2019-12-14 - Waffles & Welsh Whisky

Somebody lives in the nice part of town. In one of the larger houses on one of the nicer streets in the nice part of town. Stonework on the lower floors complemented by muted olive green siding, a detached two-car garage, fenced in backyard, well-kept lawn, spacious porch... If it weren't for the one wonky bush beside the front steps that looks like it has yet to recover from an earlier accident and the rainbow-painted porch-posts, 7 Oak Avenue might seem the very picture of suburban normality.

At the moment, the porchlight is on in defiance of the drizzly gloom, and some lights can be seen through windows on the first floor. The car in the driveway--is anyone using the garage?--is a red Kia sedan with a whole patchwork of kitschy, touristy bumper stickers plastered on its rear. Approaching, one might catch the muffled bass and snare of music that doesn't quite carry past the closed door.

Somebody else never has, though his current residence manages to lurk on the outskirts of the notably nice. That's definitely not any kind of accidental metaphor. Rhys has lived here all his life, so he knows what to expect from Oak... which is not the rainbow porch-posts. He grins as he approaches them. It's a warm autumn afternoon, but by timing and the fact that he doesn't appear to have parked anywhere, he's walked, so he's wearing a dark green henley shirt and jeans, but he's carrying a brown leather jacket over one shoulder and a bottle in his other hand by the neck. Unopened, but still, apparently he's not too worried about any cops bothering him for potentially drinking in public.

The Kia's stickers get an interested looking-over as he passes them, but he doesn't actually pause until he reaches the door. Once there, he listens to that muffled almost-music for a few moments before lifting his hand and uncurling one of the fingers to prod the bell.

The bumper stickers reference roadside attractions and small town strange across a wide swath of states, from diner-saurs to cheese barns, though none seem to reach the east coast. The paint to the porch posts seems fairly new, not likely to be more than a couple months old for how vibrant it is, for how little the dreary weather has gotten to it yet. What of the music can be heard from the wrong side of the door sounds low-key, a chill bassline keeping time.

There's no call to assure that the doorbell's been heard, and he'll have to strain to hear the footsteps which precede the door opening, the revelation of the music coming from some side room. There are a lot of side rooms. What's a college kid doing living in a place like this? Sparrow doesn't seem the least little bit out of place as she beams a bright smile at Rhys and steps aside to let him in without so much as a proper hello. She's barefoot, the whole outfit entirely casual, from the intentionally torn jeans to the dark grey tee that declares 'I <3 PRETTY BOYS' on the left side of her chest. Her make-up favors mulberry shades, more muted than her usual hues, though the aquamarine on her nails easily makes up for that. "Smells good, right?" And, really, whatever it is does smell rather nice. Something fruity and sweet, with smoky notes just underneath. There might be a peek outside for a car that isn't there just before she shuts the door behind him. Just like there might be a flicker of thought given toward his lips once the rest of the world is left behind. "Hi."

Diner-saurs! Okay, cheese barns sound interesting too, but... diner-saurs. Clearly someone knows how to road trip. Information filed for any future time it might come in handy.

Even from the door, yeah, it's clear there's a lot of side rooms in this place, and that does seem a little... above college paygrade. Family, maybe, or lots of roomies? Painted posts suggest ownership, but then again, college students... All kinds of interesting details here! And they can all kind of hang out in the background processing part of his brain when the door opens.

Sparrow gets a grin and a glance up and down, and he's clearly willing to hop past the 'hello' thing too, since he replies, "Smells delicious," as he steps by. Doesn't go too far, stopping a few steps in and turning to watch her as she glances outside. A small tilt of his head to indicate her shirt. "Guess I know what to bring you next time," he says, and yeah, there might be a flicker of thought given to her lips as well. Almost certainly, because the grin softens a touch as he takes a step closer to echo the "Hi," and lean in to see what just happens if he tries to steal a kiss.

"I never say no to more," Sparrow croons to Rhys at his quip about her shirt, the flirtatious dip of dark lashes assuring that he's a good start to that collection. Lips part as if she might apply some qualifier to that sentiment, but that step-and-lean steals every last ounce of her attention. Tilt reciprocated, the kiss might not count as wholly stolen for how freely it's given. The scent carrying from the kitchen can be caught on her lips, butter and bourbon and berries playing out a little differently for the notes of her perfume, adding lush plum and sweet honey, smoky vetiver and floral poppy. What might be best left to brevity is held longer, literally, as fingers catch along his jaw and hold for a few seconds more than might be polite for a simple hello so close to the door.

"Definitely delicious," spills half-laughed against his lips when she comes up for air, smiling dopily. It takes her another second to consider that maybe some personal space might be nice, drawing back to point to the coat rack by the door, a few items of disparate taste hung up already. "I'mma go check on..." What meal is this anyway? "Lunch?" It doesn't sound quite right, but she doesn't correct, taking a few steps toward the back of the house. "You get comfortable." With a tip of her head suggesting he should follow. "Brace for interrogation. And we'll work our away around to emergency procedure demonstrations, yeah?"

"What, never?" If Rhys's looking for an answer, he probably should've actually waited before kissing her. But he doesn't. And when she kisses back, his hand moves up, bottle and all, to press lightly at the back of her neck. A few seconds more than strictly polite for a greeting? Sure, that works for him. He smells subtly of spice and musk and vanilla, and even more faintly of the sea, and tastes, thankfully, a whole lot better than wrestling jello. Previous established, yes, but still... good to be sure.

The smile when they break for air is also a touch goofy, but it settles out to the more usual flavour as she draws back. "Lunch," he agrees easily, whatever the most logical option might otherwise have been. A nod as he follows the point, and he heads over to hang up the coat amongst the others there. "How strongly should I be bracing, here? Should I await tricky questions that ferret out all the little fibs and contradictions of a man's life, or are we talking bound to a chair under hot lights with some strange black-market truth serum? I should warn you the second option might get in the way of my demonstrative abilities, though," he remarks, turning to follow her deeper into the house. "Nice place. Not a whole lot of time you're the only one here, or do you rattle around a lot?"

"I save the drugs and bondage for the second date, minimum," Sparrow calls back, though her tone suggests that it's not a hard and fast rule. Rules made up on the spot seldom are. Still, she's quick to clarify, "Impromptu whipped cream duels in jello pools don't count!" She disappears past the stairs, taking a right turn toward the kitchen, where the music, which has since moved on to another song, is a bit easier to make out. "And I'm not too concerned with contradictions. Not exactly a creature of consistency myself. But fibs?" He might not be near enough yet to see her shrug, but it's implied in the slight pause all the same. "Seems counterproductive if the point is connection. Honesty's more interesting? But I don't expect it from anyone."

The kitchen is gorgeous: well-appointed, well-stocked and well-kept. One might imagine a proper chef of some sort actually makes use of it. Hell, it might even look like the redhead fits that position given how deftly she moves about, at the moment pouring a strained syrup--so dark purplish red that it looks nearly black--into a little serving pitcher. The waffle iron is on, a red light indicating it's reached its proper temperature, and there's batter at the ready. With a glance back as Rhys rounds the corner, she explains, "Three roommates. Including my brother. Twin." There's a beat, a hesitation, both in words and actions, before she adds, "And my boyfriend," and sets the emptied pan and strainer in the sink. "We're all on really different schedules, and I can go for days feeling like I've got this place all to myself during the weird windows that I'm home. It's nice. Nicer when we're all around. Hoping we get some of that over the holidays, but. Yeah. I like this. All of this to myself." Another glance back before she sets in on proper waffle-making, and she asks, "What's your living situation?"

"Good to know, I'll make a note for next time. And warn the pretty boy." The grin's audible even before Rhys appears in the kitchen behind her. "You're not wrong about the connection thing," he says, setting down the bottle on a counter, and leaning lightly against another one, eyes on her as she starts moving about with the syrup, "...but what's the point of interrogating someone if they're honest? Seems like a waste of good cop/bad cop shenanigans and two-way mirrors." He arches a brow. "And I hate to disappoint."

Three roommates -- makes sense, though the place feels big even for that. That one's her twin brother gets an interested little lift of brows, and one of them goes higher with the hesitation and what follows. A flicker of surprise, yes, but it shades into amusement as he watches her go on. "Mine? Houseboat, moored in the bay," he replies, "Just me and my two roomies, myself and I. Me and myself kinda have a thing, but you know, nothing exclusive." He does a good job of making that come out earnest, at least in tone. The glint in his eye is teasing, though whether it's aimed at her or both of them is hard to say. "'bout yours?" It's casual; if he's bothered, he's doing well at covering that up. "And does roomie three get a title? Brother, boyfriend..." he considers options, "BFF? I guess it doesn't have to start with a B."

He straightens and moves closer, to look over her shoulder as she starts in with the waffles. He could very easily be looking from beside her, but he isn't. "Are you the chef?"

"Depth," Sparrow chirps succinctly on honesty during interrogations. Though that's all she says on the subject, she flashes an over-the-shoulder, off-center grin which might imply that her preference for directness does not necessarily negate all need for coercive tactics. Plenty of opportunity to exceed expectations later, surely.

"Houseboat!" is echoed right over his words, curiosity plainly piqued even if it's not promptly pursued when so readily distracted by the prospect of imaginary roommates. "Which one's the pretty boy you're bringing by next time?" With a quiet clatter, she pulls down a pair of plates from a cabinet above the counter, setting them out beside the waffle-maker as she offers, "Bombshell," for the third roommate, the easier question to address. "Tall Colombian with legs for days and a penchant for bending over in front of me and rules that keep me off her to do list." Beat. "Aside from that glorious torment."

By the time Rhys draws closer, she's got the waffle iron open, carefully pouring the prepped batter into all its nooks and crannies. "My brother's the chef. Studying to go into food science. Working at Patisserie Vydal right now. And keeping all of us spoiled." Batter down and lid closed, she tilts back just enough to make contact, head turned to peek over her shoulder at her audience as her voice drops a little lower given their closeness. "And the boyfriend and I are not exclusive. Not exactly casual either. I haven't really been managing casual lately. So." Her smile dims toward sincerity as she offers, "Fair warning."

'Depth' gets a smile that stays just on the correct side of a smirk, for a moment, before it widens at that grin tossed over Sparrow's shoulder. "Houseboat," he confirms, sounding fairly pleased about it himself. "Maybe you should come by and investigate it, some time. But I have to warn you, we don't have a waffle iron." This could be a dealbreaker, of course! "And I hadn't made any firm plans yet, but I'm kiiinda hoping it'll be myself." The smiles shades back into the grin for a moment, and now that his hands are free, one of them slides lightly down her side. Not fresh, but certainly familiar.

"Well, you clearly have good taste in roommates. Although maybe not strategic taste, if it's a 'no roomies' rule keeping your off the list." It's pretty matter-of-fact, in tone and expression, though it shades more toward the smile with the tilt into contact. "I guess you must get all the best desserts, but, well, brother. Not sure that qualifies as strategic either. " His hand settles against her hip, and he considers her warning. "Just lately?" he asks, like a matter of simple curiosity, "Okay. I'm probably suitably warned." And since he's there, kissing the spot where her shoulder and neck join that she bit the other day. An answer of a sort to a question not entirely asked. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"Might have to just come by without any pretense," Sparrow quips of that waffle-free visit as if the very thought were scandalous. "But I'm pretty sure I can work up some alliterative excuse if it'd make you feel better." With a peek back, she offers the obvious first. "Tacos and tequila? Burgers and beer?" A little bit of stretching leads to, "Rice krispie treats and rum?" Her weight shifts, favoring the side where his hand has settled, encouraging that directness despite her distraction, keeping watch over the waffle-iron, flipped to finish cooking the first. "Pretty sure I could get her to break the roommate rule, but also pretty sure I'm breaking at least two more, so." Nothing she seems all that shaken up about despite her description. With a snort of laughter, she murmurs a soft, "Yeah," for the questionable decision of living with her twin, the potential issues with logistics certainly not far from her mind while they remain in what is ostensibly shared space, even if no one else is home at the moment.

