side, holding it between her fingers, a different swirl of green on the tails side, she looks up now and again, watching him work while they talk. "It was a better experience than any I've had so far. Better even than Pleasantville where everything was so insidiously nice." Beat. "Which isn't to say it felt safe. There was something on the horizon bearing down on all of us. But once the idea was there..." She breathes a quiet laugh, barely there, aware of how the disparate parts of their conversation are beginning to run into each other. That leaves her smiling, even as she looks up and tells him, "Whatever you want to share," as if it were simple as that. "For me? It's about you. Even if you were on the job. No lines blurred."

It's that red of her cheeks that earns her a lingering gaze while he waits for his coin to dry, given he's just added the paint onto the edges, too. "I don't know. Insidiously nice sounds like one of the worst things I can think of off the top of my head. I love easy. I love happy. I even love pleasant. But too nice is..." Horrible. His tongue dips out, a small grunt given as he flips his coin over finally, looking it over first to think about what he wants on this side. "Had a call to the mortuary. Not super uncommon. Sometimes things are found afterwards. Clearly had signs of foul play, so we were going to transport the victim back to the morgue when this storm came rumbling in. Bad one," His head just shakes, lips curling into a faint frown as he considers it, and then starts to paint on his coin. It's from the inside out, but this time it's in squares, at least as best he can manage, rather than the curves of the opposite side. "Next thing we knew? She woke up. Tried to sit up. All these bones cracking. Snapping."

An enthusiastic, "Right!?" is all Sparrow needs to add on the topic of Pleasantville, her eyes wide, the offness of it all still so fresh in her mind despite the weeks which have passed since. Is that a shudder? It might be a shudder. Thankfully, it does not unseat her hold of either coin or brush as she finishes up greening the quarter. Her, "Alright," is far more subdued as she listens, interjected quietly as he begins his explanation, setting the scene. She looks up at the mention of a storm, trying to recall if any of the rainstorms recently might've qualified as bad. When those last details come out, she just stares. No shock, no horror, just staring. "You said something..." but fuck if she can remember what. Just that some inkling of this possibility was already in her brain, finally given shape now. Whatever. It's not important. She shakes her head and tries to look back to her painting, to finish up the edges as she wonders, "What did you do?"

Those brown eyes remain focused on his work, making certain everything just as it should be, nevermind the fact it helps in the process of getting those thoughts out calmly, rather than dwelling too much on it. "She was disoriented. Said she had to warn us - Beth, local mortician, was there - and her jaw just.. snapped off. We strapped her down to the stretcher to stop her from... well, trying to get up. We had bigger problems to deal with, besides. Big bodied man who had woken up in the freezer storage." The creepy, dead body sort of freezer, rather than the more lovely, saves your ice cream sort, obviously. Only with those square painted, his chin lifts up, focusing upon the red head. "Breaking down the hinges of that heavy door."

Sparrow very carefully and very quietly sets her quarter down, the more recently painted side up. She dips her brush in the water, giving it a little rattle aginst the sides of the cup, then takes up a papertowel to start wiping it clean, her own distraction as she listens. Until the mention of the man coming out of the freezer. That has her eyes up, jaw tight, body still, more anger in her eyes than fear or concern, though even that's muted. After a few seconds of tense silence, she asks, "Was anyone hurt?"

"No. Not physically. Thankfully. I had my bag with me. Got a sedative out of it. Beth distracted him, I sedated him. And then a minute later? The storm had moved on. The police who had been upstairs waiting on us to arrange the transport called down, and then suddenly? The bodies were back just where they were supposed to be. No worse for the wear." A low breath is pushed out, those brown eyes watching Sparrow ever so carefully, focused on her features and the expressions that are seen, at least, if briefly. "Think Beth is new to it all. Need to have a talk with her soon. Make sure she's... well, as alright as she can be." There is a long moment of silence, Yule shifting to rest on his side while he waits for the paint to dry for his second go around. "Wasn't the fact they got up that bothered me. The one in the freezer? Scary, but not /scary/. It was the woman that we were in the process of moving. She just... looked so confused. Traumatized. Didn't understand what was happening to her."

