2020-02-28 - Saints and Santeria

(TXT to Sparrow) Cristobal : You free, Paji?

(TXT to Cristobal) Sparrow : For you? I can be.

(TXT to Cristobal) Sparrow : Where do you want me?

(TXT to Sparrow) Cristobal : My place.

(TXT to Cristobal) Sparrow : Gimme 30. Want me to bring anything?

(TXT to Sparrow) Cristobal : Nope.

When Sparrow gets to the apartment, the lights are on but nobody's home. There's a note taped to the door that simply reads:

Paji,
Let yourself in. Get changed. Be back in a few.
-C

The apartment is neat and clean and smelling vaguely of cinnamon from a teapot left on the stove on very low heat. Alexa is playing some low volume Spanish guitar instrumental in the background, and an worn, soft grey tshirt and pair of sweat pants have been left folded on the edge of the bed.

Sparrow does not arrive empty-handed despite that 'Nope' she got from Cris before coming over. She climbs the stairs to his place with something fairly flat wrapped in a quilt depicting frogs snapping up patchwork dragonflies with their long cloth tongues. Once she's snagged the note on the door to tuck it into her jacket pocket and, as instructed, let herself in, she sets her bundle--about 2' x 3', no more than five inches deep--down finds a place to hang her coat. Her boots are taken off by the door, one blue sock tucked in each.

"Alexa?" When the chirp confirms she guessed correctly, she instructs, "Play Lolo Zouai," and makes her way toward the bed while his choice in background music shifts to hers, Spanish guitar giving way to French electropop. Looking down at comfy grey clothes left for her then down at her rather well-put-together self, she weighs obstinance versus indulgence for all of four seconds before she's peeling out of her own clothes--every last stitch of them--and getting into his. What's taken off is all folded neatly and set aside, a pile of blue and grey and black to collect later. For now, she climbs into bed to wait, laying on her back while she fusses with her phone, a brilliant juxtaposition of soft grey laziness and impeccable make-up.

The door to the apartment pushes open about ten minutes later, a plastic bag from the local hardware store hanging from the crook of one finger, weighted down by a small box that jingles as he walks past the bed, grinning slightly, and swinging his purchase up onto the kitchenette table where it jingles when it lands. "Comfortable?" He asks by way of hello as he shrugs a bit stiffly out of the flannel he was using as a pseudo jacket against the cold.

He toes off his grey cowboy boots and socks, leaving them right where they were shed. It's his place, he can leave it messy as he pleases. He's in a white long sleeve thermal with a waffle pattern and a pair of jeans that sits a little low on his hips, removing the wallet that hangs on a chain into his pocket and tossing that on the table as well as his keys.

Sparrow doesn't move all that much when the door opens, tipping her phone forward as her gaze lifts thattaway. Neither does she move when Cris makes his way in, sets his bag down and shrugs out of that flannel, except to drop her phone fully onto whatever surface might be nearest. The song in the background has changed, but Alexa's still dutifully churning out Lolo at a low, low volume, a bit of chill in the background as she considers him, as she answers with an easy, "Mhm." Dark brows pitch upward as she lies, "So comfy I was thinking about maybe just calling it an early night. Going right to sleep."

"Wouldn't be a bad idea if you need it." Cristobal side eyes her before he moves into the kitchen, grabbing down a mug and filling it with the concoction he had going on the stove. It's steaming as he carries it back over to the bed and sets it down on the nightstand next to her phone. It looks like hot chocolate, smells like hot chocolate, but with that hint of cinnamon and something spicy underneath it's definitely the Mexican take on the familiar drink. With a pronounced grimace on his face, he puts a knee into the mattress next to her and then rolls over the top of her to flop down and try to gather her up in his arms. He looks like he does most of the time, like he's just gone ten rounds with something, his bottom lip wounded again, slightly puffed and recently split.

