2020-02-03 - Watch This

Six more weeks of winter is bullshit. Sparrow's done with it as is evidenced by the fact that she's wearing shorts. Okay, sure, there are black tights under the shorts, but still. Shorts. Pale denim cut-offs with rough edges showcased against her fit, pitch-stockinged legs. The black tee beneath her star-patterned jacket bears a jawless six-eyed skull which seems to be crying, the optimistic glitz of the silver-threaded coat at odds with that grim energy. The only pop of color upon her person, beyond that neon red hair, are the bright blue socks peeking out past her black boots and the shimmering midnight laces. Her make-up matches, hues of blue attempting to lend a spooky factor to a face too bright and smiling to really rock that edgy vibe.

The girl ignoring the warning of some groundhog on the otherside of the country has a table not far from the bar with a beer already in front of her, legs stretched out under the table and crossed at the ankles while she waits for the pale-eyed man she asked out tonight. Though she looks up now and then to scan the room, a whole lot of her focus seems to be on her phone, intermittent giggles and swiftly shifting fingers suggesting some ongoing text conversation.

One if by sea. Or at least via the entrance that leads off of the beach, Cristobal enters the bar with a bluster of cold air mussing his hair, the man pawing it back into some semblance of its normal sweep. He's in a dark khaki canvas jacket, he too bucking this prediction or he never really got around to buying proper winter clothing. At least he wore a scarf? Knit and blood red, round once around his throat and dangling like a sharp gash against his jeaned thighs. He comes up to Sparrow's table, palms propped on the surface as he leans in with a quiet rumble of voice. "I hope they carded you for that beer." Grinning, he drops into a chair nudged closer beside her by a boot.

Sparrow mutters a giddy, "Oh what the fuck," at her phone just a second and a half before Cris edges in close and tugs her attention up from that device, her smile bright, plainly pleased to see him. "Always," she confirms without any lick of shame for her age. "Unless it's Legs, but." She looks around and... okay, so there might be a couple of servers who could qualify for that title, but she shrugs. Her Legs isn't here tonight. "Dig the scarf," comes with a low-lidded look before her attention's back down on her phone. For just a moment. Long enough to gtg at whoever's on the toher end. She tilts toward Cristobal, way more into his personal space than she needs to, as she slips her phone back into her pocket. He might catch, in that moment of closeness, the notes of her perfume: lush plum and opulent open, sweet honey and smoky vetiver. "You get hung up on age, Mr. Fucking Fascinating?"

Cris unwinds that loop of knit cotton, throwing it around Sparrow's neck instead at the compliment of it. "If I did, you think I'd have asked for my tupperware back?" He gives a rough tug on the ends of the scarf to draw her even more near as she invades in close, pressing a sound kiss to her mouth. "But don't think that's going to stop me from making jokes. Because." His hand sweeps up and down his torso. It's Cristobal. And totally has zero filter sometimes. Most of the time. "You even smell like honey today."

There's a half-finished gin and tonic sitting on the bar, and a wool coat slung over the back of one of the chairs. The owner of said coat and drink crosses from the men's room, clad, as is his custom, in a fine, neatly-tailored suit. Tonight it's an off-black three-piece with gold buttons, and a blue button-up, with a dark red pocket square. He wears a black and gold belt that's on display right where the vest comes together. He seems to be in his own world, looking at something on his phone just as he reclaims his seat and scoops up his drink. He hasn't noticed that someone familiar has entered. Damned small towns.

Sparrow can't help the giggle which rises when she's bescarfed and drawn in, even if it's short-lived, dying in an equally happy hum against Cristobal's lips. "You're an asshole?" she fills in with a low-lidded look that echoes her tone, decidedly flirtatious, not the least little bit bothered by that bluntness. "Just for you," on the point of that hint of honey clinging to her skin sounds like it might even be sincere, the bright-haired punk just as purposefully put-together as promised. With a curious cant of her head that sets the contrast of neon hair against darker scarf, she wonders, "How about here?" Focused as she is upon Cris, eyes glinting with impishness, she doesn't much notice any little bit of the surrounding world just yet.

