2020-03-13 - Cam Bois and Travelogues

He's a regular, he might as well own up to it. Though now, since Cris is here, he's at a table, rather than a bar. Coat and cap hung up, sitting at his ease. He's drinking an Irish coffee, a departure from his usual hard, hard spirits, as if the winter's finally gotten to him, and looking utterly contented. Enough booze or something in him, anyhow. "Yeah, I'm stayin'," he's saying. "I want to see what the summer's like. Too much to do here, too much to see. It's so damned weird to be an adult who doesn't have to answer to someone. I'm not under orders or on the road or in the hospital or asylum or....." He shakes his head. "I feel like this is the start of my real retirement."

Cristobal is leaning back in his chair, foot propped up on in the seat of an empty one as he perfects his sprawl. A bottle of import beer rests on the meat of his thigh, leaving a dark ring of condensation in the material of his jeans. "Whoa, whoa. Wanna dial that back a second? Asylum? You have a habit of burying the lead, Boatswain. First I find out you're a Space Case, and now you're telling me your certifiable? What the hell have I gotten into?" He doesn't seem put off by the news, more so just darkly amused as his upper lip pulls into a half grin, half sneer.

That has him pausing a beat, expression gone owlish. "Yeah," he says, more softly. "See, that wreck I was in.....you saw the scars on my side, my hip. I got brain damage, too. TBI, they call it, like a soldier's been hit with a IED. An' of course, I'd started to shine. So They came callin' - my body healed but my mind was goin'. So bad I tried to check out the stupid way." And he rolls his wrist to show one of the long scars that stretches from wrist to elbow.

A sip from his drink, and he continues, "My family sent me off to the Asylum. You know, that place of Theirs that's somehow both on the Other Side and yet touches this world. Had me there for.....months. Not a full year, I don't think. But I was bad, bad off. I think They finally had Their fill of me. I musta puzzled 'em sorely, with my inclinations."

Cristobal's foot falls back to the floor with a solid thunk of his cowboy boot, twisting his body around to reach out and snatch Joseph's wrist as the scar is shown off unabashedly. He yanks it over for closer inspection, running his thumb along a portion of it while retaining his rough grasp. "You're lucky we're in public and I just got a fresh beer." His eyes tick aside, as if checking the crowd before he bends over the man's wrist and kisses at the pulse before shoving his arm back at him. "Yeeeeah, can't say I know about that." Cris might be Shiny, but he seems more unaware of the goings on in Gray Harbor.

Good thing they're in public, indeed. It doesn't stop Joe from shivering, despite himself, at that touch....more so at that kiss. A ripple of goosebumps at the boldness of it. No, no one's looking, no one cares.

But he doesn't really yank his arm back, merely lets it fall back to the table before picking up his drink. "I don't know a lot. But it's one of the places over there that butts up on this world. They run it. It's a place of torment," His tone is even, careful. "Mos'ly it's young folks that's there. Children, teens, up to young adult hood. I was a generation older'n any other patient I ever saw. I wonder if it's cause the young are more.....less tough to pain? More full of juice, as it were? Or just they wanted folks that were new to the shine, and mos'ly that's kids. I sure didn't get it until I was middle-aged."

"Praying on the weak." Cristobal surmises, leaning forward to press his elbows to the table, rolling his bottle of beer now between his palms as he starts thinking a little too hard about this Asylum, a valley appearing between the two mountain ridges of his converging eyebrows as they're knit together. "Experimenting on them?" The question seems more rhetorical simply by the fact that he's pressing forward. "And they just let you ...walk out one day. Just like that."

"Well 's nominally a hospital. But yeah. I don' remember a lot of it clearly." His accent's thicker, in that way it has of appearing when he's a little drunk or much distracted. "'s jus' pain." He sounds, strangely, just a hair wistful. "All kinds. Drugs. I thought I would die. I'd a'ready let go. I was ready. Ready to be done with this body - if they wanted to burn the nerves out ahead of time, that was all right by me. I try not to think about it too much. It erodes memories, when I remember. Other memories, things I want to remember. Like the way the sunset light looks on the water off Diamond Head, or what it's like to land in a sandstorm in the Gulf."

Cristobal's eyes flash up to Joseph's face, a hard look within them that's hard to read beyond anger as he talks about letting go. There's a set to his jaw as he looks back down to his beer, beginning to peel the label as he slivers his thumbnail beneath the paper. "Sounds fishy to me," he finally intones a bit flatly about lost memories. "You back in terms with continuing living now, or are you still chasing after that final sweet relief?" This asked of his Negro Modelo instead of the man occupying the table with him.