Sparrow doesn't look like she could sleep if she had to, not one little ounce of drowsiness in her eyes as they track his movement. "I mean. If we're gonna work through the things I need," she croons. "I prolly wouldn't start with sleep." To judge by the way she tilts toward that hot chocolate to breathe it in when he sets it down, that might rank a bit higher up the list. But her curiosity turns from the drink to his grimace, a flicker of concern registering just before she's properly distracted by that over-and-around move. By the time she's snug in his arms, she's giggling and not exactly thinking too hard about that face he made. She's too busy snuggling up, burying her face against his neck to breath him in, to hum a happy sound against his skin amid a small spattering of kisses. She smells delicious, exciting, like lilacs and leather and herbs and plums. And she bites. Just a teensy litte bit, an overdue hello.

Cristobal nuzzles his cheek against the top of her hair, freshly shaven so no little bristles catch the blonde strands, even his goatee has been temporarily banished by a razor though no doubt it wouldn't take much time and effort to grow it back in. At the little bite, it's as if he's been reminded that he's been remiss in a more proper greeting and he tilts her chin with the crook of his finger to press a soft kiss that lingers, lacking urgency as he tries to take his fill even if it stings his wounded mouth.

Sparrow doesn't need much encouragement to change targets, easily guided from neck to lips and pressing in a little too eagerly at first. She's quick to correct, to let her fingers curl behind his neck and say all the things her lips had meant to express, pulling firmly and holding her close and tense while her mouth moves gently against his. Though she pulls back just enough to murmur, "Kinda unreasonable how much I missed you," that distance isn't held long, quickly closed to preempt any follow-up, contentedly deliving right back into the kissing.

Cristobal finally ends the thorough and soft affection, leaning away and brushing light fingertips over her cheek and into a comb of hair over and around her ear. "I'd say it was just the right amount." He angles up his face to press his lips to her forehead with a soothing rumble in his chest. "Got back as fast as I could. I believe...this is what you ordered?" He asks, giving a small shrug of their combined embrace.

Sparrow's face scrunches adorably at that answer, eyes closed and nose crinkled even as she tilts in toward his touch. Her fingers slip from his neck to settle lightly on his chest as her head bows to accept that forehead-kiss. "It is, yeah," comes quietly, more emotion tangled up in those words than is really due. Her fingers flex and stretch restlessly, fingertips running over the waffle-patterned fabric. "Things just got a little heavy for a bit. Might still be. I dunno. I'm not--" She's quiet for a couple seconds before she shakes her head, draws a deep breath and looks up again, aiming to distract. "I brought you something."

It might be a false sense of security that Cristobal can give, as tumultuous as his own life is, but he gives it nonetheless with the band of his arms and the steady rise and fall of his chest along with the slow, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat. He pets her shoulder and arm with the broad flat of his palm as she talks, the full attention of his stormy blue eyed gaze. "Good. I like presents. But that can wait. You're not what?"

Sparrow's expression sours when she's pressed, but only for a second. And without the barest shift in her weight to suggest she's eager to leave what peace and comfort she finds right here. "Checking?" she ventures, not sure that's the right word. Her eyebrows draw together as she considers those blue eyes staring back at her, maybe considering... well, lying to his face and knowing full damned well how unlikely she is to get away with that. "I'm just tired. Everything seems like too much recently, and I'm not keeping up and not sure I want to bother keeping up, but I know, like. I dunno. Next week? Or three weeks from now or whenever the fuck I pull my head out of my ass, I'm gonna be pissed about how much I let fall, but." She shrugs, making another face, this one a little nearer to helpless. Her hand flattens where it rests, patting at his chest as she emphasizes, "You are under no obligation to care, alright? Totally okay with going back to the kissing."

Cristobal rumbles again, this time just one of those 'I acknowledge' noises instead of agreeing or not as to how she should feel about not keeping up with the events that are tiring her. "Too late for that." He says of caring, though his lips pull thinner at the notion. Instead, he hugs her tighter. "Well, for one night I give you complete permission to say fuck off to the rest of the world because you are under my care, hmm? I have my own demons to chase tomorrow, but for tonight? Drink your cocoa."

"Pretty sure nobody knows where to find me," Sparrow murmurs against his chest, happily ignoring the fact that her bumper-sticker-plastered car is very identifiable and parked right outside, easily spotted should anyone go sweeping through town looking for her. Still, it's a nice thought. Hiding here. Under Cris' care. She breathes in deep and spends a few contented seconds just... being here, relaxing into his embrace. And there may well be intention to pick that back up later, but... well... "How about you go open your present while I drink my cocoa before it goes cold? And then you can hold me all night. In however many different positions and states of undress you want."