"Here?" Cristobal asks, but not what in reference to. He has some very clear idea of what she means, judging by that wry twist to his mouth. "You're going to have to be just a tiny bit more specific. I mean. There's so many options..." Cristobal glances around as if visually tagging them all. That's, of course, when he spies Dante up at the bar, and his own phone slips out, firing off a text with one hand, barely looking at the screen. "Watch this." He tells his date.

There's a delay, as Dante orders another drink and settles at the bar, but he does pick up his phone. He does the pinch-zoom thing, cants his head, then shifts his legs so that one ankle hooks around the rear leg of the stool. He picks up his drink when it arrives and takes a gulp from it before typing back. He remains oblivious to the room itself.

Sparrow doesn't have to look around. She keeps her eyes right on Cris as he takes stock of their options. With a lazy shrug, a challenging arch of her brow and a drop of one hand to her lap, she clarifies, "Right here?" But she's almost certainly bluffing. Right? Asked to watch... something, she waits expectantly. But there's only typing. And, alright, attention angled elsewhere. She follows that focus back toward the bar, toward the brit seated there, and grins. "I hope you're asking him over," she murmurs. "Or, I mean. Seeing if he might return the favor and strip for me."

The gleam in Cris' eyes is completely mischievous as Dante shifts subtly in his seat, flashing the image he sent Dante to Sparrow so she'll be in on his amusement. He says, still texting. "If this place had table cloths or you wore a skirt and brought a bigger jacket...if we get arrested, just hope de la Vega is the officer on scene."

Dante is in the middle of phone-typing something else when Cristobal's message comes through. He blinks at it, turns the wrong way around first, then turns and spots him. And also Sparrow. Blink. He slides his phone back into his jacket pocket, picks up his drink and walks over, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. "You cheeky bugger," to Cris, and then to Sparrow, "Hello, good evening." And then he looks between them both and seems to put things together. "Having a night on the town, are we? As much as one can in this tiny place."

Sparrow takes in the picture and its caption with a widening grin, entirely appreciative of his methodolgy, but it's what Cris says that has the whole of her focus entirely on him for a few solid seconds. "I like you," sounds like this judgment has just been made now, the man rising up a notch or two on her grading scale. "Really fucking glad I didn't wear a skirt..." Cuz that is a terrible, bad, no good idea that she might have a hard time saying no to now that her bluff has been so soundly called. That thought and the whole flood that comes with it gets shoved aside as she puts on a brighter, if no less impish, smile for Dante as he sidles on up to their table. "Hey there, handsome. Just out seeing the sights." Just in case that all too obvious line was missed, she unsubtly drops her gaze along his form before plucking up here beer.

"I dunno, we could have added 'still as a picture' to 'quiet as a mouse' on your list of achievements..." Cristobal sort of drawls as his hand goes to her knee, fingers curled a little too inward of her thigh to be completely innocent. "Hola, English!" The bouncer looks in mild (if completely faux) surprise that Dante is approaching. "Fancy meeting you here." Beneath the table, he gives another chair a little kick so it stutters out towards the Brit. "Join us. We're just debating the finer points of wardrobe choice."

Dante shifts a bit awkwardly and looks down at the kicked out chair. He doesn't take a seat. "It's rather impossible to go out anywhere in this town without running into people you know." He clears his throat. "I was holed up writing all day. Needed to recharge m'social batteries a bit. Just here for a nightcap." Or two, given he just ordered another drink a few minutes ago. "Well," a polite smile, "Don't let me interrupt."

Sparrow unhooks one ankle from the other to tilt her knee in toward that touch in shameless invitation. All the layers she's got on? It's not all that far from innocent. Just like that attentive look she turns toward Dante as he opts to keep standing, expounding on Cristobal's commentary with, "Like what it might take to coax you into a similar state of dress as mine the last time you saw me." So wide-eyed. So ... well. Innocent-adjacent? Ish? More sincerely, she tells him, "You aren't interrupting. Preeeeetty sure we both like your company. But." Her brows pitch up sternly, Serious Mode engaged. "If you just need some quiet and people watching? Don't worry about us, alright? We'll pine a little, but." She, at least, has a drink to help see her through that heartache.

Cristobal seems to be running his teeth along the inner facade of his teeth, the pause the only indication he's actually thinking about his response before he just spits one out. "Whatever you need." He finally responds to Dante, "But as the little bird said, we're both like your company and there's no harm in sharing a," Thankfully no breath between what word and the next, "Table."