"Just lately," doesn't sound like a tease, a weight behind those words suggesting some more in depth explanation which she doesn't just offer up for free this time. Maybe it's the distraction of lips to skin, the way that kiss has her drawing in a sharp breath, head tipped toward his. "I'm a gemini?" With some reluctance, she straightens enough to pull the first waffle from the iron and slide it onto a plate, the second swiftly started. "I prefer rye over bourbon, even if today's special implies otherwise. I like my coffee sweet and light and my eggs over easy." It sounds like she could go on, the thought cut off before it's finished as her brain shoots another direction. "What should I know about you, Mr. Evans?"

"No pretense? We can't have that. Tacos and tequila works for a Tuesday. Can't go wrong with burgers and beer. Rice krispie treats and rum, intriguing. If we're feeling really stretched there's always vittles and vodka..." Rhys considers a moment, fingers playing idly along the curve of that hip and back up, then offers, "Pizza and port? Go all high/low about it. And now I'm curious what the other broken rules are too."

He lets her straighten up, probably with similar reluctance, and steps aside enough to lean sideways on the counter and out of her way while she handles the waffles, but still close enough to qualify as sharing space. Or invading it, depending how the other owner of the space in question feels, but he doesn't look too worried about that right now. "Leo," he replies, and the flavour of the grin that time implies he's entirely aware what that sun sign might suggest about him to a dabbler in astrology, and maybe doesn't wholly object. It's amusing, at the least. "Rye's good, but I lean to the Irish whiskeys in a pinch. Not going to complain about a decent bourbon or scotch either, though. As long as it's got some decent flavour to it. I like my coffee how I can get it, but black if it's pretty good and pleasantly adulterated if it isn't. Over easy's a good egg. Scrambled's good too, especially if you've got stuff to mix in. Bacon, peppers..."

He glances at the waffles, as though the talk of food's reminded him he actually is kind of hungry, then back to her. "You should know I'm curious why lately," he says. "Prefer dark chocolate to milk; white chocolate isn't actually a chocolate. Not bad, though. I'm extremely easy to split a pizza with. Grew up here on Elm and in Huckleberry, went away, came back. Still considering trying to talk the Pourhouse into making Karaoke Night weekly, that's a thing I miss about Seattle. Always somewhere if you were in that mood." A smaller smile. "What would you like to know, Ms. Jones?"

Sparrow doesn't keep her attention directly on her guest while he talks, while she works, but there can be no denying that she's taking in ever last word, from the brightly barked laugh at the offering of his sign and the nod which goes with it to the smile which grows with each offered detail until it has nowhere else to go. Once the second waffle is plated and the iron is turned off, she douses both in that black syrup before pulling a silver canister from the fridge, giving it a familiar shake and--It belongs on the food, she knows this, but she can't help the passing thought that says otherwise, that tugs her attention over to Rhys while he expresses his preferences on chocolate. When she pulls the trigger, it's over a waffle, both getting a generous helping of that off-white cream. "Everything," isn't an answer. It's a beginning, a placeholder, a sweeping optimism to buy some time while she retrieves the final component from where it had been warming in the oven: a sprinkling of candied bacon atop the whipped cream. All plated up, a pair of buttery belgian waffles topped black currant-bourbon syrup, bourbon-maple whipped cream and candied bacon await. Whensoever they get around to heading toward the table.

For the moment, the neon redhead turns all of her attention to Rhys, stepping further into his personal space to run right back down that list. "First? I know of a very good ruby port I could steal without getting into more trouble than I can manage. Second, I also have a very good bottle of scotch which came with very specific instructions that I will gladly share with you once I'm sure you meet the criteria." The arch of her dark brows and the leftward skew of her grin lay down a challenge, without any details to go with it. "Third," requires a second or two to track through details, skipping past those which require no counterpoint. "I prefer vanilla over chocolate most days," and she might be ready to fight him on that. "Fourth? I grew up on the outskirts of town myself. My departure was intentionally temporary. And... fifth? Really, really hoping that penchant for karaoke someday nets me a proper serenade."

Her gaze flits to the waffles, to the cream just barely beginning to melt into the syrup, before seeking out eye contact again. With a brief detour toward his lips along the way. The thoughtful expression might just be mental mathematics to calculate how much time they've got before lunch is ruined, but probably not. "I fell in love over the summer. Let myself, ya know? Seemed the more interesting path. Going below the surface. Depth." She flashes a crooked smile, faintly apologetic, and moves right past. "I wanna know what makes you happy. I wanna know what you listen to when you're feeling down. I wanna know where you wanna go that you've never been. Or where you'd take someone else to show them some part of you." Beat. "I wanna know if you thought about what might've happened if we hadn't been interrupted the other night and what you were doing while you did." Her eyebrows arch as her smile creeps back in. "And I wanna know if you'd be so kind as to grab those plates while I get us some forks and glasses. Please."

It's almost certainly not a thought that only occurs to her, from the glance Rhys gives the rattling canister. The food looks and smells delicious, of course, but it's not what's actually bringing that word to mind, or responsible for the off-center little smile while he watches the plating. "Everything's ambitious," he murmurs, almost as though to himself, and it feels for a breath as if there might be more, but it stops there, quiet until she finishes and turns toward him.

He hasn't backed off from an approach yet, and this doesn't prove to be the first time. Her 'first' gets another grin; 'second', a brow arched in return, unapologetically curious, as the smile goes more like her own. Details or no details, his instinct with that sense of challenge clearly isn't to back down. Not yet, at any rate. "Vanilla after chocolate," he counters, "The chocolate's rich, more intense on the palate, the vanilla eases it back down. Sweet and clear and delicious. Where'd you depart to? All those spots on the car," a slight tip of his head toward the driveway, "or somewhere else? And," a quicker smile this time, impish, "I'll make a note."

He's watching her when she looks to the food, and still is when she's returning the favour again. "Could be an interesting path," he allows, considering what she has to say about that. "Haven't walked that one." He gives his head a 'well' sort of tilt to the side and up again, and amends, "Not that everything's always surfaces. Though they're interesting. They're more interesting when you know what else is underneath." That his fingers have found their way to her side again, and that the fingertips brush up just beneath the t-shirt's hem around then may or may not be entirely coincidental. He steps away, then, enough to answer her request before he actually says, "I think I could be convinced."

The other questions, those get some thought as he picks up the plates. "If I try answering those all properly right now, at least one of these waffles is gonna get cold. But rapid-fire round: words make me happy, music, a plan coming together, not being bored, risks that pan out. There's a lot of places I've never been I'd like to. Will, someday." A slight pause, and he chooses, "Wales, that wins today. Where I'd take someone..." He arches a brow. "Maybe I'll show you sometime. And I'm pretty sure if I hadn't thought about that, you should be checking me for evidence I might be some kind of highly advanced android. When I find out who did the interrupting I'll-- do absolutely nothing 'cause I like Joey Kelly and all I need is explaining to him why I'm in the hospital and someone's gotta mop blood off the gym floor again." Yeah, there's a grin with that, of course. "'course I thought about it. On the way home, later, might've come to mind once or twice since. So, while walking... lying in bed... showering, things like that." He arches a brow back, the grin a little more wicked. "What would you like me to have been doing while I did? Should I tell you myself and I had to have a long conversation with me to really get to grips about it?"

"Other way around," Sparrow counters confidently of the ordering of sweets, though it's not entirely clear if that's still what she's got on her mind when she adds, "I don't mind the hard crash after," of that steady ascent without any concern for the come down. Hips tilt toward him as his fingers skirt beneath her tee, that subtler motion accompanied by a noticeable breath, awareness shot swiftly from intellectual to physical. Were it not for the soft syllable of laughter which follows, one might wonder if she'd heard anything he said at all. "I think I could make a case."

But digits depart and plates are picked up, and Sparrow only spends a couple seconds staring before setting to motion herself. Because, right, they don't want the waffles to go cold. A couple of tumblers, a couple of forks, some napkins and the bottle. "Skipped one," she notes casually between answers one and two, though she murmurs a quiet acknowledgement of, "But I did too," as she leads the way toward the table near the french doors looking out over the deck and yard and garden. There are vegetables out there. Someone's actually growing food. To eat. By the time he's offering assurances that he's very much not a robot, everything's all set up, the place settings cattycorner, close but conversational.

"Grips, yeah," she confirms with a laugh, with a shameless grin. "Cuz after I finished thinking about what could've been? Let myself get very happily distracted thinking about you coming to grips with it yourself. And if I hadn't worked so hard on these waffles and didn't want you to know how deeply sincere I am in my interest to experience all your glorious garrulousness, I probably would've already proposed that we do some of that thinking together." Just in case he might mistakenly think that she's proposing abandoning their lunch right now, she levels him with a playfully stern look and notes, "The waffles won't wait. Don't have my kind of patience."

And so she sinks down with her back to the garden--maybe to keep eyes on the rest of the house, should any housemates come by--and goes back to her counting. "First, the question I missed. The bombshell's other two rules that I break? She doesn't fuck people she likes, which. What?" She holds that thought for a moment, eyes wide with confusion. "And I'm pretty sure one's her favorite number, and I am a plurality by nature." Whatever that means. "Now. Second. Two questions." She even holds up two fingers. Somebody knows her numbers! "Tell me what you've been listening to lately. If you're gonna tell me you like music. And tell me how you know Joey Lee."

Rhys doesn't look entirely convinced about the sweet ordering. "We might have to try both ways and compare," and he might or might not have stuck with the original intention himself. For now, though, there are waffles to transport, and a garden to study for a moment. Proper garden, vegetables and all. One of those things filed, perhaps to be asked about when there are less distracting topics afoot.

Her shameless grin boosts his, no attempt made to hide the note of delight in it. "May have had some wayward thoughts regarding your thoughts about it also," he says, in a casual tone that does at least as well at defining 'may have' as 'definitely' than anything more pointed could have. "But you're right. As respectable adults and pillars of this community," have they been upgraded? "I think we're obligated to show more patience than a waffle." He runs an intentionally unsubtle look over her as she sits. "Usually."

Following suit, he settles into the chair with another glance to the garden. Then mention of the question she missed has him scanning his memory to find the one he skipped himself. A faint smile when he finds it disappears into a somewhat incredulous look at the first of those rules, and whether or not the second makes any sense to him, it does make his lips curve up again. "I have heard that one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do," he notes, "although also that two can be as bad as one. Rumour has it, it's the loneliest number since the number one." He reaches over for the bottle; it's, of all things, a Welsh whisky, and it sits warm-golden and translucent in the bottle, like the sunlight out in the garden.