Cristobal gives a little pat to her flank, "Deal." He did mention in texts that he had something for her as well, but it seems he's waiting until later for that instead of this just becoming some sort of gift exchange. There is a mildly discomforted grunt as he shifts his weight, shoving himself up higher on the pile of pillows. Apparently he expects delivery of this so called present.

When Sparrow pulls away, it looks for a moment like she might reach over for that cocoa and just lean back. But then there's a look down his body, back up to that lip, to his eyes... and while there's no particular curiosity or judgment for whatever it is that's got him achy, there is a little bit of expectation that he'll make this up to her later in that look. How playful that might be is up to him to gauge. Slipping to her feet, she crosses to that quilt-wrapped package and carries it over, offering it to Cris before she settles in next to him without word and plucks up her mug, getting right to the sipping while trying to look only vaguely interested.

Cristobal fixes Sparrow with a wry grin as she gives him that look, a follow-up shrug like 'whatcha gonna do' as he lifts his hands to take the quilt wrapped package as it's passed over. He settles it onto his thighs and starts to lift away flaps of fabric until the two canvases are revealed. He unstacks them, holding them out side by side and examining the images as his face sort of simply goes...blank.

That is until that telltale muscle in his jaw starts working, the flats of his teeth working against each other for a brief moment before he kicks his legs off the side of the bed and carries the paintings over to the table where they are laid and he's left to grip the back of the chair, giving Sparrow a view of his shoulder blades as they vulture out with a head bowed lean.

Sparrow keeps remarkably quiet throughout. Not a peep. Not even any slurping. Maybe a bit of creaking of cushions under her rear as she shifts a bit, but she's just relaxing, right? When Cris gets up, she sets down the mug so that she can pull up the quilt and start folding it as best she can from a sitting position, distracting herself from just outright watching his reaction. Not that she doesn't look his way, but she's certainly trying not to. "I call them the Saints of Lost Causes," she murmurs while she works. "My parents aren't... catholic or anything, but. Named us all after saints. And birds. Faith and freedom." It sounds like there might be more rambling to come, but she cuts herself off as she lays the folded blanket on her lap and looks to those hunched shoulders uncertainly.

Her words are just met with silence for some time, offering no solace or respite by interrupting her rambling words. The quiet of the apartment continues with just Alexa playing that low thrum of music in the background before Cristobal finally says, "They're stunning." And damned if he doesn't sound a bit pissed off about that fact. "But I'm no Saint, Sparrow. Not even fucking close." As if in some sort of twisted demonstration to prove his point, he claws back between his shoulder blades and peels his shirt forward, stripping it off stiff muscles with a jerk.

Across his skin and the bull tattooed there are angry red lines, criss crossing and inflamed, the flesh broken in some spots and scabbed over from the recent abuse. Which was both plentiful and exuberant judging by the state of his back.

"That's sorta the point," Sparrow murmurs quietly, the weird face she makes at herself as she hears how that came out very likely unseen while Cris is stripping off his shirt. The bed creaks again as she shifts her weight more purposefully this time, dropping the folded quilt at the foot of the bed as she pushes to her feet and crosses toward where he stands. Fingers brush low on his back, below all those nasty lines marking both skin and ink, a tentative touch to test the waters as she explains, "We're kinda the lost causes too, right?"

Cristobal's skin twitches involuntarily at the touch, as if trying to shrink away from any more incoming assault, real or imagined. "It's blasphemous." He tells her with that same sort of thread in his voice, like he's trapped between two worlds. Two reactions. And when he can't decide which one is going to win. Which one SHOULD win, he plucks up the bag from the hardware store and flings it at the wall. The little plastic box inside pops open from the impact, a shower of tiny little metal tacks escaping the bag and raining down with a, "Fuck!" shouted in frustration.