"Ah," Dante pinkens a little as Sparrow calls back to the other night at the club. "As I've said to others, I'm not much of a dancer. Far too English, you see. Not a lot of rhythm." Him? English? Get out. He raps fingers on his glass, then slowly sits. His chair stays nudged a bit of a distance away from the other two, but not so far as to be unsociable. "I'll finish my drink at least, shall I? It would be strange for me to just hover over at the bar. And drinking a gin and tonic fast isn't a lot of fun."

"I'm an alright teacher," comes with a crooked little grin for Dante. On the topic of rhythm. Which might sound a bit forward if he's unaware of Sparrow's musical inclinations. Especially given how low her dark lashes dip as she says it. The hand not wrapped around her beer settles lightly atop Cristobal's as the writer relents and joins them. "Soooo," she draws out, flicking her gaze between them. "How'd you two meet?"

Cris has yet to actually order a drink of his own, so he flags down a waitress and gets a bourbon for himself before his attention turns back to his table mates. Normally this is sort of thing Cristobal has no problem just blurting out, zero shame, but it's not just him he'd be running his mouth about, "We, uh, actually met at the Firefly."

"I don't think you can teach a fundamental lack of rhythm," says Dante. He's really not that bad, but it's a good way to try and step away from the stripping conversation. He's got a mouthful of drink when the question comes. To his credit, he doesn't spit take but he does swallow rather quickly. "Ah, yes. Just one of those random encounters. But as this town is quite small, we found ourselves running in to each other again."

"You'd be surprised," sounds sincere, lacking that flirtatious tease that Sparrow has otherwise shamelessly been leaning into. Not that the drummer bothers to elaborate, not wanting to keep pushing where there's no interest. Especially as the conversation's moving on to where these two met. Brows arched, she asks Dante, "That's where we met, yeah? Christmas Eve Eve?" With a little roll of her eyes, she adds, "I mean. Unless you count Jello Fest, but pretty sure formal correspondence doesn't really count as meeting someone." Did she notice the silence from one or the hurried swallow from the other? Maybe. Or maybe she just likes the idea of, "Hookup that night?"

"Don't let him completely fool you, English here can tickle the ivories and you damn well sure can get him to sway his hips if the mood is right." Cris drags the web between his forefinger and thumb down the short sheered facial hair he sports. His leg extends under the table, though he's unable to quite reach Dante from where he sits a little back from its edge. The toe of a grey cowboy boot just taps quietly on the floor to convey the intent. As Sparrow hits the nail on the head in one, Cris' grin grows to guilty heights, muttering, "Something like that." Into his newly delivered bourbon.

"Jello Fest?" Dante looks at Sparrow, and it takes a moment for the wheels to click into place. "Ah, yes, the charity thing. I didn't actually attend, but yes, the prize. For some reason I hadn't connected that it was you I was speaking to. Not sure why not. Rather silly of me. But yes, the Christmas shots I believe was the first time we officially met." He tilts the drink in a salute to Sparrow.

He is actually not going to scoot forward, but someone trying to pass behind him makes it a necessity. He purses his lips at Sparrow's question and Cris' confirmation. "Mhmmm," is all he says.

"Sign most of my official correspondence PS Jones," Sparrow provides, giving Dante an excuse for not connecting those dots. She lifts her glass in answer to his, taking a quick swig of her beer. When the confirmation and corroboration both prove so laconic, her lips purse faintly, gaze flicking between the pair. Then off to the side. "Is Cris here telling the truth?" she asks the author, only looking his way again after the question's past her lips. "Do you play?"

"Amazingly." Cris answers for Dante, even though the man will likely have elaboration, and some form of denial for that praise, on his own. Dante scoots forward and the latino's instep rubs his calve as if in some sort of reassurance. "Best form of foreplay ever." The piano, obviously. His head swivels back to Sparrow, hand on her thigh beneath the press of his own and he gives a little squeeze. "Sparrow here likes to beat things with sticks in a rhythmic fashion. What's the name of your band again, babe?"

"Ah, yes," says Dante, even though Cris has just confirmed it. "Though I'm just getting back into playing regularly. Apparently I'm here for the long haul, as I bought an electric piano." He doesn't comment on forehplay. He looks down at the foot, then lifts his brows and makes eye contact with Cris. As if to say, 'your boots better not have road salt on them.' He doesn't quite get what 'beat with sticks' means until he asks the name of the band. "Ah, a drummer." Yes, Dante. A drummer.