"It was only Their hands on me that had me thinkin' about it. They'd run me so ragged....No, I'm with the living now. I wouldn't be here if I weren't. Wouldn't'a come this far." He, for his part, is gazing at Cris across the table, a little worriedly.

The tip of Cris' tongue runs along his bottom lip, barely visible in the slight gap of his mouth as his brain continues to churn on something. Suddenly he sits back, looking at Joseph again with a confused look making his eyes narrow. "Why the fuck aren't we torching this place again? I mean, we're sitting in a bar, casually talking about you being fucking tortured when we should be gathering up a mob with pitchforks and torches."

"Because it's over the other side. The rules don't work there like they do here. I.....flipped over to that Other Side when de la Vega scared me in the woods. It's the scariest place I've ever been, an' I spent a week on the ground in the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan. The beings that live there, that run that place....They're not human. 've you ever talked to Rosencrantz about it? I don't know if you get along with him, but he knows a lot about it. He went and got me outta there."

Joe's actually shivering. "So it's not as simple as just showin' up with a few cans of gas and a box of matches."

"The first time I said two words to Rosy, he popped me in the face." Cris' lips turn wryly, his dour mood cracking a bit. "So of course we get along. Well as I get along with anyone, I suppose. Course it woulda helped if I hadn't accused him of being a cam model in the middle of Pourhouse karaoke." He seems to be somewhat fond of the memory, as his thumb comes up to scratch the side of his nose with a stub of a nail. "But yeah, I guess that complicates things." He finally gets back around to the asylum.

There's that grin, the somber mood fractured indeed. "You tol' him he was a cam boy? Now there's an image," he says, voice enormously fond. "Yeah, he a firecracker, too. You should ask him about all that. Hell, I need to learn more. All that shit behin' the curtain, until hell breaks loose over here. Those creatures, They torment poor Kass. She's too bright a fire, an' she does what she does. 'minds me.....who healed up the hurt I put on you, not too long ago?" Speaking of it with that utter matter of factness - that he hurt his lover badly enough to want a healer.

"Man, no one believes me, but he looks JUST LIKE this cam boy that goes by the name ElijahCoxx626. Hand to God." And Cris even makes the appropriate gesture. "But you know what they say: never meet your heroes." He gives a single huff of a laugh, taking a swig of his beer before tilting the dark bottle examining the level of liquid left beneath the gold foiled label. "Yeah, yeah. I probably should learn more about the fire I'm playing with, huh?" At the question of the healer, Cris' glances over sidelong. "Someone I work with. Who shall remain nameless."

"Now I'mma have to look that up," Joe says, smirking. "Somehow, I can actually kinna see Itz doin' that." He's only nursing that Irish coffee. "But yeah. Him an' August Roen seem to be some among the local experts. More I know of it, scarier it seems," But his tone isn't filled with dread - back to that default lazy good nature.

"A'right," he says, mildly. "I won' pry. Seems like every blessin' this stuff might offer comes with a price." He's at a table with Cris. Down to jeans and a t-shirt - the greatcoat and cap are hung up out of the way.

"Yeah, to the tune of four hundred dollars and case of beer." No, that's probably not what Joseph meant when he said a price, but clearly that's how Cristobal interprets it. He shifts his weight to one hip, pulling out his phone. "Worth every penny." Gets muttered as he unlocks the screen and frowns down at a message, ignoring it for the moment. "I'll do you one better and send you his link..." Because of course Cris has that shit bookmarked.

"Shit, you don't got insurance, that's cheap," Joe retorts. "Hell, I'll pay you back. I did the damage, least I can do is cover the bill." No actual contrition there - if anything, the blue eyes are alight with sly amusement. The smile hidden behind the rim of his glass, for the moment. "Cheap at the price...." He's got a lazy Georgia drawl, one that belongs to a warmer, far distant coast.

Sparrow's in layers. She'd rather not be, but the relentlessness of this winter has left her little choice. It's just so damned cold out, and she's sick of wearing sweaters. The purple hoodie she's got on under her silver-starred black jacket doesn't count. It's worn open to show the black tee below, with the words CULT LEADER written across the front in white letters. With worn jeans and her black Docs--with purple laces, of course--it's a pretty casual look for the night. If one ignores the perfect make up that has her eyes popping while her lips get nothing but an understated nude. There's definitely been some effort to look this low-key.