Sparrow pulls her hand back and pushes it through her pale hair, digits hooking behind her neck to keep from making a second attempt at touching Cris while he's working through this. There's almost certainly a mental note made to not be present when gifting art in the future. Less of that awkward desire to explain things away, too. "We could b--shit!" She quicksteps when the bag goes flying, ducking her head with her hand still against her neck, reflexive reaction to the sudden movement from Cris. Between her utter unfamiliarity with this sort of situation and the floor suddenly covered in tacks--and her feet still bare--a few seconds of stunned silence pass while she calculates, gaze flicking to phone, to clothes, to boots, to coat, an escape route taking shape.

His first instinct is to look to Sparrow to make sure she's okay, then jerk his face away before the sheepish look can fully form on his features. There might be a mumble of some apologetic Spanish, but it's so low it might just be another rumble of noise and nothing more. His shoulders are still tense, the brief flash of impetuous violence doing nothing to have dispelled it. "You shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have given me those. You..." Cristobal's hands tighten on the back of that chair again, until knuckles go white. It's what reminds him of the brand new tattoo that marches down his forearm, looking like handwriting complete with blots of ink that look as if they were done by a pen instead of the tattoo gun. It reads 'Don't let the darkness guide your heart.'

It only takes the sight of it for Cristobal to collect himself, and turn to Sparrow, muttering a quiet, "C'mere." In warning before he's going to try and lift her up and carry her back to the safety of the bed, leaving him to navigate the tacks alone.

"Shouldn't's kinda my thing," Sparrow mutters back dryly as she drops her arm and straightens now that it looks like the threat of any repeat performance will at least be delayed by a bit more brooding. She doesn't catch the new ink, a bit too distracted by... well, everything to take in that detail from this angle, even when his arm's coming toward her to scoop her up. Whatever protest she might've mustered doesn't come soon enough, and she leans into him all too readily, resigned if not precisely comforted. "Let me clean it up, Cris. You can't leave it like this. I'll clean it up and. Just." What? She'll figure that part out then.

Cris deposits Sparrow back on the bed, making sure she folds her legs up onto its safety before he leans over and smoothes her hair down on both sides from her part before kissing her in the middle of it. "It's my mess, I'll clean it up." He's about to turn to do just that before he pauses, and nudges up her chin. "I love them. I do. I just..." His face becomes pained, angst ridden. "People just...shouldn't care about me like that, Sparrow. Even if shouldn't's your thing. I don't deserve it. You get that, right? I'm not telling you I'm difficult, I'm telling you I'm a fucking monster."

He crouches down next to the bed, edging up onto the balls of his feet and reaching down to flick a tack out of the leathered skin of the soles of someone who spends far too much time barefoot. He continues on speaking, the words rushed. "But you're this...goddamn beam of sunshine I don't want to stop shining on my skin."

Sparrow settles sideways on the bed with her legs folded, glancing toward her phone and abandoned cocoa when his hands come up, inspiring one of her own to rise reflexively to brush that contact off. Her eyes close, the blue shadow dusting them tonight nearly the same shade as his eyes, and her jaw tightens, the latter still set when he pulls her attention upward. She probably should refrain from rolling her eyes when he's being honest about his feelings like that, but she doesn't manage, maybe a little too true to her word on that whole shouldn't thing. Brows pitch up imperiously and she shakes her head in answer to what she's supposed to get, clearly not buying this.

When he sinks low, she reaches out again, this time less tentatively even if she's no more certain that it's a good idea, aiming to brush over his cheek, to cradle his jaw. Whether or not she manages, she answers all the same. "I'm pretty sure--" Entirely sure. "--I get to decide how much of my affection you deserve. Not you. Not anybody fucking else. Just me. And I know my criteria for that. Including your willingness to just fucking hold me after we've both had a shit few weeks when we could be boning instead. Which, hey, is a pretty decent human thing to do for a monster. But." Her shoulders go up in a high shrug, stern expression softening slightly. "You get to decide what to do with it. My affection. The paintings. Whatever I give you. Your choice. Not mine. So." She lets her shoulders sink.