"So, does she only fuck people she doesn't give a damn about, or does she have to actively dislike 'em? 'cause I might be lying if I said I'd never do either, but only?" Drawing the tumblers over, he pours some into each. Not a lot; just a finger or so to begin with. "I missed what I listen to when I'm unhappy, right? Depends what's got me down, but generally I go upbeat. Sometimes angry upbeat, dip into the punk and metal. Sometimes straight-up happy and optimistic. Pop, old stuff. And it's kind of hard to sing Don't Stop Believin' and not cheer up." He pushes one of the glasses toward her. "I could answer those, but this feels imbalanced. Plus I want to eat some waffle. So what about you? What makes you happy, what music do you listen to when you're down? Where do you want to go and where would you take someone to show them some of who you are?" He picks up his fork, and the smile is just plain cheeky as he adds, "Feel free to throw in what you've been listening to lately if you're so inclined."

"Occasionally," Sparrow concurs with faltering resolve, the admission of thinking about her thinking about what they were both thinking about followed by that once-over landing a pretty solid one-two punch that has her hesitating with her fork. Like the waffle might be alright later if only she doesn't cut into it, nevermind the soggifying syrup and cream smothering it. With the conversation continuing, she dives in, doing more to separate out bites than actually taking any until he starts referencing Three Dog Night lyrics at her, which earns an eyeroll. "Pretty sure she's lonely," she confirms while watching him pour, paying more mind to the process tha might be due. "To the very best of my knowledge, she doesn't fuck anyone, which tells me it's a shit rule. But I think all her rules are kinda shit, so." Shrug. "I think I just like people too much, in general. But also. Just. I don't have time for people I don't like." And, from the sound of it, she doesn't understand people who do.

Waffles before whisky, she savors a few bites while she listens, and there might be at least one appreciative eyeroll for her own cooking. Really, it is quite lovely. Well-composed. The waffles are buttery and soft. The syrup's tart and a little smoky. The whipped cream is light but complex... if maybe a shade oversweet. It all works well together, and she isn't quite humble enough to not take pride in it.

"I don't mind," she croons of that imbalance, dark lashes dipping low as her lips tease at a smirk that doesn't fully form. Fork down and glass up, she takes her first thoughtful taste as she considers the list that she had maybe expected she'd successfully evaded. "This," first, uncounted. "Right now. I am genuinely happy. Your company. Waffles. Whisky. Words." As if she might not need anything else. For a second or two anyway. "Music. Banging on my drums. Getting an itch out of my head. Having company that can keep up. Falling into something new. Falling into something familiar. Maybe just falling in general. Traveling. Trying things. Mm." Brows shoot upward as something occurs. "I was given a ticket to this psychedelics conference in February, exploring the science, psychology and spirituality around psychedelics in a modern context. That makes me happy. The work, but also the gift. Being seen like that. Understood." Her smile goes soft for a moment, distant, but she catches that distraction with a deep breath, looks up, and moves on.

"I'm a sink in sorta girl when it comes to music," she says of the second question. "Feel what you're feeling, so. Sad bops all the way. Except when I need something aggro to get through it cuz I gotta study or work or whatever. Then, yeah, definitely punk. Pop-punk for the forward tilt. Right into pop and straight on till morning." Skipping ahead, while here, challenge accepted, she continues, "Right now," with a point to... where? Ah, the bluetooth speakers on the kitchen counters. "Lolo Zouai when my time is mine. Or Snails when I gotta get through it. Lotsa wubs." With a glance down at the waffles she's not actively eating while she rambles, she steals a quick sip of liquid sunlight instead. "I wanna see the east coast. Never been. Cross the Atlantic. Or the Pacific. Picking one? Right now. Well. Wales, obviously. Cuz I'm selfish like that." There's an effortless little wink to go with it. "Best way to get to know me by going somewhere is wholly experiential. Let me steal you away." A hint of uncommon color rises to her cheeks as her head dips a little, as her glass goes down. "Another skipped question. I took a roadtrip after high school. Roadside attractions, amusement parks, festivals, diners and dives. Ended up staying in New Orleans for a bit. But it'd be a roadtrip. Even if only for a day. I can show you a lot in twenty-four hours." And, with that, her fork comes up, no more questions asked with a pair still pending.

"No one? Yeah, that sounds like a shit set of rules," Rhys says, 100% unapologetic about the lyric referencing; if anything, that eyeroll might've been satisfying. "I only deal with people I don't like if I have to, with a few exceptions. But I like a lot of people." He shrugs, an agreement with her own, and he's quite ready to get into eating his own waffle after seeing her reaction to hers. That, too, gets a noise of definite agreement when he has the first bit. That is a good waffle. And having answers to listen to while he eats isn't half bad either.

The whisky holds hints of herbs, vanilla, toffee, and fruit in the scent, and the taste makes good on those suggestions, finishing with oaky vanilla and fruit notes. It balances between dry and sweet, and probably makes not a bad mix with the waffles, really. Rhys seems pretty pleased with it when he has a sip as well, though not as pleased as he is with that first part of her answer about what makes her happy. Mouth full, he gives her a small inclination of the head instead of speaking. Acknowledgement, definitely, and likely a seconding. He looks happy, at the least. 'Company that can keep up' gets a smile and little upnod, in particular, and the conference part gets raised brows. Oh, that sounds interesting, the look says silently, but as she goes on, it shifts, studying her more closely, taking in her reaction to whatever thoughts go along with it -- spoken and un-.

Handy -- or unfortunate, perhaps, depending how one looks at it -- thing about eating is it does keep him relatively quiet for a bit, giving her time to go on while he enjoys the food. He makes the expression and head-tilt equivalent of a hand-wobble to the sad-songs/feel-what-you're-feeling part, a point taken but not for his own, unlike the proposed alternative. That musical order of operations gets a fork pointed at her, and after he swallows the bite he was chewing, another grin. "'zactly," he says, reaching for his glass, and lets her go on, with a look toward the speaker when she gestures that way. It does take a second to work out what the target is, judging by when the brows stop furrowing and lift slightly in understanding instead. It gets a nod, and Snails another. "Northeast or southeast or any of it?" he asks, breaking into a smile again when she votes Wales for current winner, the more so with the wink. That gets his glass raised to her in a toast before he sips from it again.

"Twenty-four hours. I seem to recall I've got about that much coming to me, don't I? Hmm." Hmm indeed. "And I do kinda want to visit a diner-saur, now." Since reading the car, likely. "Getting stolen sounds like a good new plan. Lately, a lot of what I've been listening to's been at work. Couple nights we've had Snails in there. Little Big, been listening to them a fair bit on my own time the last week or two. Some Caro Emerald and Parov Stelar. And Madness, 'cause some days just call for ska." He considers. "Sense of humour, I guess that's been a theme. Not parodies, just..." Another little shrug, though he seems to be filing the thought away. Interesting pattern spotted. "And I don't even know when I met Joey originally. My grandparents live a few houses down from the Kellys, and even after my ma and I moved to Huckleberry, I was over there a lot. He's a few years older, but, you know. Neighbourhood kids. We all kinda know each other at least a little, right?"

"All of it?" Sparrow ventures of the east coast with a laugh. "South first, circle north. Hit all the states I missed on my way back." It's almost a question, a slight rise at the end like she's tossing out plans for a shared weekend. Beneath the table, her knee knocks his, intentionality evident in the absence of any reflexive withdraw, that contact contentedly kept as they talk, as they eat their waffles before they're either too soggy or too cold. The whisky will surely keep. Not that it keeps her from enjoying it now. When Rhys lifts his glass, hers follows, a toast to Wales and winking and whatever else might've been read in that sentiment.

"You do," she confirms agreeably, not yet regretting that self-proclaimed loss the least little bit. Especially when that bumper sticker reference earns a bright laugh which might have waffle going up her nose for how quickly her hand goes to her mouth to cover the bit of coughing which follows. Another swig of whisky, and she's fine. Still smiling! Just a bit more bashfully and with terribly red cheeks. "That one--" She clears her throat again, catching her breath. "That's a more than twenty-four hour adventure. At least two days. Better with four." Only after those numbers are offered does she take a moment to do some math, the head wobble which follows suggesting they're acceptable estimates. Probably. If she's remembering correctly. The necessity of ska earns another laugh, quieter, less dangerous, but the thought that trails off catches her curiosity, black brows arching toward bright bangs in unspoken inquiry.

"Makes you, mm. Twenty-sixish?" she guesses, not recalling crossing paths in the halls at school. Not that she waits for confirmation before explaining, "Joey helped me out when I was with my first band. Helgrind?" Definitely fishing to see if he heard of them during their short lifespan of maybe 2014-2016. "Let us use the gym for a couple of shows, as long as we handled our own manual labor and helped him out a bit. Always been a good guy. And his brother's just as amazing. Guitarist in the current band. Reason why I had to defend his sexiness, ya know." Grin rising all sudden and sharp, she adds, "And cuz it's fun to get Nicole to do ridiculous shit with me. And you can tell her I said that. She knows it's true. It's why she loves me." So smug, that grin! More waffle threatens to interrupt it, but a question gets there first. "Seattle as far as you got?" Okay, two questions. "Why'd you come back?" Nom.

The knocked knee presses back against hers, light but enough to clearly say 'welcome', and content to stay there a while as well. The nearly-plan gets a thoughtful nod, but no immediate comment. And then Rhys risks an immediate karma comeuppance by very nearly cracking up when the dangers of laughter while waffling make themselves evident. There's definitely pleasure in being the proximate cause of that -- as long as she doesn't, you know, actually choke -- and while the flicker of apology in the look he gives her is genuine, it really doesn't outweigh the amusement.

He looks rather taken by the smug and sharp-edged grin, studying the expression rather than cutting the next bite of his waffle. "Twenty-fivish," he answers, adding airily, "but I've always looked mature for my age." No, he hasn't. And as the Squirrel Girl costume demonstrated, still doesn't, when clean-shaven. "Class of 2012. And yeah, they're both good guys." There are probably quite a few people who'd be inclined to argue with at least half of that, but handily, no one who can hear the claim. "I think I missed out on Helgrind, though. I missed everything exciting here from about fall after graduation 'til end of this summer. And everything boring, but I'm pretty okay with that part." He grins again, taking a sip of his drink -- and a glance at the bottle, since that first pour's nearly gone -- as his expression goes a bit more thoughtful.

"Got a bit farther than Seattle," he says, "...both Carolinas and Afghanistan, though I didn't exactly do a lot of sightseeing." Another grin, this one smaller and a little more crooked. "Seattle's better. And I came back 'cause I graduated, got a decent job offer, and, you know, my family's here." A small pause, a bite of breakfast speared on the fork but not lifted. "It's home. 'course I'm happy to entertain two to four days places that aren't, in the service of diner-saurs and state collection. We'll just have to come up with a few more good wagers to find the time. There's still more whipped cream in your fridge, right?" His brows lift, knee shifting to rub against hers, and a smirk spreads slowly, refusing to be entirely suppressed.

If Sparrow blames Rhys for her near-death-by-laughter, it's hidden somewhere beneath her bright cheeks and sheepish smile, that apology hardly acknowledged, judged entirely unnecessary. She knows the risks in dining in the company of entertaining individuals. "The scruff helps." A slip of her attention down to his jaw leads to a brief diversion to lips, where her focus lingers for a few seconds while he speaks, until that glass comes up again and interrupts her voyeurism. "Shame," for missing Helgrind. "Current band's good. Really good, really, but. There's not one little lick of punk to either of my pretty boys. Don't think either of 'em could name five punk bands if pressed. Jaime doesn't even know The Damned!" Nevermind that the referenced band is well before both of their times.