She's not alone tonight, arriving in the company of a skinny, inked Alfie just a little bit shorter than she is. They're in mid-conversation as they step in, with the bleach blonde babbling about, "The weirdest thing, though, was the holotropic breathwork we did on the first night. I need to do more reading, figure out what exactly it does to the body, but man. So weird. So neat. I mean, not LSD neat, but." With her rambling coming to its odd end, she actually looks about the bar, maybe for a place to sit, finding a couple of familiar faces. Her smile goes reflexively wider for a second. "Up for new people," she asks of Alfie, "or wanna keep it quiet tonight?"

A slight young man in an oversized plaid shirt over a 't', skinny jeans, and bright red hi-tops. Alfie is the fashion parasite, consuming post-grunge and hipster trends alike to manifest himself as a likely consumer of java chip frapps. But at least a good number of the tattoos that don his pale skin are original - while following a more eclectic pattern of style and color. And the fact that he arrives with Sparrow must vouch for him as 'good or interesting people'. He looks frozen, as they walk in - like he could do with a couple extra layers at least. But, the bar is less cruel to him that the outside world with its open expanse of chill between pavement and sky. His phone bulges his jeans pocket on his right side - IDs and cash, peeking out of the left.

"Very few things are LSD-neat," he counters. "That might not be the best standard to measure other things against," he adds, with a ghost of a smile that disappears to be replaced by his default, absent-minded neutrality soon enough. He moves in step with Sparrow. Which means he comes to a stop when her ramble ends and she starts scouting out places for them. His first answer is a shrug - diminutive shoulders moving in overtly baggy attire. "New is good," he adds, after a point. "Or maybe that's just months of the Firefly talking." Dry, quiet delivery. Easy to miss. Unlike all that ink. He tries to follow her gaze to aforementioned familiar faces.

Their entry hasn't gone unnoticed, and Joe's lifting his mug in salute to Sparrow. Irish coffee - this winter's weaned the sailor away from his usual diet of all the infinite variations of whiskey and bourbon, in favor of something actually warm. "Hey, y'all," he says, companionably. As if their advent were a very welcome distraction from the darker subjects they'd been discussing. "Room here, if you want." No, he doesn't bother to consult Cris before the invitation.

"Maybe I get the fuck boi discount." Cristobal mutters with a grin as he thumbs out a message and sends it over to Joseph's phone in a text message, as promised, the contact information for ElijahCoxx626 including a link to his chat room and a thumbnail picture of a lanky dark haired man with a rather pronounced proboscis. "Fuck no, I'm not taking your money. But I do have to make a call." He slips from his seat, turning to head towards the deck when Sparrow is heralded. The latino greets her with a quick wink, and a promised, "Be right back."

"Gotta measure somehow," Sparrow quips right back. Like not-LSD-neat is still pretty neat when the mark to hit is that high. She waits through shrug and silence until an actual answer is given, her shoulder bumping Alfie's affectionately as she snorts a quiet laugh for the remark that follows. "I mean. If we're lucky, we'll catch Legs on shift and there'll be old people, too." Catching the way that came out, she thinks to correct her phrasing, but Joe calls out their way, and her smile picks up again, thoughts sent running in their original direction again. When Cris winks her way, she blows a kiss, but her trajectory is decidedly toward the table. "I was gonna say something about having all of my favorite beautiful blue-eyed men in one place, but somebody had to go wander off." She shoots a playfully accusatory look back the way that Cristobal went before sinking into a seat. "Alfie, this is Joe. He's a writer with a very impressive familiarity with science fiction, decent taste in whiskey and better taste in company. And Joe, this is Alfie. He's sharper than anyone else I've ever met, into bands even I haven't heard of and a seriously magnificent kisser." With a smile, she asks, "How's your night going?"

Alfie lifts a hand. A lackluster wave that plays out with a not-so-convincing slight smile as reply to the 'hey' that is offered openly to 'y'all'. Despite working at a club, the quiet student isn't much of a social butterfly. Less just a pretty wallflower that someone has scribbled all over, and more someone with a habit of being mentally elsewhere - though the distinction between these categories may only be internal. A flash of a more genuine smile appears momentarily as Sparrow bumps her shoulder against his. She plays his social buoy tonight, and he floats on with her toward the table. He looks on after Cris at the mention of blue eyed favorites, but turns his attention to the one at the table who remains.