Cris doesn't shy away from the touch to his cheek, in fact he turns his face into it like a puppy just begging to be pet as he kisses her inner wrist. "Human like attacks of morality when you're pretty certain you're going to screw things up, but just a question of when and how bad and what's the collateral damage going to be." He sighs, a huff of breath out of his nostrils that also sounds vaguely uncomfortable at staying crouched in that position. No telling how far down those weals go with his jeans on. "Then I guess for the time being we're stuck with each other." Even if that's not precisely what she meant with all that, but consider it quiet retribution for that eye roll.

"Lemme grab the broom." But first he scoops up a small handful of those tacks and holds piles them on the mattress next to her hip. "Gonna need those." With a grunt, he straightens to get the implements to clean up his mess.

Not exactly what Sparrow meant, no, but she doesn't protest when that's the conclusion he comes to. Unless he counts the half-amused mutter of, "Sure, gimme ammunition," when he drops those tacks next to her. She sets to picking those up and moving them to the bedside table between frequent looks his direction, not a single tack thrown just yet. "Let's assume this is gonna end. Maybe even badly, though. While we're being real honest here? I'm more likely to bail before we get that far. But that's beside the point. All of this sunshine is impermanent. Fades to black. Crashes hard. Everything goes bad. Right?" The work of relocating the tacks completed, she sinks her elbows onto her knees and watches Cris. "What's so bad about just being happy now?"

"I mean. Fair is fair." Cristobal quips about ammunition before he pops open the only tall cabinet in the kitchen to pull out a broom and dust pan. If he were stronger, or even in control of his glimmer, he could use his powers flippantly to clean up the mess with just a thought. But that doesn't even seem to occur to him, with how unfamiliar he is with the aspect. He merely sets bristles to floorboards and starts gathering tacks up into a pile. "Deserving it. Which you seem to have this nasty habit of making me forget that I don't." She's given a smirk, even if it's a bit self-deprecating.

Sparrow probably won't be the one to point out to Cris that he could be making reckless use of spooky powers to tend to mundane tasks. It certainly doesn't occur to her now while the sweeping provides a little bit of distance, a little bit of time for her to shove her reflex to nope on out of here back down. "Yeah," she quips dryly, "I'm a real jerk like that." She's quiet for a few seconds, the sound of the broom dragging the tacks across the floor filling up the unused time. "Maybe narrow the context some? Cuz I only get to see this. What you show me. What we share. That's all I get to judge. And here? In this context? You're deserving." With a little lift of one hand in a shallow gesture meant to indicate everything else, she concludes, "You can be an undeserving monster out there. Without me."

Cris dumps the dustpan of tacks back into the bag instead of just the trash, a waste not want not sort of mentality though he always seems to have plenty of disposal income, he doesn't just throw it around. Unless it's random things like Valentine's presents and an expensive couch once he found out it was Dante's taste, not cheaping out on a reproduction knock off. "Guess we'll leave that judgment to God then." So it's back to being happy, at least in the here and now.

"Now. We're going to do something for you. Well, and me, but that's besides the point. It's safe now, you can come down. Bring your ammunition."

Doesn't seem to be quite so easy for Sparrow to catch up, her smile not returning at the prospect of the gift reciprocated. Even when her assortment of tacks are appropriately labeled as potential projectiles. She leans over to scoop them up, brushing with one hand into the other, then gets to her feet with a pensive huff. She might still be in her own head. That little furrow between her brows gives it away. "I want you to think about something else, too," comes quietly, straddling the line between request and command. "Think about how maybe I'm more comfortable not being sunshine all the time around you because you aren't perfect either." She starts to say something more, but just crinkles her nose then lifts her handful of tacks. "Where are we going with this, gorgeous?"

Cristobal crooks his head for her to join him in the living room, going to kneel on one side of the ornate crate that serves as his coffee table. "You can always let that guard down around me, Paji. I can't make any promises about myself, but I sure as fuck will protect you from the rest of the world. Not because I think you're weak. But because I think you are a tesoros." As to her question as to what those tacks are for, "Wanna help me with a little Santeria?" This as he lifts the lid of half the crate, hinges in the center that give it two compartments.