Her humor mutes at the mention of Afghanistan, a shallow lift of her chin marking a slight shift in her consideration in light of this new detail. The left corner of her lips tip upward as soon as he moves on to that comparison, some softness in her expression for just a second, swiftly sharpened as he considers methods of collecting more days. Whatever answer she has for that is preempted by a warning of, "No messes in shared spaces," with a nudge of her knee to his. Still, there's a nod, confirmation that she made more of that flavored whipped cream than might've been needed. "You wanna see my bathtub--and, trust me, you really, really do--there are better ways to go about it. Just like there are maybe better ways to go about getting more of my time. Like asking. Or." Her grin flashes wider as her lashes dip low. "You could subscribe to the Sparrow Jones Kidnapping Service. Guaranteed to not disrupt your life." Voice lowering, as an aside, she adds, "So, ya know, you'll have to tell me when you're free... or prepared to call out sick. For a few days. Before I abduct you." On that note, she finishes the last of her whisky, glass nudged toward the bottle, though she doesn't outright ask for more yet.

"What, like, never even heard of them?" Rhys asks, brows lifting again, band pre-dating them or not. "And when you say couldn't name five, are we including pop-punk in there too? Because either way that sounds like you need to do some re-education, but if it's both..." He shakes his head as though regretfully delivering a terminal diagnosis. "Got recordings of the old band? I figure the current one I'll get a chance to catch live, sooner or later."

Glass nudged toward the bottle, his own glass annoyingly near empty -- these are clues that lead to one simple solution, so there's no need to ask before he reaches for the bottle to pour again. A little bit more this time than the last, but still firmly in the realm of drinks one intends to taste going down, rather than drinks one intends to forget one drank. "I would argue," he says, "that a bathroom is only a shared space as such when no one's using it. So if we, say, were to make a mess in it, it wouldn't qualify as breaking that rule until and unless we departed and left it there." He pushes her glass a bit back toward her, and lifts his own, and a brow over it as well. "You're right, though, I really, really do." Only a moment for that grin, as he lifts the glass in a little toast -- clinked lightly against hers if she happens to be holding it in a suitable spot -- and takes a slightly larger sip than before.

"I'm not sure if asking is necessarily a better way to go about getting the time. More straightforward, sure, but the other night? Definitely more fun than asking. That said... tell me more about this abduction service, 'cause I'm intrigued and would like to subscribe to your proverbial newsletter. And possibly your actual kidnapping." He sets the glass down with a tilt of the head, amending, "More-or-less actual. It does sound extremely convenient for all my potentially cross-country shanghai-ing needs."

"Looked at me like I was speaking another language when I told him I'd be his sorter." What begins with a vaguely straight face ends in giggles as Sparrow concedes, "Which, alright, I guess is a little weird, but it totally made sense in context and he still didn't get it when I explained, so." With a thoughtful little squint, she ventures, "Pretty sure the bassist could manage some semblance of pop-punk list maybe, but." She doesn't seem convinced, the shrug just selling it. At the question about footage of Helgrind in action, she pauses with her next bite of waffle nearly to her lips to croon, "You know how to internet, doncha?" in a very poor bastardization of some scene she may not have ever actually watched. "You just open up your browser and... google." She bats her lashes oh so sweetly before following his attention down to their drinks and actually taking that bite of waffle.

"I meant here," she corrects with low-lidded amusement. "My bathroom is not a shared space and is a perfectly acceptable place to make a mess with or without whipped cream, but." Eyes widen slightly as her brows pitch upward, as she reclaims her cup when it's nudged back. "I said bathtub. I mean, it's all fucking fantastic, but." The bathtub must be something special given the way she leaves that thought lingering with a rather taunting look angled over her glass, post-clink, matching his sip, meeting that toast to that particular temptation.

"I like straightforward," she interjects, a note of challenge to her tone. "I have a very particular set of skills," she begins in answer to his interest, one dark brow cocking playfully. "I'm really, really good at random roadtrips. Short or long. Custom built to suit, well. Whatever I think might be most fun to do with you." With a dip of her head toward Rhys, she assures, "I can think of a lot of fun things I'd like to do with you," in a manner that somehow doesn't sound entirely filthy.

Rhys laughs at the note about it being a little weird. "So, important package discussions?" He eats a bite of waffle, with another light shake of the head at the verdict on the state of the bandmates' punk knowledge -- even after explanation! "Kids these days," he murmurs, despite the fact that at least one of said bandmates is older than him, and he knows that damn well. Even the tone says so.

The bastardized quote gets a light dancing in his eyes. "That's terrible self-promotion, what if I wanted to hire your no longer existent band? You might totally lose that stellar opportunity." A tiny pause. "One l or two? In Helgrind, not Google. I'm good on that one."

He leans back a little in his chair as he sips the drink again, though not far enough to, say, stop his knee pressing against hers. "I didn't mean here," he says, "...though, okay, if you suggested here I'm probably not considerate enough to insist we shouldn't risk making a mess in shared space when your roomies might be home any... day?" The grin slides out again, slowly. "But now I really do want to go see your bathtub. Much more effective promotion." It might be, since the next couple bites of waffle go a bit faster. Then again, it's not getting any warmer while they talk.

"Straightforward has a lot to recommend it," he says, "but sometimes a pretense is fun too." Which doesn't sound entirely filthy either, though somehow actually a little more than the added, "Pretty sure I'd like to do a lot of fun things with you. Especially the ones you're really, really good at." Should be the other way around, surely.

"Probably had no business referencing his parcel," Sparrow mutters, though there's very little actual remorse to accompany that admission. She may well be nearing the end of her waffle-eating experience, drawing one of the last remaining bites through the dark syrup puddled on the plate, all but dripping when it's popped past her lips. She holds up a singer finger of her free hand to indicate the number of L's to look for. Her leg shifts against his, drawn up a bit as bare foot presses to toes, shin brought nearly flush with calf to extend that contact. Or maybe just express some idle restlessness.

"I, uhm." Her gaze skirts off to the side as her head turns slightly, a guilty sorta look to be sure. "I mighta thought about here. Twice. Since you arrived." When her eyes find his again, she clarifies. "In the context of whipped cream. At least once outside of that specific context under the broader heading of things I really shouldn't do if my roommates might be home any I don't even know where they are." That trainwreck of bad grammar might translate to 'second.'

She flicks a look down at their plates, considering, but whatever math she might be doing doesn't get very far, those not-entirely-lascivious words drawing her focus his way again. "Good," she answers, quiet but certain. "I might already have a running list." After a nudge of her leg to his, she withdraws that contact so that she can stand up, and though her hand starts toward her plate, she gets distracted partway through, opting instead to bend down into Rhys' personal space and claim a kiss, slow and lingering, smoky and sweet.

Rhys does not make any (further) smart-ass questions or remarks about the parcel situation, even if the mutter does elicit a glance that suggests he's at least vaguely imagining what this situation could've been like, and whatever the vague imagining is, it's not making things less amusing. And he appears to have time to make a mental note of that single L before her leg shifts and takes his attention with it. He's still got his boots on, but it doesn't stop him moving his other leg to try to lightly capture hers between his calves.

"...well," he replies quietly, watching that guilty kind of look, "I said it wasn't what I meant... not that I didn't think about it." His gaze flickers briefly down from her face to the table, as though perhaps assessing its sturdiness, though if so it probably isn't the first time the thought occurred. It is, however, much less interesting to look at than she is. A final bite of the waffle, and a sip of the whisky, his feet sliding slowly away when she begins to withdraw hers to stand.

He watches that, too, tilting his head up to continue doing so when she gets changes her plans. One hand lifts to brush fingers up along the back of her neck, the other pushing the plate a little farther away without looking. It's not the smartest move he's made, but he isn't really thinking about it -- not until one of his fingers ends up in the syrup, anyway. He keeps that finger lifted as he presses his palm against the tabletop and stands, letting his chair shift back and moving slowly enough not to break that kiss as he shifts a little closer. More than happy to let it linger, as long as she's inclined.

Sparrow has surely taken note of sounds and movement, from the drag of plate against table to the nudge of chair against floor to the hand that never finds its way to her person, but those details don't merit any of her attention. She's too happily distracted by the lips against hers, the fingers upon her neck, the body slowly becoming more available to her own. She edges in closer, closer, with greedy fingers slinking along his sides. One takes a low enough approach to creep below his shirt in search of skin, to dip low again and tease just below the waistband of his pants. Curves settle gently against lines, her body flush against his if not firmly held, not by her doing. And for a lovely little while, she keeps right there, this close, drawing out that kiss, right up until the point where the pace begins to pick up, when her fingers begin to press more firmly where they hold, tension just beginning to build.

It's a rather abrupt stop, ending with a soft breath of laughter as she ducks her head and loosens her hold. "So much better than last time," she teases, the currant syrup on his lips so much more pleasant than wrestling jello. "I, uhm," is followed by a turn of her head, a slight withdraw. "I should clean up. Two minutes." When she looks back, her eyes--which had definitely been closed for the duration of the kiss and some seconds thereafter--seek out his. "Figure we should take the bottle with us, at least, on our hunt for the bathtub." The hand beneath his shirt, against his back, presses just a touch more firmly at that thought before she catches herself and, unless stopped, begins her withdraw.

Rhys's fingers remain at the back of her neck until she begins to pull away, tracing along the skin, into the hair at the base of her skull and along the scalp, then downward again. It's definitely not his main focus; that's the kiss itself, the settling in of their bodies against each other, and very definitely the placement and movement of her fingers. He makes a soft, wordless expression of approval against her lips, and an even quieter one of protest when it stops so suddenly.

Her teasing gets a low laugh, eyes lifting to study her face as she turns away. "In some ways," he says, "definitely more delicious." A nod to her plans, but when she starts to withdraw, the arm around her drops not away but down, catching around her waist to keep her there. Not for long: the other hand comes up, and the finger that caught the plate draws a syrupy line just below the turn of her jawbone, where it meets the neck. He ducks and tilts his head immediately afterward, to trace the path of the finger with his tongue and clean up the mess he just made. "Can't leave a mess in a public area," he says as though it were an explanation, giving her a wicked smile as he actually does let go then. "Want a hand?"

Sparrow's breath hitches ever so slightly when she's caught, surprise sufficiently muted to suggest something similar might've been running through her mind as she started to pull away. Her thoughts hadn't run the same direction, that sticky digit earning the nervous laughter of someone who's maybe not quite as comfortable with messes as the jello match had suggested. Her hand tenses against his back as her head tips to the side, as her hips tilt forward just enough to nudge his. Incidentally, almost certainly, as her shoulders draw back just a little, a reflexive retreat from that syrupy streak. She stills the instant his tongue finds her skin, eyes shut and lips parted.

She doesn't even open her eyes when her lips, not yet closed, twitch leftward in a dopey grin, when her hold again loosens like she might maybe try to leave again any second now. Cheeks flushed and breath heavy, she tells him, "Both," eyes opening half-way to seek out his only after that syllable's spoken. "And I'll tell you where I want 'em once I'm done." Beat. "And not before." Even with that girlish smile she can't quite shake, the high arch of her dark brows is stern, albeit a bit more playfully than she might mean.