"It's a lie," Sparrow tells him, sounding certain of it, even if she shouldn't be. "Like in the dreams. Everyone has a part to play, and hers was confused corpse." She finally seems to realize that she's still holding tight to her paintbrush, no longer cleaning it, and sets both the brush and the papertowel down to focus all her attention on Yule. "People keep telling me that the best way to handle a dream is to just see it through, let it play out. Play your role." Her disdain for that thought is palpable, what might otherwise be an adorable scrunch of her nose reading as a shallow sneer now. "But I dunno," melts some of that tension. "That wasn't a dream. Definitely a tear. The storm was part of it. Like the fog in the Kellys' basement. Maybe tears have different rules." The thought just sorta stops there, almost as if in the middle, but it doesn't look like she has any more to say, too busy studying Yule. Quietly, with concern she's trying to keep in check, she asks, "Are you alright?"

His own rection is a near mirror of hers as she explains what people tell her to do in dreams, mouth parting with some thought but it's swallowed, not feeding fuel to that particular fire at the moment. "Could be. Likely was, I suppose. Hadn't given it much thought as to /what/ it was until you mentioned it. Wonder what the catalyst is that-" But it's there he stops, his head just shaking a touch, not getting too far down into that rabbit hole, especially not when the drummers attention turns so sharply in his direction. A hand lifts, fingers reaching out to brush against her hair, ending up cupped against her palm. "Yeah. I'm fine. I'm going to be a bit jumpy and overly thorough in checking bodies for the next few weeks, I think," The one admission to the lingering effects that near anyone would have, at the least. "But, I know deep down, yeah. It wasn't real. Hell, might have even pulled a few of those fears from me, for all I know."

The hardness which had set into Sparrow's expression melts so readily at that contact, as her head tips toward Yule's fingers, eyes closing. Her hand catches on his, holding across the craft-sprawl that makes any deeper affection challenging, as she sighs and shakes her head. "That's not right," she breathes. When she opens her eyes, seeking his, she tells him, "It's not right to think of anything that can do very real things to you as not real. You can be physically injured in the Veil, in Dreams. Not just have your head fucked, but your body too. Just because we don't understand it and recognize it as part of the natural order does not make it any less real." So sayeth the scientist: this is not magic. She draws his hand up, pressing lips to knuckles. "It's terrible," she breathes against his skin, "and you're allowed to be afraid. I am."

"Her reaction, Sparrow. Those thoughts. That expression. The /role/ she played wasn't real. A part in a play. Yes, a play whose props are the real thing, sharp edges and full of danger. But you said it yourself. She was a lie. A very convincing one." His fingers adjust, brushing more of those knuckles against her lips, and for a moment? It's out the window, and to the trailer next door that those brown eyes drift when she speaks those last words. Yule lets silence settle in for several heartbeats, before he murmurs. "Yeah. Fucking horrifying, it was. Going to be a thought that lingers with me for a while, but can't let it win, now can we?" His attention comes back, and despite the heaviness of it all, the weight of those fears and thoughts? It's a smile that flickers to life when he finds her eyes. "Thanks. Good to have someone to be able to tell. Just to get it off my chest."

"Yeah." Quiet concession, agreement with what's real and what isn't. Which makes it all the worse, that it's both at once. But Sparrow's not going to think too hard on that right now. Not when the words which follow inspire a quiet laugh, when his smile encourages her own. Nodding, she assures, "Always. Work or not. You need to talk?" She'll listen. She even crosses her heart... ish. Which makes her smile skew wider. She gives his hand a squeeze before letting go, eyes brightening again as she tries to move past all that heaviness to ask, "Ready for some stars?"

They use a hard brush to spatter on some stars then a thin one to paint in a few brighter ones that play at being parts of larger constellations, the rest of their networks unseen. The conversation gets lighter as they work, as they apply a layer of clearcoat to both of the coins, as they talk holiday traditions and strange Christmas gifts, favorite things to do in the snow and the best flavors of hot cocoa. There might be a make-out break. There might be a scotch break. Maybe even both! Eventually, when they come back, she shows him how to carefully wrap the wire around the quarter, where to draw it across the painted surfaces to lock it in without obscuring the painting too much. Once they curly one end around the other, the star bead goes on to hide that twisted wire, the last bit of it looped to hold the twined red and green ribbon with secures the Two of Coins together. One more ornament to start filling in that blank spot on Yule's adorable little tree.