Sparrow follows, moving to the end of the makeshift coffee table, sinking down at the corner to keep close to Cris. Near enough that her knee presses against his, contact established and maintained for the time being. She can move if she has to. The look she gives him says there's more on her mind still--maybe even to a worrying volume--but no more of it comes out right now. Possibly because a more interesting prospect than continuing to pick at this issue has been presented. "Alright."

"You. Have a turbulent mind." It's not an accusation, just an observation. "It takes one to know one, right?" Cris asks as he pulls out a wooden cross that looks like it's had a bunch of holes punched into it at one point, but whatever caused them has been removed. It's set to the floor beside them and then he's handing her a tiny hammer. A weapon to go with that ammunition. "So I thought...maybe I could help you lighten that load. So, you don't have to tell me what shit exactly you've been going through these last few weeks, but you will have to give me one word. Just one. About what it is that's bothering you most."

Sparrow offers no answer to that observation, neither in word or any visible response. She just watches Cris, maybe trying to figure out just how alike their minds might be. When he sets the cross down between them, she shifts position a bit, turning to face him--and the cross--a little more more, even if that means breaking that contact. The tacks spill into a neat pile between her knees before she takes up the little hammer, weighing it in her hand to figure out how it most comfortably fits at this size. With a shake of her head, she tells him, "I need more. I need to know the intention, what we're doing. Before I can give you a word."

It's a fair question, a good question, and one Cristobal answers by reaching in the crate again and pulling out a little cinched sack of colorful fabric that jingles almost like coins when he weighs it in his hand. "So we can pick out the right Milagro." The little silver charms are dumped out next to the cross, everything from little animals, to pieces of anatomy, and so on. "For instance, if I wanted to seek relief from...pain of stepping on a tack, I'd use..." His finger scatters the charms until he finds one that looks like a foot. "This one. Or I could use the same one if I wanted to run faster, or ...stop putting my foot in my mouth." He tries to smile, fails and just drops the charm back into the pile.

Sparrow keeps unusually quiet and still throughout. And after. No flicker of smile on her side either, but almost certainly because she's still settled in that pensive place, thoughts all tangled and not precisely condusive to humor. Rather than looking to the charms, she stares at Cris while she thinks. Until a proper frown claims her lips, and she looks down at nothing, some thought occuring that resonates. Even if it's hard to put into a single word. "It deals with my, uh. My own head." Looking up again, she asks, "Is that enough?"

"Mmmhmm." Cris intones as he toys through the pile again, until he comes up with two options. First, the profile of a woman and the second a representation of a brain. He presents them both on the flat of her palm for her to choose from, each having a little hole at the top of the charm which probably explains the tacks, the hammer, and the old divots made in the wood of the cross. "If you're uncomfortable with any of this, we just go back to wrapping you up in bed in my arms, understood?"

Sparrow doesn't need a whole lot of time to think when those particular options are presented, promptly selecting the brain. She knows the enemy when she sees it. With the same hand, she plucks up a tack from the pile, but neither are set anywhere yet, the initiate awaiting instruction. "I'm not uncomfortable," is just knee-jerk enough to have a bit of bite to it, sharper than she meant. Her eyebrows draw together as she frowns, expression skewing decidedly apologetic. "I'll tell you. If you want. Not about everything, cuz not everything that I've been dealing with is mine. But this is. So." She just stares. Waiting. For instruction. For any indication of interest.

When she selects her choice, Cris lets the other fall back into the pile, freeing his hand to come up and smooth over her hair and down to the back of her neck. He doesn't look to her with sympathy per se, it's more about just comforting, offering that little bit of reassurance in a physical form through contact. "I want to give you some peace of mind, even if I can't fix it, at least I can listen without judgment."