With that, she turns to collect their plates and make her way around the counter to the kitchen. Open as the layout is, there's really no masking the quiet, "Shit," she breathes along the way or hiding the way her smile reaches nearly ear to ear as she sets to her work, giving plates and pans all a quick rinse before setting them in the dishwasher. It might take a whole minute. Hands washed, dried, she collects her phone from the counter and kills the music right as Herizen's singing, Focus on, focus on, focus on you, right as her attention resettles on Rhys. And just hangs there for a couple of seconds while she parses through thoughts she doesn't bother voicing, offering only an easy, "C'mon." She might even collect her own glass before she takes the lead back to the front of the house and up the stairs.

Rhys doesn't even try not to look pleased with that reaction. It makes the effort involved in actually letting go worth it, after all. Her reply on the hands makes the smile widen, despite trying to tame it down a little when she goes all stern. Best he can manage just then is a small bow of the head, which is less than convincing. "At your disposal," he says, and watches as she picks up the dishes, and as she walks away. He pushes in his chair, closes the bottle, then turns to face the kitchen again and leans lightly back against the table as he waits, one hand to either side of him holding onto the edge. Behaving. As long as paying very little attention to anything but her qualifies.

It's not until she's approaching again that he twists to catch the bottle and then the glasses, drawing both closer for easy grabbing, and when she reaches for her own, he picks up the other members of the trio, holding the whisky much as he did when he arrived as he straightens and follows her up.

Sparrow can't really do much about the way her cheeks have settled on that color, his continued attention doing very little to dim that bright blush. Makes her look damned near bashful when she takes up her glass with a very intentional brush of her fingers over his. Much as the whisky might be best when sipped, she slams what's left in her glass before she starts off. With only a teensy little cough for the burn. Tsk.

The second floor has a little railing overlooking the foyer and a nook which might one day make a good sitting area but now still hosts boxes that have yet to be unpacked or sorted, stacked in a corner for later, even months after moving in. Starting with the first door to their right, she points, "Brother," then goes clockwise, past the stairs, to explain the rest. "Boyfriend. Bathroom. Bombshell." With an apologetic crinkle of her nose, "Laundry," breaks the alliteration, but she's back on point as, with a brow-waggle, she purrs cheesily, "Boudoir." She opens that door and lets Rhys on through before closing it behind him.

Really, what's on the other side is unreasonable. It is not meant for one person. Or so little furniture, most of what is present all clustered in two areas on the wall to the left, at the back of the house: the makeshift kitchenette and the place where she actually sleeps. There's no clutter and very little mess, only the semi-organized art supplies and a couple flipped canvases against the far wall maybe kinda qualifying. Even her bed is neatly made. The nightstands are organized, the one nearer the door hosting a laptop, a trade paperback of Warren Ellis' Trees and a paperback entitled Psychedelic Psychotheraphy by R. Coleman. On the farther side, there's another paperback, a travelogue with a scrap of paper marking a page about half-way through.

It's a lot to take in, really. A lot to explore. Two walk-in closets and that promised bathroom across all that empty distance to the right. But her free hand brushes his arm, fingers just barely curling above his elbow, the intention to hook and hold plainly present if restrained. "Should probably let you set that down..."

It's a good colour. Rhys approves, much as he approves of the brush of fingers. The slamming of the whisky gets a click of the tongue to suggest less approval of that, but it's almost certainly teasing. He sips his as he follows, and since she's leading the way, he does it with scenery that's better than the house, even though the house is, admittedly, a lovely place. Just not as lovely.

By the time they reach the second floor, he's finished what remained in his glass, and he watches as she points to each door in turn, nodding as they're labeled, the smile spreading further with each repeating B, but breaking widest when she hits 'Laundry'. He might be trying to come up with a suitable alliteration to offer, but that's cut off well by the final label and its delivery, which gets a delighted little laugh, and a lift and wiggle of brows in return as he passes her to walk in.

The room is not what he expects. What he did expect, even he might not entirely know, but the size of it gets non-waggling raised brows as he glances around. "Won the room lottery, huh?" he says, and maybe he would be inclined to explore it a bit -- the canvases and books, at the least, definitely catch his attention in the scan of the place -- but she touches his arm, and he stays where he is. "Probably should," he agrees, "'cause my hands seem to be full right now and I really don't want them to be. Not with this, anyway. I seem to recall they've got an appointment of some kind."

Sparrow issues a little tch of her own at the suggestion that there was any luck involved in her acquisition of this particular room. Fingers curl in, empty, letting knuckles brush where she'd snagged before withdrawing that contact and confirming, "They do," of the places his hands are meant to head in short order. "Course, I might have a little work to do too. If they're gonna get there on time." But she's got a glass in her hand, too, and quicksteps past Rhys to make her way to the bed, rearranging the books to make space that won't see any sticky rings left on their covers. Sure, maybe her laptop will suffer instead, but it can handle a wipedown with a bit more resilience.

"I got the first look at the place," isn't entirely true, but she doesn't bother to correct it, the omitted detail not relevant to the story. "Knew Corey--" Beat. "That's my brother. Knew he'd want the kitchen, maybe the backyard. Figured AJ would just let me have my way, and we didn't have the fourth room filled yet, so. Offered it to both of 'em." Even as she tells her story, she reaches below her tee to the front of her jeans, undoing the button while watching him, the zipper soon to follow, a flash of bright aquamarine below. "Corey bargained for the kitchen and garden space. AJ shrugged. I got what I wanted and looked like a goddamned saint while doing so." Just like she planned, if that half-smug look says anything. It might say more if her eyes weren't saying something very different, rather single-minded in their intent focus upon her guest.

Rhys lets her quickstep past, making his way after to set the bottle and other glass down in the space made. Not on the books. The watching is reciprocated, though he doesn't immediately start undoing his own. Instead, as he listens to the explanation, he steps in a little nearer, and hooks a finger into one of the beltloops nearest the zipper, drawing it aside. Not that it wasn't going that way in any case, so he presumably just wanted to. "Knew I liked you," he says quietly, before grinning again and letting go of the loop. "Everyone gets what they really want and everybody's happy. That's just about perfect negotiation." And worth looking half-smug about, apparently! Though it can't hurt that it's a not a half-bad look on her, particularly when it's joined with what her eyes have to say.

His own stay on her, replying in what's likely a similar language, at least until they're hidden by the fabric as he draws his shirt up and off. He folds it loosely and lays it on the edge of the bed, before joining it there. He still has shoes on, after all, though instead of removing them immediately, he gives her jeans a little downward pull. Not enough to force the matter; it's playful, and followed by, "Unless I'm not allowed to give you a hand with that, either. They can wait if they need to." They just don't particularly want to.

"Knew you liked me, too," only helps that smugness along. Sparrow's fingers follow when his slips from her beltloop, possibly meaning to bring that digit right back to where it had been, but she catches on quick enough not to interrupt with that first step of undressing. Her hand instead follows his shirt as it ascends, starting at his stomach and rising to his chest. Then back down a short distance, skirting off along his ribs before contact's broke entirely when he draws away. With a little step and pivot, she follows, promptly enough that the movement can't quite be mistaken for answering the tug to her jeans.

Hard to tell from her grin alone whether she might oblige or deny that request, and she dips forward, closer, before she says anything. One hand is caught, then the other, and both are drawn to her his, below the denim. And after a second of hooking her thumbs beneath the waistband of her brightly colored panties to catch his fingertips just below, she lets go. "They don't have to wait. S'exactly where they should be."

"Oh?" Rhys says, brows lifted in a mock-innocence entirely betrayed by the smile fighting for control of his lips, "And me playing it so subtle and close to the vest." It's won the fight by then, though it isn't visible long before the shirt gets briefly in the way. There actually is something relatively subtle, then: a shift of his weight toward her, into the touch of her fingers, even if he is the one to break that contact.

His eyes don't leave her when she moves in closer, and neither does his hand, until she catches it. The other's not too difficult to ensnare either, given his entire lack of motivation to escape. He lets her move them as she wishes, gaze dropping to follow the movement as she guides them beneath the fabric, then lifting to her face again as one set of fingers releases the fabric to turn and slide down along the skin. It's a slow movement -- easy enough to pre-empt by catching the wrist again, though that likely isn't the intent -- right on the boundary between taking enjoyment in the sensation and anticipation and simply teasing.

"Do you make a habit of letting people talk you into doing things your way, Ms. Jones?" he inquires in a tone that matches the movement, visual attention still on her expression even as his fingertips find their way between her thighs, hand curling to cup her and give a slow undulation, fingertips to the top of the palm to the heel of it pressing firmly against the flesh. The fingers of the other hand stay just within the waistbands at her hip -- ready to pick back up essentially where the playful tug left off, but perhaps not quite yet.

Sparrow's breath catches when his hand strays, felt in the tensing of her tummy beneath the digits drifting that direction, seen in the slight parting of her lips, heard in the airy words which follow, evidence that her lungs haven't quite caught up yet with her speeding thoughts, her racing heart. "As often as I can, Mr. Evans." She can't quite stifle the laugh with which that name is delivered, unduly formal given the increasing informality of their interaction. Her weight shifts slightly as his fingers dip between her legs to allow for easier access, none too subtle encouragement of this delicious disobedience.

Eyes flutter closed as her head tips back, as her tongue teases out restlessly over her lower lip, as her thighs pull tighter to revoke his permission to move freely. And to ease the move which comes next, her hand taking up where his left off, mirroring his more compliant fingers in slipping beneath clothing. She doesn't wait for Rhys to catch up before she starts pushing downward, certain he'll catch on--and willing to guide his wrist if he proves more patient than she'd like. She has every intention of stepping right out of that cotton and denim and balancing the scales a bit, leaving them each half-undressed in opposite directions.

The catch of breath makes the glint in Rhys's eyes brighten a touch, and her laugh invites a smile -- smaller than the usual, pulled a little to the left, vaguely impish. There's something he likes about that incongruity of situation and sobriquet; something about that faux-formality that's just pleasing somehow. And the laugh itself doesn't hurt one bit, either.

He's easily encouraged by that shift of weight, very much felt rather than seen, as he'd hate to miss that little flicker of her tongue. He does glance back down when she 'captures' his hand, though, a barely-audible breath of a laugh with it. Definitely bright enough to catch on to her plan, and patient might not be quite the word. There's a delay, yes, but it's after the fingers of the free hand have already shifted to a 'helpful' position, and while the fingers of the other are... slightly less helpful. Can't move freely apparently doesn't necessarily mean he won't attempt moving at all; there's a little flutter of fingertips. The pause likely isn't quite long enough to require wrist-guidance, at least, before he actually is helping, and there's very little obvious patience in the actual pushing of fabric. The floor does seem like a much better place for it.

A soft sound caught somewhere between laughter and moan escapes at the shifting of caught fingertips, a smile trying to rise to Sparrow's lips without quite stabilizing. She tilts forward as denim descends, until gravity promises to take over, helped along by the contents of her pockets which issue muted jangling and a dull thud as her pants puddle at her feet. Without straightening, she leans in closer to Rhys, a kiss caught at the corner of his mouth, another pair trailing backward along his jaw until she nuzzles at his cheek, until her shoulder is braced against his with her opposite hand planted on the mattress. "Keep your hand right there," flutters warm against his neck, the only verbal warning she offers before her weight shifts against him, first to draw her right knee up beside his hip, left quick to flank. The pressure against cheek and shoulder relent as she lets her weight settle, as she sinks down onto his lap with legs parted wide, not exactly pinning the fingers pressed between them.