Sparrow snorts a laugh at Cris' expressed preference of forms of foreplay, the barest uptick at the corner of her lips suggesting she might have some little inkling of experience there. She tilts a little closer to Cris at that squeeze to her thigh, gaze angled slyly aside. "And paddles and crops and all sorts of things," she says of her enjoyment of beating things, happy to further confuse the issue. "Though I do tend to keep the sticks to my drums." With a shallow shake of her head, she dryly asides, "Sanitary reasons," as if she's got some experience with that too. She might be lying. Who knows. "Lowered Expectations," she mentions of the band. "Opened Winterfest. Totally fucking killed it. Should hear the boys, shit." Yeah, there might be a glimmer of genuine pride in those bright brown eyes for her bandmates. "What do you like to play, handsome?"

And Cris likely misinterprets that look from Dante as something different and his foot stills and gets drawn back. "Sanitary Reasons is an interesting choice for a na...oh. Lowered Expectations. Nice. I didn't get a chance to go to Winterfest, but I'm sure it was it was epic." Even if he is assuming the question is for Dante - he clearly is the more handsome of the pair with that suit - he's answering. "I prefer the skin flute myself. Or the maracas." His eyes dipping down the front of Sparrow's weeping, multi-eyed skull shirt.

"Ah, old and stale, I'm afraid. Jazz standards, mostly." Dante slides a finger down his lapel, straightening his suit jacket. Shocking that he plays jazz, right? Doesn't look the type at all. Except if he got spat out at a Rat Pack concert, he'd fit in perfectly. As Cris withdraws his foot, he reaches out in an attempt to catch it, to give it a gentle tug. But he won't fight it if the other man would prefer to just withdraw.

Sparrow looks, for a second, like she might be considering renaming the band. Or adding Sanitary Reasons to a list of possible album titles. For an album that's unlikely to ever happen. Cristobal's instrument proficiencies get the sort of self-aware laugh that has an undertone of groaning beneath the far more obvious amusement. She gives her shoulders a little shimmy, but her maracas don't jiggle all that much beneath the tee. It's a damned good bra under there, keeping everything neatly in place. Such a shame.

However much she may or may not be catching of the under-the-table action, she pays it no mind, keeping her focus on Dante's answer as her eyes narrow with just a hint of sternness. "I can't tell if you actually find yourself old and stale or if you're assuming my opinion for me. Cuz I was fucking rocking a Cole Porter song at karaoke not too long back, so." Shrug. "Like what you like. No shame. That's the kinda company you keep."

Cris's foot is stayed, his boot just tucked now next to Dante's fancy shoes, but still touching. "I didn't think being a Best Selling author he'd be so humble. Annoying as fuck." The bouncer says, but it's said with clear affection. "Good thing I have enough cocky for the both of us. You two should give me a private concert some time, Dante can play and Sparrow the pair of you can sing. I'll even rent a piano so she can sprawl on top." Because the baby grand won't be sacrificed. "Only covered in rose petals."

"I love Cole Porter. He's the majority of my rather limited repertoire." Dante flashes a smile at Sparrow. "I'm aware that I'm a walking cliche of Britishness and..." he stops, clears his throat. "Well. I'm a cliche." He takes a swallow from his drink, listens to Cris, eyebrows raising. "He's got quite the imagination, doesn't he?" this to Sparrow.

"Nah." Sparrow lifts a hand at the picture Cris paints, shaking it back and forth in denial. All but her index finger curl in, that single digit gesturing firmly as she corrects, "If I'm sprawling across any pianos playing Porter? I am definitely done up in something slinky, and you're--" That finger tips toward the blue-eyed bouncer at her side. "--gonna have to tip real nice to get me outta it." It might sound more contrary if it weren't for the flirtatious smirk and low-lashed look that go with it. "It's a good quality," she concedes of that imagination she just edited, the edges of her expression only slightly softer when she returns her attention to Dante. "You're handsome, charming, talented. Have fantastic taste in men. Alright taste in music. And frankly? Half the town would legit pay just to listen to you talk. So lean right into that cliche. We aren't gonna call you on it."