He waits for Sparrow's display of his indie credit and kissing reputation before, unfazed, offering over his hand to shake - waiting to sit until afterward. "Most people call me AJ or Fie," he adds - the latter, pronounced 'fee'. "And, surprisingly, never 'Alf'." And becaused his curiosity is piqued, "A writer? Like, sci-fi specifically, or in more of a general profession?" he asks.

"Flattery will get you ever'where, Li'l Wing," Joe says, gaze following hers to Cris's departing back. A wry look, then he chuckles, shakes his head....and rises to offer Alfie a hand. He may be a writer, but the calluses there bespeak time spent in far more manual labors than keyboard and pen. The scars he has no particular self-consciousness of - no bracing for possible reaction. "Pleasure to meet you, AJ," he says, after the offering of nicknames. Something about it makes his eyes gleam, amused. "And that's high praise, indeed."

Then he's settling back down. "What're y'all havin'? I'm buyin'," he adds. The question has him adding, "Ah, I started out writin' memoir, but now sci-fi, yeah. I've had one novel published, called Martian Dawn, and some short pieces. I write under T.J. Cavanaugh." To Sparrow, he says, "All right. Came out to have a drink with Cristobal there. Only a little bit in." One Irish coffee's not much for a sailor's liver, it seems.

Sparrow means to answer the question about what she's drinking, but she gets distracted by something that Joe offers up in his answer to AJ that's got her just staring at him like revelation has dawned, like some significant connection has just fallen into place. She might not even hear the answer to her own question as she gets caught on that teensy little detail, a slow grin spreading as she stares. "You go by your middle name, too..." And she is delighted to have figured this out. "I didn't realize we were already part of the same coven!" So proud! So pleased! She points a finger his way as her brows arch with mostly insincere sternness and says, "And I'mma keep on flattering you just to see how far it'll actually get me." A long game, calling his bluff.

Looking back to AJ, she notes, "One of our previous drinking companions assures me that his writing is excellent, but." Somebody's been struggling just to get through her coursework lately and has not had a chance to check it out first hand. "Worth note? That gorgeous guy he's out with tonight? Dating two writers." Beat. "And a girl who is glad that chem majors don't have to write a whole lot of papers." With that, her attention swivels back to Joe as she finally answers, "Whatever sour they've got on tap tonight."

Alfie has no such calluses. The only marks that mar his skin being the surplus of ink decorating it. He doesn't have that strong of grip, but he puts some energy into the shake to make up for it - and sits soon after. "Likewise," he says, after Joe picks his variation of Alfie's name. He turns to Sparrow, offering an aside of, "You're like my hype-bird." There's some affection that sneaks into his otherwise dry delivery. His tone of neutrality sounds sleepier than it does robotic. And when there is emotion in his voice, it stands out a great deal more. He seems embarrassed - or apologetic - when he admits, "The only sci-fi I've read is Orwell and Huxley. Maybe I've read the memoir? I read a lot of non-fiction, but-" he points his index finger against the shaved side of his head. "Memories a little spotty sometimes." Definitely apologetic. "Is there a winter ale on tap?" he adds, to the offer of drinks - his hipster brain outpacing any grunge mind for hardbar, given his lightweight drinking status.

"Or, no, definitely a sour," he says, after Sparrow orders; tastes shifting with potential availability of other options.He settles easy into his chair - not wound up or awkward in his quietness, at least not in terms of posture. He flashes another smile at Sparrow. "Discerning tastes," he says to the ranks Sparrow counts herself among in the dating game. Entirely unsurprised, and maybe just a little proud.

"I do, indeed. My first name is Thomas. But as someone from an old Irish Catholic family, there are a lot of men named Tom in my generation, and immediately before an' after. So I started goin' by Joe in high school." The mention of coven has him raising his brows. "Coven?" he asks, bemused. "Wasn't aware that I was part of one. An' sure." A flick of a look for the figure on the deck. "'parently he has a taste for the literary types,"

"If you're gonna stick to reading only the great dystopias, man, I can't blame you. Uh....wrote two memoirs. Ironsides to Atlantis and Nadir And Apogee. Lemme go get those drinks." Whereupon he heaves himself up, hands on the table, heads for the bar. Having just more or less outed himself, when it comes to that second career he tends to keep mum about.