Unwitnessed, the redhead glimmers, a colorful flutter of ethereal will-working granting her a moment of sight as she pulls back just enough to look at him, to look him over, the admiration of his form just as genuine as it is incidental to a more purposeful inspection, that quick scan which confirms he's clean and safe. The way her hands go to his skin, how her fingers trace tensely down his chest then back up again? Hard to imagine there was anything at all that wasn't entirely dirty running through her head.

Rhys likes that sound -- it's clear in his expression and perhaps also in the slight shift of how he's sitting on the bed caused by a fleeting change in the tense and release of muscles -- and he likes those kisses and the feeling of her words against his neck, as well. "Yes ma'am," he murmurs to the instruction, close by her ear in that configuration. There's a hint of drawl to it and a little lift of pitch on the second word that together make it more playful than genuine, the sort of thing that'd likely get a guy in trouble in situations where he was actually expected to say it. Or at the least, right on the very edge of it.

And, obligingly, he keeps his hand right there. A little extra pressure to ensure it as she moves, his other arm wrapping itself around her waist to encourage this resettlement plan of hers. He does not appear to notice her little mystic interlude, though whether that owes more to his own lack of the ability or to pure distraction is an open question. There's a tiny lift of his chin as she looks him over, a subtle tell that he's aware of it to at least that extent, and probably likes that too, almost as much as the feeling of her fingers on his chest. But he's taking that opportunity to glance at her legs settled against him, and to let his fingers shift again. More deliberate exploration, not precisely teasing but testing. Getting to know her. He doesn't entirely intend the pleased little sound in his throat, but it's there nonetheless, just before he leans in to kiss her. Collarbone first, then up along the side of her neck and jaw. Words can wait.

"Sir," Sparrow corrects promptly enough to imply genuine preference, even if the particular curl of her voice leaves it sounding like a tease. Or a warning. Hard to tell when the expectant arch of her dark brows pairs so well with a devilish little grin for that brief moment that they manage some eye contact between inspection and affection. Her hands ascend as his head descends, left skirting back to run up his neck and into his hair, right held where neck and shoulder meet, where her thumb can easily trace an arch over both blood and breath, the faintest hint of pressure suggesting threat. He'll have to decide how intentional it is, given her distraction, how her head tips back as hips roll in answer to his exploration, how the soft sounds he coaxes from her give voice to what his fingers find, how very ready she is for this intimacy.

"I want you," could stand on its own, honest enough without any qualifiers, and yet it ends sounding unfinished, interrupted by lips hitting a particular spot. Her shoulder lifts in contradiction to her handhold, a reflex not wholly in her control countered by a tilt of her head that stretches her neck out in offering. After a giddy little, "Fuck," she starts over. "Want you to keep your hand right there until I make a mess of it. Then I wanna make a mess of the rest of you. Then maybe--" Another interruption, an airy laugh which doesn't find its way back to words, but there's something in the way both hands pull him closer in unison just as her head tips back to his that almost implies something warmer, a little less lewd than everything else running through her head.

Rhys laughs once at the correction, quietly. "Yes, sir," he amends, tone echoing the first version and taking it a level sassier. The inhalation when he catches that grin is stronger than the ones that surround it, silent but tangible beneath her hands, and he doesn't seem to shy from either of them as they reposition themselves. She can feel as much as hear a little rumble in his throat beneath that potentially threatening thumb; intentional or not, it's allowed. Maybe he thinks he has a suitably good chance of intercepting any actual action on the threat. Or maybe he's just inclined to take that little gamble. Either way, he seems more concerned with her throat than his own, and the trail of kisses moves downward again.

Distraction is, in any case, fairly mutual. His fingers slide along the wetness, a warm breath of "Mm, god," just audible as it flows across the skin of her neck. She can feel the smile, as well, when that kiss cuts her off. Almost as much for the truncated sentiment as the fact of truncating it, and the instinctive invitation is accepted. The second interruption is almost certainly intentional, a sudden and definite increase in sensation as the pressure of his fingers firms.

He gives the turn of her neck a little nip -- not too terribly hard, but without any warning. "I don't know," he murmurs, "Are you sure I won't be setting a bad precedent?" It would be more convincing if the arm around her didn't tighten along with it, or if anything else even started to threaten he were inclined to stop for so much as a moment. "On the other hand, I like your plan. And then I think we'd have no choice but to investigate your legendary bathtub."

Sparrow yelps for the unexpected introduction of teeth, startlement felt in the sudden tensing of just about every muscle against his, defensive posture held for all of two seconds before that alertness dissipates in a spill of light laughter. If that sweet sound weren't enough to assure her approval, the way she grinds down against his hand might help sell it. Or maybe the way she retaliates, how her head dips to bite, just a shade harder than he had, right below the back of his jaw. That first taste is followed swiftly by another, tongue swiping over the same spot. It may seem, for just a heartbeat, like she might latch on right there, but his question has her laughing again, that warm breath seemingly so cool against his wet skin.

Drawing back enough that she can watch him, far enough that, should he not lift his head as well, his mouth might be guided farther down her form... where there's still a tee shirt covering everything below her collarbones and above her spread legs. "Mm, no," comes on the tail end of his last words. "My bathtub needs no excuse to visit it." Even if she'd be glad to make up a million of 'em in any other circumstance. Eyes bright with mischief, the grin she wears so plain in her voice despite its breathiness, she presses, "You've got me all curious about what precedent you think you might be setting. And what your plan might look like." Tilting in again, she brings her lips close to his ear as she all but purrs, "Cuz I'm glad to show you how 'no' works."

Rhys approves of that yelp. Of course he does. Far less startled, he doesn't tense like she does, but there's a sense of his own heightened alertness in those moments before hers dissolves into the laugh. The retaliation doesn't exactly make it easier to keep his train of thought, let alone express it in as collected a manner as he'd prefer, but he manages it reasonably well-- after the little exclamation the strength of that bite draws, and the soft rumble in his throat for the repeat. The tightening of his arm strongly encourages that grinding, as though he were drawing her down against more than his hand; it's not until she pulls back and the shirt gets itself in the way of what wanted to be another bite that it loosens again. Loosens considerably, fingers sliding up beneath the fabric and over the skin of her back.

The near-purr draws a subtle-shiver, but a reply of, "Didn't you just?" It's light but low, influenced by her own tone. "It might not need one, but I'm sure sometimes it likes a little pretense too." He doesn't sound all that upset about it. "As far as precedents, someone once suggested I oughta be careful about giving you what you want. Some implication you might... try to take advantage of it. Could be dangerous." That does verge into the realm of a purr, and he's leant forward enough now to bite her neck again, a little above the shirt, and suckle against the skin. That, necessarily, shuts him up a moment.

"But as it happens," he picks up, lips moving against the flesh, "I want to keep my hand right there until you make a mess of it. Where I can see you, and hear you." The hand that's moved up her back draws back down, short nails leaving faint trails, and then slides more gently toward the front, between them, to find and curl around the curve of her breast. "And I want you." In this case, it really is the entire sentence. If there's any more detail to that -- if it's necessarily even much different from her plan -- it's not forthcoming, because he's busy trying to catch her mouth with his. Probably not to bite.

Sparrow might be collecting a mental catalog of all the exquisite responses she's drawn from Rhys, from that little rumble when her thumb had initially threatened to take what it hasn't yet to the not too distant noises her teeth inspire, from the murmured appreciation for what his fingers found to the barest shiver at her words. Highly likely she'll be revisiting those later while she remembers fingers and teeth and a smile she only catches half the time for how frequently it's hidden against her skin. And she offers those details in kind, a list of appreciative responses easily formed each and every time she tightens around his fingers: for the arm tightening about her waist; for that mentally pinned shiver; for the citation of her own words, evidence of attentiveness, cleverness; for the return of his teeth, for the suckling; for the scrape of his nails down her back inspiring her whole body to draw closer in a tense arch as goosebumps erupt all over her body.

She laughs, bright and loud for that mentioned precedent, only a hummed, "Mm," suggesting any agreement, though wherever that thought might have meant to go, the teeth against her neck, the very beginnings of what might be a hickey, bring her focus back to the physical. With the faintest hint of a whimper when his mouth leaves her skin, her thumb begins to press against his windpipe. Which, really, isn't the least bit fair given that she'd asked. She's just caught up on that done-with-talking feeling a little bit late. "Good," may be the last she has to say on the matter. His hand goes down, and so do hers, descending in parallel down his chest then detouring to flanks with splayed fingers when his lips catch hers. That first heartbeat is sweet, warm, honest. It takes all of no time whatsoever for the kiss to heat up, for her to press in harder, finding a cadence which matches the movement of her hips, his fingers. Learning hard into the hand upon her tit, hands holding tight at his sides, lips locked to keep the conversation from getting in the way, she rides his digits shamelessly, making good on her promise to make a mess of his hand, nothing but lewd noises, creaking springs and muffled moans by the time her grinding grows shallow, slow.

Teeth catch on his lower lip, less to bite and more to graze, teeth dragging against skin on her withdraw, as she pulls back just enough to airily demand, "More. Yours. You. Hi." Again, she giggles out a quiet, "Fuck."

Well... yes. That's about what Rhys has in mind, on all counts.

Fond of words as he may be, he's happy enough to leave them by the wayside for a while, exceptions made for a small selection of insistent monosyllables. Fairly soon their remaining clothing's all found its way to Elsewhere, and eventually all pending promises have been satisfactorily fulfilled for the time being. That first hickey's moved on from potential to definite at some point, and there might be a couple-few other friendly little souvenirs left behind by the time things are languid and lazy again.

Rhys shifts a little, a small and contented sort of stretch, and one of those spots gets an idle nuzzle and kiss. His lips slide into another smile against the skin before they lift from it, and he extremely belatedly echoes, "Hi." Less airy. More earthy. "Maybe I should get a waffle iron. Pancakes and Patrón?"

Sparrow, on the other hand, does absolutely nothing to draw attention to the burgeoning bruise on the left side of his neck where, later, it might hide behind some collars and peek past others; if he hasn't yet figured out that it's there for how often she anchored there, he'll notice soon enough. Instead, she picks a different target when returning that gentle affection, teeth catching softly on his jaw as she squirms impossibly closer, heedless of whose sticky bits might be pressed where. Fingers tighten against his ribs for a few seconds, as she draws a deep breath, relaxing again as she exhales, as she nuzzles against his cheek. "Perfect pretense," she croons contentedly, a bright, "Mm!" following a second later. "Key lime pancakes. With some sorta salted syrup. Deconstructed breakfast margaritas..." Her eyes are still a bit wide with wonder at that thought when she draws back enough to actually focus on Rhys. "Or bananas," sounds a shade more serious. "Or bananas. I like bananas in my pancakes. Maybe some engaging conversation on the side? Or at least something pretty to look at. Depending on what we might be recovering from by the time we get around to pancakes."

Rhys might end up going with turtlenecks at work for a few days. This is another thing that falls under 'sacrifices he is willing to make', particularly as the weather's cooling down. It doesn't even look notable, this time of year. The 'bite' to his jaw makes him grin, and he gives a little wriggle of the sort that would bring him closer as well if they hadn't already pretty effectively sealed up that space.