Sparrow's eyes close as she tilts into his touch, as she lets out a breath heavy enough that her shoulders sink a little with relief once it's gone. "It's a nice thought," she murmurs, a bit of brightness at the end suggesting she might even want to buy into it. "But I don't think you can keep your thinking about me from shifting. New data, right? So you gotta figure out where it fits. Give it some meaning." She shakes her head, opening her eyes with an eyeroll that requires that her gaze sink back down to make eye contact with Cris. "This isn't me. It's not the me I want to be. I was me when you met me. Really me. The me whose brain works so fast I don't have time to think too hard about anything and get caught up in the details. The me who can keep everything balanced and moving and absolutely fucking perfect and pristine all the time. The me who gets shit done. The me who charms everyone. The me who has her shit together." Her jaw tightens, and she holds up the little brain charm, tack held against her palm with curled fingers. "I want my brain to get its shit together and stop making everything so slow and sludgy and stupid. I want to stop feeling like there's no point to any of it. I want to not have to fight so fucking hard to just--I dunno. Hit some human baseline normal. I hate this. I hate feeling like this. I hate being this. I hate that I have no control over this. I hate that anybody ever has to see this." The list cuts short there as she scowls, almost softly, and concludes, "I want my brain back. How do we do this?"

"Spoken like a true scientist." Cristobal points out as to all her talk about new data points and the like, though he doesn't seem to be put off in the least. He tilts his face down slightly so he can look at her intently from the tops of his eyes, to let her know that she has his full attention in this moment. He keeps his hand gently wringing the back of her neck, thumb occasionally stroking the line of it.

"Paji, this is where I'm going to have to call bullshit." He says when she asks that final question. "All of it. All of it is the real you. From this fucked up self-doubt to the brazen girl who showed up on my doorstep with chocolates. We might like parts of ourselves more than another, but they are still - unequivocally - what makes you, you. So you're in a bit of a rough spot. You've gone through some shit, maybe your brain chemicals are out of wack so things seem worse now, but that doesn't mean you've lost the other part of you. So the ass-kicker Sparrow is on hiatus. She'll come back. You'll find her again. You need a professional? I'll pay for it. You need a vacation? Done. Mindless sex, well, you know I'm your man. Whatever you need, you'll figure it out. And if just figuring it out right now is too much? Well. I happen to be an A-Plus cuddler according to my Yelp reviews, and you can try again tomorrow. Or the week after that."

A brief pause. "Unless you meant the milagro, in which case you take the hammer and the tack and beat that little shit into the cross."

Sparrow's chin ticks up in answer to the challenge in his call, ready to face it, ready to fight, certain she knows what she's talking about and not ready to let somebody tell her any different. The first words that follow earn an eyeroll that keeps her gaze averted until he mentions brain chemistry, brows arched pointedly when her eyes meet his again. It's clear she's got thoughts on all that, plenty to say about his perspective, but she doesn't interrupt, doesn't make a sound until the offer of mindless sex earns a breath of laughter that has her smiling despite herself. "There's nothing to figure out," she counters quietly, without any of the bite in her earlier look. "She always comes back. This is just how it is. A bullshit price I gotta pay to be perfect all the rest of the time, and I just want it to be done. For now. Until next time. Cuz there's just too much for me to hold it all together like this. It's dumb, and I don't like it." Pointing the hammer and Cris, she adopts a stern look again. "And you really need to listen to yourself when you say all that nice shit so you can play it back when your brain is telling you you're a monster."

She purses her lips, holding that pose for just a second or two longer, then drops her attention to the work before her. She sets the charm down on the cross and works the point of the pin through the hole, holding it there steady as she can. For a few seconds, she's just silent, staring, focusing her thoughts on the task at hand until bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The little hammer whacks at the thumbtack repeatedly, fingers drawn away after the first few strokes, when they're no longer needed to keep it steady. She probably strikes the thing more than is needed, making sure it's driven as far in as she's gonna get it before she looks up.

"Well. Whatever you need to make the cycle easier to bear, yeah?" Cristobal asks before he treats her to her own medicine with an eyeroll of his own when she says he should heed his own advice. "I can dish it out, I didn't say I could take it." Even if funny enough, the lash marks on his back prove otherwise, at least as far as one topic is concerned.

He gives a started little guff of laughter as she starts going at it with the tack, scooting back a little and letting her hammer away to her heart's content even if it bends the soft metal a little, or leaves pock marks in the cross. "Atta girl. So the idea is you're putting your prayer into that charm, and you're handing it over to God for his will to be done. Now, with any good Big Ask from the Big Guy, there's gotta be something in return. A sacrifice." To which he's offering up his index finger and another tack with the express implication he'll be the victim of a little blood letting.