Sparrow chirps a happy, "Anytime," to AJ when he calls her his hype-bird, the low-lidded look that comes with that offer decidedly affectionate. Absently, her nearer hand seeks out his, getting in some handholding in the window of pre-beer convenience. "It's a clever kinda magic we work," she tells Joe of the coven he didn't know he was a part of. "Altering our identities in ways most people don't notice. I don't think I've ever met another Philomena, but. I just sorta outgrew Mena. And Sparrow feels more me than Phil most of the time." Her empty hand gives a little wobble to allow that this isn't always the case, that there are times when she is very much a Phil, whatever that means. "And I'm only Philomena when someone's thinking filthy thoughts about me." That gets a quick cock of one eyebrow before she's looking toward Alfie to see if the books mentioned ring any bells. And to sneak a quick kiss just below his jaw while they're momentarily alone.

"No one accuses me of optimism," Alfie quips at reference to the great dystopias. "And thanks," he says, as Joe goes to get the drinks. And afterward still, mouthing the names of the memoirs - either searching his memory, or committing them to it in order to seek them out later. If they strike a familiar chord, it doesn't show, but he's likely to seek them out if that is the case. It's not everyday that a writer met has published works to peruse. And Alfie has no shortage of curiosity to utilize for perusing - it's kind of what got him in the trouble that lead him to being the Alfie that's here today.

When Sparrow says 'Anytime', Alfie knows she means it - the flash of warmth in his eyes and the lingering smile says so, this time. His hand is pliable to hers, fingers parting to allow hers between - holding onto his buoy with no shortage of affection on his part. "If you end up shooting for a doctorate, you'll sometimes still be Doctor Phil to me," he warns her. There's no real getting around that. He was never really an 'Alfie' outside of roll call and introductions. The name rarely sticks.

When he finds them, should he go looking later....memoirs of a pilot's career, both Naval and shuttle. Joe returns with a bottle in each hand, sets them down before them. "Yeah," he agrees with Sparrow. "'ve had a lot of names. Lot of nicknames and callsigns, too. Jus' back to Joe, it's the most comfortable. The names we choose're generally the best, though sometimes you can see someone strainin' to try an' live up to the one they picked."

He settles back down, picks up his own drinks. "Been tryin'a revisit some of those, myself. Hell, some of 'em I haven't read since high school. Last one was Fahrenheit 451 - I think Bradbury was the best prose stylist among 'em, if you're counting Orwell, Huxley, Atwood...."

"Iunno," Sparrow asides to Alfie. "Pretty sure I can think of a couple contexts in which you're pretty optimistic." Her brows arch in challenge, sure, but she still concedes, "Narrow window, but." It exists. But maybe she's just in a mood to be contrary. At the threat of becoming Doctor Phil, she simply tells him, "I'mma have to grow my mustache out," with a wiggle of her upper lip and a dip of her gaze, like she might be able to check her nonexistent progress right now without a mirror.

She might still be making a face when Joe returns, but it quickly shifts into a smile as she takes the offered beer with a murmured, "Thanks," and a lift in his direction to toast the first swig to him. "All a matter of whether you pick something that expresses who you are or who you wanna be." It looks, for a second, like she's got some other thought to add to that, but she just goes in for another sip in the end, happily listening to the others talk dystopias.

"Selectively optimistic. As not to be absolute. And some people, it's hard not to be optimistic about," Alfie concedes to Sparrow, with amusement in his voice. "My tombstone can read 'was occasionally optimistic'." Though even that may be a subtle reference to differing outlooks within the subject. "Just as long as it doesn't tickle," he adds, where mustaches are concerned.

"Thanks," Alfie says again, as the sour is set down before him. He uses his free hand to reach for it, rather than depart from the grip of Sparrow's own hand. "Me neither. At least, I haven't read Animal Farm since high school." Not that high school is all that long ago for him. "Do you prefer the intended meaning, or the meaning attached to it?" he asks. Though unclear at first, he clarifies, "A sweeping critique of censorship, or the masses spending too much time glued to the television rather than books?" He means Fahrenheit 451. Which either means that it was school reading, or he's had another dalliance into scientifically fictitious worlds that he hadn't accounted for earlier.

"Or what you have inflicted on you. I've worn some names that were meant as reminders of my more epic fuck-ups. Sometimes all you can do is outwear what's been pinned on you," Joe's brows have that wry cant to them. He's only nursing that coffee, idly. Drink as social excuse, rather than pitched battle with twenty plus years of acquired tolerance.