He lets his fingers trail easily down the curve of her waist and hip, the smile smaller as she nuzzles back. "Mmm. I like the way you think," he says, though whether it's the deconstructed breakfast margarita pancakes plan or the rest, or all of it, one would have to guess. It's likely true just in general in any case. "There are banana margaritas," he muses, "and a banana split cocktail. Tequila, bananas, ice cream. Chocolate syrup garnish." A tiny pause, the grin conspicuously remaining, "Whipped cream. Could easily deconstruct one of those. And I'm pretty sure it'd pair perfectly with engaging conversation or pretty things to look at. Or engaging conversation with pretty things to look at." Either sense of with works.

Sparrow tilts toward that touch. As much as she can manage without actually moving. A slight rise. A small stretch. "I know," comes on a contented grin, entirely satisfied, no time taken to wonder which thinking he might like. Eyes which had dipped back toward lazy half-lidding flash wide again at the prospect of banana margaritas, though it's not quite excitement. Curiosity? Science requiring experimentation, to be sure. Her hand edges upward while his descends, aiming to curl around his shoulder and keep him precisely this close. Her distracted smile breaks at the last addition to his list, a short laugh ending in an amused hum. "I'm not volunteering to help you clean up," preemptive warning provided, just in case it comes up later. "Even if it does sound like you're planning on keeping me captive for a bit." Her eyes narrow playfully with feigned suspicion, she asks, "You're not a pirate, are you? I dunno how long I could play at damsel." Beat. "Or first mate. Skipper?" Blink. Whichever. "I mean. Chances are, I'll be captain within a week. Sooner if I just need to steal a hat." Her smile widens without warning, an impish glimmer in her bright brown eyes. "Pretty sure I'mma just imagine you wandering around your houseboat in nothing but a big hat with a margarita or occasionally a sundae in hand now." Pressing in to steal a quick kiss and preempt any correction, she appends on departure, "And sometimes a flufftail." Brows knit curiously as she finally works her way around to wondering, "Why Squirrel Girl?" Cuz this is apparently what passes for pillow talk in this bed.

Very small movements. Nothing that counts as properly moving. Not yet. The current situation is warm and pleasant and relaxing and Rhys can definitely let his fingers dance back up her side and over the curve of her breast from there. Also, kisses. Those are easily plundered, pirate or not. Still, he can't resist replying with the most serious, "Arrr," he can manage, nor quietly singing, "It's fun to charter an accountant, and sail the wide accountan-sea..." Though that is, admittedly, rather less serious. And, thankfully, fairly tuneful. Karaoke's good for something.

"Only one captain on my ship," he says, "but I'm pretty sure I could find ways to make 'first mate' worth your time. They might not even need clean-up." He neither confirms nor denies the matter of the hat, but doesn't seem inclined to discourage her from imagining it.

"And why not? Seemed more fun than, say, Wolverine. She's a redhead, so that's handy. Not supposed to be huge. Strong, smart, agile, good attitude. Wins against weirdly powerful enemies. Plus the books're funny and hey, I knew I wasn't gonna be winning the couples' prize. Might as well qualify for the other two." A small pause, grinning again. "Not volunteering to nanny for you and Garrett, though."

Though Sparrow retreats ever so slightly from their close contact as his hand ascends, not at all incidentally allowing slightly easier access to what had otherwise been contentedly crushed against him, she hardly seems at all distracted from the conversation by that caress. Unless one were to count the slight deepening of her breath, the faint tightening of fingers upon his shoulder, the way she stares at his lips. No, eyes. Right. Eyes. Mostly.

What starts as a snort of laughter for the first syllable of confirmation erupts into giddy giggling he busts into song, punctuated with a delighted declaration of, "Nerd," as if that hadn't been obvious from the moment they first set eyes on each other at the comic shop. Though she feigns a far too serious expression as she hums her agreement with the Single Captain Rule, it's not visible for very long as she nuzzles in close, peppering kiss along his neck, over his jaw, lingering close to his ear as she offers some bargaining advice. "A fancy hat and an absence of pants will go a long way to making it worth my while." Tis not enough to dream when one can do!

After a nip at his earlobe where it's softest, she stays nestled there so long as it's comfortable, chirping a prompt, "Effort," and, "Expense," in answer to what was probably meant as a rhetorical 'why not.' Really, her own costume had required even lest effort than a bedsheet ghost would've required, no scissors needed. The hand perched on his shoulder descends as she murmurs, "Not that it wasn't worth it," the squeeze to his ass which follows coming just a little bit too late to readily connect her flufftail thoughts to the gesture. With a snort of laughter, she shakes her head. "Not my kink," she quips quietly, quick to consider, "French maid, though..." Hard to tell how sincere she is, especially when set against the question which follows, the low tone implying genuine curiosity. "Do you win against weirdly powerful adversaries, Mr. Evans?"

Rhys might, possibly, be having some of the same issues with that eyes-lips thing. He's definitely not having any trouble with that caress, though. He can keep that going a while. And, frankly, seems inclined to, though not in any particular hurry. He breaks into a wide grin when she declares him a nerd, and his gaze drops to her lips again, interrupted by the nuzzle and her own little kisses, which are, yes, an entirely acceptable reason to not see them anymore. He tilts his head a little, making more room for the kisses.

"...noted," he murmurs to her quiet advice, and the chances he might take it aren't nil. It wouldn't be the silliest thing he's worn. Or... not worn. Depending how one looks at it. And it is kinda funny. He makes a soft fft noise at the mention of effort and expense, twisting his head enough to mock-nip at the edge of her jaw. "Awesome is its own reward-- mm. Though assgrabs from hot naked women are pretty good too." He shifts to close the little bit of space their movements so far have opened up -- well, most of it. Not the space his hand is filling, 'cause it's still busy tracing little patterns over the curves, around and teasingly across the nipple. "I don't think french maid is really me either. Though if you wanna wear one, I could be on board with that." His head draws back a bit, enough to peek at her. "So far. Eventually."

Sparrow's teensy little squeak at the not-quite-nip might be more giddiness than genuine surprise, excess emotion just bubbling up at the barest provocation. The idle attention paid to her tit might be helping that along, every tease of his fingertips winding her up just a tiny bit more. She plays slightly nicer, her hand falling mostly still after just one more squeeze to his rear when the first one is referenced. Only her thumb demonstrates any restlessness, stroking lazily along his hip while she listens, while she softly admits, "It was awesome," of how all out he went for that one little costume contest.

When he draws back, her brows pitch upward, smile skewing dopily wide as mirth dances in her brown eyes. "I'm not your adversary, Mr. Evans." Sure, sure, sounds like something a villain might say, like maybe she might launch into some pitch to try to get the dashing hero to see things her way. Does it count when she reminds, "Pretty sure I'm your future first mate, so," with wide eyes? "And it's sounding like we're maybe gonna need to hire on some crew." Her hand shifts against his ass, though it's not exactly easy to tell what she's doing, that she draws her index finger away just to gesture that single digit. "Maybe just one. To put that outfit--" Which is entirely hypothetical, right? "--to good use and clean up every time someone lets us have whipped cream." After a couple seconds of study, delayed longer than intended by a soft sound caught in her throat, his fault, to be sure, she wonders, "Any preferences?" without offering any guidance, leaving the--almost certainly definitely hypothetical--question wiiiide open.

Rhys can't but smile again at the squeak, and her second little squeeze gets a small but definite wiggle against her hand in return. When her hand settles again, he does too, with a contented exhalation. Things she can add to the 'what makes you happy' answers: this, right here. Probably both the calmer contact and the winding her back up. And definitely also the confirmation of awesomeness. Always nice to hear it, after all!

"That's exactly what a weirdly powerful adversary would say," he says as solemnly as he can muster (which is not particularly, right now) and gives her a suspicious look, which is at least marginally more convincing. It is not his best work. "Well, that or a maniacal diatribe about upcoming dirty deeds, possibly including taking over and/or destroying the world." Her lips have caught his gaze again, and this time he leans in to kiss them for a few seconds before he gets around to responding to the rest.

"I didn't think you were, though, Ms. Jones," he murmurs when he draws away again, "Or at least, I hope you're not. I think maybe our goals aren't all that disparate. Think what we could accomplish teaming up!" The grin sneaks out again, then, slowly. "Piratical voyaging, for one. As for crew preferences..." Hm. "Female; fills out that outfit better. Attractive, so we'll have more pretty things to look at. Loyal, because mutinies are so inconvenient. And competent, 'cause the last thing we want is stray whipped cream hanging around in there for days. What're your preferences?"

Sparrow's lips part with every intention of providing prompt counterpoint to the evident absence of any maniacal diatribe, but they're given something far better to do. A mouth-muffled sound of genuine contentment escapes when that kiss connects, her lips tugging wider beneath his in a fleeting smile which melts swiftly into more attentive affection for so long as he keeps that contact.

Another of those happy noises slips free when he retreats, as she lingers there with eyes closed and smile nearly ear-to-ear. Hard to tell if she's even listening until she sputters with quiet laughter at his suggestion of teaming up. "Starting to think you might be the villain here, Mr. Evans." She peeks one eye open at him, eyebrow arched with comical suspicion. When her other eye opens, too, both sink into a serenely half-lidded state as she listens to his list, nodding to his points like she might be checking items off a list.

"Mine?" comes with a thoughtful arch of brows, a needlessly contemplative breath which ends in a soft not of distracted appreciation for the continued contact so lazily maintained. "First?" Best place to begin, nevermind that she's not starting where he did, her points not precisely parallel. "Definitely agreed on competence, but maybe a little less on loyalty. Like a little bite in my underlings. Just enough spine to push against. Not enough to punish. I mean. Paddling should be reward, not correction." Eyes flash wide, prelude to a spilled giggle as she considers, "Plank-walking?" with a little less conviction, not certain it works as well in her plans even if it's a more properly piratical punishment. Not that she dwells on it long. "Second? Pretty's a must, yeah, but nice asses--" His gets a light smack, well off-center given their positioning. "--come on all genders." Beat. "But I'll concede an appreciation for cleavage. Especially in frilly black-and-white contexts."

With a cute crinkle of her nose, she clarifies, "But I mighta been fishing for your sexual preference and typical inclinations so that I can keep my private imaginings grounded in reality."

Kissing is the best kind of counterpoint. Okay, it's at least a really good kind of counterpoint. Rhys is quite happy to make that particular argument for a little, and may well find it necessary to repeat himself in the near future, in fact. For the moment, though, he's busy making an indignant gasp as exaggerated as her suspicion. "Moi? Everyone's the hero of their own story, Ms. Jones. The villain's always whoever's against us." He does a fairly reasonable line in serious intensity there, considering, but only gets that far before a grin breaks free again. "Unless we decide to be villain protagonists. Kind of a trickier story. Worth reading done right, though."

And that leads smoothly into, "Plank-walking. Look, I'm not saying slavishly obedient, but you know, putting down a mutiny's maybe fun once. And not when we're busy with something else. Loyalty's important in a crew. And, yeah, I suppose there are nice asses aplenty in the world, but I really like cleavage." Squeeze. Hand is still in a useful place for punctuation.