"If that's the promise, I'll make it rain Benjamins, Pajarillo. And one thing y'all are failing to acknowledge is that I tend to make real this imagination of mine." Cris dips his forefinger into the deep brown liquid of his bourbon and holds it to Sparrow's mouth as if expectantly as he leans into her and nuzzles the line of her jaw with his nose. "You know, that's true. Capitalize on that shit, Dante. Why haven't you had a book signing at Elias' store and do a reading?"

"Well, I do try to be self-aware. And I try not to overplay my hand." Dante sips his drink. It's getting close to the ice cubes. He's conveniently looking elsewhere when Cris goes in for the nuzzle and holds out his finger. Oh, look at that fellow over the with a...t-shirt. How interesting. "I have, actually. Awhile back. Around Halloween. I had a signing and a reading."

Sparrow catches that digit between her teeth before blue-tinted lips close in as she suckles the bourbon from his skin, tilting in toward that contact with eyes all but closed. The, "Fair," which follows when that contact breaks is meant for Dante despite how quietly it's spoken. Her smile's just a touch dopier when she actually looks his way. For a second, anyway. Before she reels that right back in and continues at a more conversational volume. "Subtlety and restraint aren't really my strong suits, so." Yeah, she knows how one-sided her advice can be. Doesn't keep the impish glint from her eyes as she tells the brit, "I did a reading there too," letting that hang for a second or two before she clarifies. "A very brief tarot reading for Elias, but. Ya know. Technically."

Cris gives a slow lascivious grin as Sparrow suckles the alcohol off his finger and gives a lippy kiss to the joint of her jaw before he leans back into a more conversational posture. "Did you? Well, you'll have to do another one now that I can claim to be banging the author and it'll give me a chance to check out your other groupies." Adding on the tail end of Sparrow's own reading. "She gives good Tarot, if you're ever inclined."

"Groupies?" Dante draws out that middle syllable and coats the word in a questioning sing-song. He snorts softly. "Hardly. I'm not the kind of author who inspires a dedicated fanbase. More like, 'he's entertaining enough for a plane ride.'" He finishes off what's left in his glass and sets it on the table. "Tarot? Interesting. There was a time when I would've just said it's a tool for guiding your own intuition and nothing more. But things have changed a mite." He smiles a closed-lip smile. "Anyway, I should let you get on with your evening."

Sparrow maintains a decided Cris-ward tilt in the wake of that affection planted on her jaw, even if she's trying not to smile too brightly about it. Though she breathes a faintly grim laugh for that shift in Dante's perspective on tarot, she tells him, "I still do sometimes," with the implication that there are other times when she can't ignore the eerieness of either the cards or this place. "You ever want a reading," seems an open invitation as much as a goodbye, her smile flashing faintly apologetic without her own noticing. Subtlety really isn't in her wheelhouse.

They've already insisted he stay once, to do so twice might be pushing Dante's limit. "I'll call you later." It's not voiced as a question but a promise as he squeezes Sparrows thigh one more time because he's getting to his feet to side step around the table and catch the author by the back of the neck to press a quick but firm kiss square on the mouth.

Dante is starting to move to retrieve his coat when Cris comes around the table. He seems quite shocked by the quick kiss, so there's not time for him to properly react before the other is withdrawing. "Not if you're busy later, you won't," he says with a bit of wryness and a twinkle in his eye. "No hurries. I'm not going anywhere." Except, he is. He inclines his head to Sparrow, "Ms. Bird." And then he's moving to the stool by the bar where he left his coat and to pay his tab.

And on the way out, he orders them a pair of Prairie Fires. Just for fun.

A more polite creature might look away. If that creature resides anywhere within Sparrow's brain, it's looking the other way all on its own because the redhead shows not one little lick of shame in the way she watches that kiss rather approvingly. It isn't even a particularly lascivious look, no indication that anything untoward is going on inside her head. It's just nice, and she likes it. "Mr. Cliche," she teases with a lift of her beer which she then proceeds to drink as her attention shifts from one man to the other, brows arched as she watches Cris.

"Everyone needs a hydration break once in a while." Cristobal grins back in response, head turning to watch Dante leave as he flops back into his seat next to Sparrow. "Pajarillo." He says again, as if re-greeting her, reaching for her knees to hook a hand beneath them and drag her legs over his lap."You really did not come prepared." His fingers pluck at her leggings.