The way Sparrow's eyebrows draw together as Cris describes the intention, that she has to put her trust in a God she's never prayed to before today, suggests she's not at all sure how she feels about it. Not skeptical, no, but... reserved. Uncertain. Like there's a good chance she might spend a couple of days rolling this about in her head to figure out how she really feels about it. For now? Well, she's in it. And he's being dumb. Which has those brows crunching tighter together as she gives him a look that very clearly says no. "First? My prayer, my sacrifice, so you can take that finger back, handsome. You want me to hurt you, we're gonna do that on my terms, okay?" She pauses all of a breath before continuing. "And second? Puncture wounds are terrible. Prone to infection like whoa. And you can't cover them. Way bad for lab work. You got a box cutter or something?" Or a razor in a kitchen drawer that she never quite noticed?

"Don't threaten me with a good time." Cristobal rumbles as he unfolds himself from the floor, bracing himself on the crate as he gets to his feet because he's still moving stiffly. He's padding off to the bathroom to come back with a little first aid kit which he drops unceremoniously into her lap and then fishes back into the crate to remove a knife with an elaborately beaded handle. "Careful, it's sharper than it looks." He hands it down, inverting his grip so he's holding it by the blade as he gives it over and resettles on the floor. "You only need a drop, understand?"

"Don't think I won't bring my paddle next time," Sparrow clips right back as she watches him, though it's hard to tell if she's worrying about his injuries, trying to gauge his reaction or just shamelessly appreciating his shirtless form. She's feeling a lot of things right now, okay? She takes the few seconds that he's gone to let out a heavy breath and refocus on her intention, trying to clear her head of some of its chaos. The first aid kid suddenly dropped onto her doesn't help her focus, but it does get her attention, the kit opened so she can consider the contents. When she looks back to Cris to take the knife, she quips quietly, "Just how you like 'em," mustering her first proper smile in a good while.

Holding her hand over the little brain charm, she draws the knife over the ring finger of her left hand then presses the thumb against the shallow cut left in its wake, the wound so small that she has to squeeze the blood from it. Just a drop, like he said. Okay, sure, and then another couple running down the side of her finger, but that's what the first aid kit is for. She'll get to that after she flips the knife over, blade between her fingers, to hold the handle out to Cristobal as he had for her. "Thank you."

Well hopefully she's not too concerned with it being unsanitary - again, that's what the first aid kit is for - because Cristobal isn't reaching to take the knife back but her injured hand again, looking to seal his lips around her ring finger and suckle free those escaped little droplets of blood gently, his eyes flicking up to her face to gauge her reaction when he does so. "No. Thank you."

Sparrow's cheeks flush without her bidding when the tone of their interaction shifts so sharply, when all her thoughts are shoved from her imbalanced brain chemistry and complicated thoughts on faith and ritual to how his mouth feels around her finger and a million filthier things which follow. Her gaze dips rather intently to his lips when he frees her finger, but then shoots over to the knife she's still holding. Brows arch when her eyes find his again as she puts the knife between them and tells him, "Put this away," quietly, firmly.

Cristobal rumbles an, "Mmhmm." In obedience as he slips the knife carefully away from her hand, plucking an alcohol wipe from the box and ripping the paper packaging open with his teeth. He gives a quick swipe to clean the blade and then puts it back into the crate with whatever other devious things he has hidden away in there. "Should we get you back to bed?" He'll clean up their little art project later, or perhaps he's not through with it himself and intends to return to it at some point. He's offering out his hand so they can hoist each other to their feet if she acquiesces.

Sparrow's hips shift just a little at those two soft syllables, at that prompt compliance. Maybe she's just getting comfortable, but something about the way her body draws up ever so slightly at the same time, the way she watches him so very intently all the while, it all suggests something more intentional, a subtle expression of arousal she otherwise doesn't act on. Not until he offers out his hand. Which she doesn't take right away. Instead, she leans in over the little mess spread between them and, unless impeded, simply crushes her lips to his in a desperate kiss, heavy with a tangled mess of emotions that have no other outlet at the moment.