And with that, there's a small, crooked half-smile, the left side of his mouth drawing up. "Girls," he says, and there's a tiny shrug, "I like girls. I mean, I know a good-looking guy when I see one and I guess I'm not ruling anything out, but none of my exes have Ys and I'm not really feeling the loss." He considers a moment, then shrugs a little more definitely. "Vague curiosity, maybe." That decided, he shifts a leg, to more decidedly twine it with hers. "As for typical inclinations? I'm inclined to ask what kind of thing you have in mind, there. What're yours?"

Eyes widened with insincere innocence, Sparrow points out, "I'm very much against you," in an appropriately cutesy voice. Just in case it had somehow escaped his notice. That act is dropped as she goes on, lazy grin creeping back in as she schemes. "Thinking I'mma find myself against you again soon. Often? Maybe often enough you start calling me your archnemesis." Pay no mind to any perceived contradiction to any earlier assurances that they're on the same side. "I considered, briefly, for all of maybe two days, playing the villain in my own story. Like Jekyll and Hyde, but." The kinda vaguely haunted thing her eyes do there? That's not feigned. Whatever conclusion she came to, it had some weird gravity to it. She doesn't bother to share.

More fun to echo, "Plank-walking," with a certainty that mirrors his own, nose quick to crinkle for the shared disinterest in blind obedience. Whatever thoughts she might have on the matter are preempted by that squeeze, by the giggle it evokes, by the drawn out, "Fiiiine," with which she concedes to his terms. Negotiating the likely composition of a very probably imaginary pirate crew likely shouldn't merit quite so much adoration, but she can't help affection in her bright brown eyes as she watches him, that delight only deepening for the more intentional entangling of their legs.

Her fingers trail upward, fingertips not quite settling at the small of his back, tracing absent patterns as she listens. "Me too," comes for his liking girls. Whatever she might think about the admission of some sort of potential wiggle room at the other end of the spectrum, she doesn't poke at that, readily distracted by the curiosity turned back her way. "I coulda meant a lot of things," she points out, which means that she probably did, that she was fishing to see what direction he might take it. "But, uh. Don't much have a gender preference, though guys more often than girls. Could probably theorize why, but." That's not really what he was getting at. "I like having something to chase. I like someone who can keep up with me. I like this. And, uh." Her eyes roll upward as if this requires so much thought. "I like getting my way. I like taking control. I like trying new things. I like just plain old making out. And this." Her eyes seek his again, smile growing reflexively when they connect. "I like this a lot. I like your hands. Your teeth. The way you taste. This isn't an answer to the question. Sorry." The shake of her head makes plain, no, she's really not. "I like asking open-ended questions to see where people go with 'em. But you like concision. Good at answering when I'm specific. Quick to check back in when I'm not." One brow cocks as she warns, "I'll get incisive. Like, mm. What's the weirdest sex or sex-adjacent thing you've ever done?"

The grin returns at that cutesy voice, or else at the pun; either way, it definitely doesn't dim at the scheming. It does somewhat at the thing her eyes do, and he studies them for that moment, the question visible but unspoken. When she pushes it away, he lets it go -- at least for the moment -- and the wickedness slips back into the grin. "If you wanna hold things against me, I'm weirdly okay with that," he says, "Soon and often. I've never had my own archnemesis." This almost certainly qualifies as a new definition for that word.

The giggle and concession are pleasing, and the way she looks at him even more so. He might not entirely realise how fondly it has him looking back at her in that moment, but a fair bit of it lingers when she gets to answering his question, and laughs quietly when she gets to the bit about open-ended questions vs concision. "Occupational hazard," he replies, "Can't find the right answer unless you understand the question. I like most of those things too, though. Something to chase, people who can keep up. Definitely this." Which is a reason to claim another kiss, without too much hurry to get back to talking.

When he does, it's to add, "...and making out, yeah," near enough that he can follow it up with a quick nip at her bottom lip before he pulls back enough that both her eyes don't appear to be one. "I like getting my way," with the leftward pull to that smile, a brow lifting, "...and I like being in control too. But the former outweighs the latter. I like making people I like happy, too, so if I'm not that into orders? I do take requests." He tilts his head a little, regarding her, and his fingertips drift over curves again as he speaks, their absent patterns echoing the ones she draws. "I like a woman who knows what she wants. And goes for it. I like trying new things, I like your laugh and your mouth and the way that you squirm." There's teasing in that last bit, specifically, and it's definitely not a coincidence that the patterns pause for a pinch to her nipple about there. "I like this. And my inclination is to encourage it happening more."

That question, though, requires some consideration. He glances down after a couple seconds, along the line of their twined legs, and wriggles his toes. "I've got really flexible toes," he says, "Good at picking things up with them, stuff like that." A silent laugh crinkles his face as he looks up and away for a breath. "One woman really wanted me to get her off with them. Slide my big toe inside, rub her with the other foot." A small headshake. "At the moment? I'm gonna vote that weirdest so far. You?"

Catching his curiosity for her oddly haunted look, Sparrow mutters promptly, "Google Pinkamena," to provide an avenue for exploration. Whatever questions that research may raise can certainly wait until later. Far more enjoyable to focus on that wicked little grin of his, her tongue tipping out against her lips unbidden as she considers its implications, before she admits, "I can think of a few things," to hold against him, with a little wriggle meant to draw attention to a few fine examples.

She looks all the more smitten for that line about questions and answers, surely a sentiment the would-be-scientist shares, even if her methods admittedly vary now and then. Something impish glints in her eyes as she goes on, but the thought never finds voice, drowned in that languid affection that leaves her smiling like a fool by the time he draws back. And all the wider for the quick bite which follows, drawing both a giggle and a blush. "I like the way you oblige my requests. Might leave me slightly more inclined to consider yours." Her fingers press more firmly to his back for just a second as she adds a bit more softly, "I like how you make me happy." She could probably linger there in that sweeter sentiment for a good long while, but that pinch pulls her out, eyes saucer wide as she yelps and giggles--and, yes, rather incidentally squirms in a reflexive attempt to retreat that sees, oh, not one little lick of follow-through. To the contrary, she presses in, bites at his jaw, sharper than last time, enough to register as pain, if only barely.

While he considers, she distracts, mouth descending from jaw to neck in a trail of lazy little kisses. Which pause to peek down their tangled bodies at his feet, even if this is a terrible angle for doing so. "Definitely weird," she agrees, those words almost contemplative, like she might spend a few seconds puzzling out the appeal later. For now? "Pissed on a pretty girl. Twice. Cuz she liked it." Too quick, too easy. A go-to answer at the ready. "Or maybe the guy who legit had me bite his balls. Hard. Definitely afraid I was gonna break something."

The way her head cants beneath his chin is telling, promise of another inquiry in waiting, a couple seconds spent giving thought time to form. "But, uh. You've got me curious. About a lot of things, really. But." Her hips shift against his, evidence of restlessness more than arousal, some difficulty with presenting this particular question. "What kind of requests might you make of your first mate slash archnemesis? Not knowing whether or not she'll say yes."

Pinkamena. Okay, mental note made, but it'd take a LOT of curiosity to get him to look into that immediately. Phone is in his pocket, which is in his jeans, which are... somewhere in this room, and that's enough to know for now. Particularly when his attention is so adroitly drawn to the very fine examples of things she might hold against him (again) in future. Nah, this is much more immediately important.

Among the things he likes but does not add to the listing are still the way she looks at him and that giggle, and now that blush as well. That's the one that brightens his eyes further, a further spark that remains when she adds in those other likes of her own. It softens a touch, perhaps, at the last of those likes, but doesn't lose any of the delight. Her reaction to the pinch shifts it wickeder again, and the barely-pain of the bite has him breathing in more sharply, the breath emerging as a somewhat giddy laugh, and he squirms as well -- but toward, not away. It welcomes the kisses well, if incidentally.

The first reply gets a cocked brow, either for the content or the readiness -- though she DID ask first, and it's surely fair to expect he'd ask back -- but the second makes him wince. "Okay, there's pain and then there's pain," he says, sounding as though that's psychically lingering a bit. More than happy to move on to the next question and leave that particular thought behind. "I'm an international man of mystery," he says, as a reason one might be curious about many things, but her actual question has him thinking again for a moment or two. "Well, I am requesting she accompany me on missions of adventure and excitement and really wild things, obviously," he says, but if we're sticking with the same general thread... nothing too shocking. That she sit on my lap and let me touch her, maybe. To give me that mouth. Let me lick her, with or without the whipped cream. Let me tie her down and see what kind of wriggles and whimpers I might get." He shifts his head a bit, to look at her as well as the current positioning allows. "Stay like this with me. Talk. Maybe tease each other until we don't really feeling like talking anymore, again." Those may not be as entirely future-theoretical as the first set, but they probably cover it as well all the same. "I like new things. But I'm not all that complicated, some ways." He breaks into brief grin again, adding, "I also might request she wear that bikini, or maybe just the first mate's hat alone. Once I figure out what a first mate's hat looks like."

"A pirate and a spy," Sparrow gasps, happily moving right on past her weird sexual escapades to focus on Captain Rhys Middle-Name-Danger Bond. Eyes wide with delight unfocus for a moment as she turns her thoughts to establishing her own spy network to keep him on his toes. The emphasis on the present tense, pulling them from the hypotheticals of her inquiry into the immediate moment, draws her from her scheming, bright-eyed attention settled wholly upon him once more. "Obviously," she concurs, even if her eyebrows did twitch upward for an instant at the promise of really wild things. When he sets in on his list? She nods point by point, seeming to generously agree to... well, the first few, at least. Her chin lifts at the tease about tying her down, as much in challenge as out of curiosity, but whatever follow-ups she might have for that particular request get pinned for later as she moves on to matters of more immediately pressing relevance. The way she watches him, how she keeps her questions to herself? She might be getting close to that not talking place.

But then he brings up the bikini, and she bursts into laughter, demanding, "As long as it's not that one," of the gaudy green thing she wore for the jello match, certainly picked for its festiveness rather than any fashionability. "Smee wears a beanie," isn't quite right, but that's how it's fixed in her memory. "I know what to wear when I come by after Christmas." It might be a sexier proposition if she didn't give her brows a cheesy waggle like that, but maybe the way she closes the little distance between them helps it along. Her nose brushes beside his, lips teasing lips in the beginning of a kiss before she rethinks, withdrawing juuust enough to murmur, "I'mma kiss you now, and I dunno if I'mma stop for a good long while, so if you've got anything else you wanna add or ask..." Now's the time to do it. Like. Right now. This very second. Because she's not waiting long before claiming that kiss.

"Spyrate," Rhys agrees promptly, and he's watching her as best he can while he speaks. Reading those reactions as they come. The challenge in that particular reaction doesn't make him retract it in the slightest; there's a hint of a brow-lift that answers the challenge, but doesn't push it any further. When she laughs, it makes him grin broadly again. "What, no green lame? Okay, I'll accept alternatives, as long as we add some equivalently ideal memories to them." His turn to laugh when she brings up Smee's hat, and he agrees, "Stripey. Already looking forward to that post-Christmas period..."

And there's probably more he could say. Let's face it, there's definitely more he could say; he could probably say for a good long while yet. It's part of why they've ended up where they are, after all. But they are where they are, and right now he's much, much more interested in that kiss, and probably a good few others to follow. Questions and additions later. Not really feeling like talking anymore, now.