Sparrow's beer, running blessedly low, wobbles a bit without spilling as she laughs brightly when her knees are drawn up unexpectedly. Legs curl over Cris' lap with intention, a scrape of chair against floor drawing them a little closer together to assure her comfort when she relaxes back into this new positioning like they might be right here like this for a while. "Oh, I did," she counters with a contrary grin. "Prepared to make it utterly fucking inconvenient so I don't blow that ticket on something easy when I know what I wanna spend it on." Still, her brows arch high as she adds, "But. If you're up for the challenge..."

"I'm always up for a challenge, but I didn't bring my blow torch along to break into Fort Knox if you're also wearing a chastity belt under here." Cristobal grins, running a finger up beneath the bottom hem of her shorts, teasingly. "But. If you have something in mind, you better save it. You got one shot at this, Birdie. Well. Until the next time."

Sparrow keeps still while that digit slips beneath the hem of those short shorts, a shallow edge of elastic arching up toward her hip beneath her tights. "I've got a lot of somethings in mind," she admits. "Everywhere I go past few days, I clock a half-dozen spots." Color creeps into her cheeks at that admission despite the confidence with which she speaks. No shame for that admission, no, but whatever's running through her head has her blushing all the same.

Which might be why she glances roughly toward the door, brows arched when she looks back to Cris again. "Everything okay? I mean, the kiss looked okay, but." If there was more to the thought than that, it's put on hold as the server comes by to deliver the shots, that painful combination of tequila and tabasco that has the redhead laughing.

Cris' lips purse in thought as she mentions a half dozen places, his mind obviously wandering with what she landed on, if it wasn't meant to be TIBS tonight. The blush earns her a smirk and a touch of his tongue to his upper lip in a slow sweep. It gets interrupted with a, "Hmm?" As she returns him to the here and now. "With Dante? If it's not, I'll fix it later. He definitely had a different vibe than on Amateur Night about being out in public with me."

Sparrow nods. Yeah. With Dante. And then she shakes her head for those last words, pointing at the weird skull on her chest. "If it was at all about this?" Which she seems willing to concede it might not have been. "I'm the complication, the shift in context. Amateur Night? He's where your attention was centered." One shoulder lifts in a little shrug, and she allows, "But I could be reading it wrong. I just..." A flicker of angst crosses her features, expression growing slightly more serious. "I don't wanna cross any lines, make anyone else suffer for my happiness." She pauses all of a half-a-heartbeat, just long enough for her grin to creep back up. "Unless they're into that and consent whole-heartedly."

Cris reaches up to tug a bright red lock. "That may be the case. If so, I have my own jealousies about his boyfriend. It's natural and it's something we'll just have to talk through like adults. If he prefers to avoid me when I'm on a date with someone else, then he and I will just have to come to some agreements. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, but I'm sure he'll appreciate the sentiment. Knowing you care."

Sparrow tilts in closer at that tug, more than is necessary really, drawn up from her recline to sink into Cris instead. One hand settles on his stomach as she nestles her nose in behind his ear, lips soon following while she listens. "I do," falls warm against the damp spot she leaves behind as she straightens a bit. Just enough to let him catch the devilish glint in her eyes. She knows she should leave well enough alone and not ask the question dancing in her head, but. "Why are you jealous of Elias?" She's too curious.

"Because he's a far better man than I'll ever be." Cristobal gives a little smack to her thigh, but he's much less heavy handed when it comes to her. "We gonna get out of here or what? I'm starting to get hungry." And judging by the gleam in his eyes, what he wants isn't on any bar menu.

"Bullshit," Sparrow answers even as she swings her legs from his lap. She doesn't let him get up right away, too quick to lean in and nip at his stubble-lined jaw, that tiny bite followed promptly by a little kiss. Once upright, she wraps his scarf around her neck and elabortes, "Elias is fucking magnificent, don't get me wrong, but still. Bullshit." For now, that's the whole of her argument. Once she slams her shot, she's too busy making faces and ekeing out a half-laughed cough to go on. She leaves Cris to see to his as she makes for the bar to settle up, all revved up to pick at that thread once they head back out into the way too chilly for shorts night.