To Alfie, he says, "I'll take all of the above. I appreciate that it's got the literary equivalent of those stones that change color, 'pending on how the light hits 'em. It's less a song about the power of distraction than Huxley's stuff, but there's plenty of it in there.....and not focussed in so hard on the power of the word as Orwell."

Sparrow nods her agreement to Alfie's allowance in regards to his tombstone as if commiting this to solemn memory that she might one day be able to see it done. With sharpie if not chisel. With regards to her future mustache, on the other hand? "I make no promises," almost sounds like a threat, and she's unable to quite keep the left corner from quirking up in an impish grin. A similar mischief is turned toward Joe at the mention of those labels left behind, curiosity glinting in her eyes. But she has the decency not to ask aloud. She opts for flirting instead, idly posing, "Wonder what other names you like to go by," with a wiggle of her bottle before she takes another sip.

She squints a little at Joe's answer to AJ's question, giving her head a little shake. "I'm all for art being out of the artist's hands once it's done." She's gotta be given how she gives her own art away. "But it feels kinda like censorship when we start tilting the message away from censorship. A weird sorta spin that distracts from a topic that's just as vital today as it was then. Which, I mean. I guess I've picked my side."

A fake pout at the threat of tickly mustaches. A raised brow as he follows wonderings of other names. Alfie takes a testing sip of his sour which transitions so very subtly into a swig in clear indication of his approval for taste. When he sets the bottle down, his hand is still wrapped around it, idly turning it, tracing lines in the condensation over glass and label alike. "That's artful. Taking both intention and the viewer - err, reader - interpretation into account." There's arts somewhere in his undergraduate studies. "I think my favorite part of rereading Brave New World was less interpretation, and more knowing that his vision was failing him. That the description of places as light or shadow wasn't an intention of theme, but the reality that he saw." He lifts the bottle a little for emphasis at 'saw', maybe having intended to point at his eyes before recalling that both his hands are occupied. "But as for what my favorite interpretation is, I've got to side with my hype-bird. And this is coming from someone who lacks a television - so, not feeling scorned at all by the author's intent.." After a beat, he sees fit to clarify. "Not that there's anything wrong with watching television. I'd totally haul one to my room from beside a dumpster, if it were light enough."

Which concession he honors by a mute little tip of his glass. "Mos'ly just Joe. T.J was mostly something in the family. Thomas or Tom feels like I should be lookin' around for an uncle or a cousin. Cavanaugh 'minds me too much of bein' in the military, though that's mostly what Itzhak uses."

"Yeah. I can see it. The other was....mostly merely a side-effect of his prescience," Joe says, after a deeper drink of the coffee. "And I feel you. I've lived most of my adult life without a television, so it doesn't often to occurr to me to use it. I don't watch at random, and I've got a bad habit of chewin' my favorites to death. Books are always infinitely more distracting to me. Easier to submerge in."

"Not quite what I meant," Sparrow murmurs to Joe, but she doesn't clarify, her grin balanced somewhere between devilish and apologetic. She offers no further commentary on the works of either Bradbury or Huxley, but there is a glimmer of affection for Alfie as he talks about interpretted themes. And a snort of laughter for his thoughts on television. "You know we could pick you up one for cheap, right? Just means Saturday mornings happen in your bed instead of on the couch which. I mean. Sounds way more convenient except for the distance from food."

Alfie follows the surplus of names with curiosity, though contributes little to that side of the conversation. Rather, he uses the opportunity as excuse for a second swig from his drink - a visit to the beer-watering hole between segments of the conversation that he actively takes part in. Though he smirks, briefly, at Sparrow's murmur. Meanwhile, his occupied hands keeps him from usual habits like brushing his hair back. "I used to like it as background noise. Something to fall asleep to. Watchful company," he confesses, as to television, and a time when he had one. "Went away for awhile. Got used to not actively having it." As for Sparrow's wisdom regarding getting one on the cheap for alternative Saturday morning venues, he pauses to think on it and nods. "I mean, maybe on the super-cheap. But I like that. Sounds cozy. Should have thought of that earlier in the winter." He seems distracted, like he's reimagining past Saturdays, and missed opportunities.

Which exact version of 'went away' was intended, he doesn't ask. That ink doesn't look prison, but.... "The apartment came mostly furnished, complete with a flat-screen," he adds. "I think I turned it on for the first time after.....maybe six weeks here. And promptly watched Blade Runner for the umpteenth time."

A flick of a look for the deck, and he adds, "Cris decided to call me Bosun, though that was never my job aboard." How, precisely, it's appropriate he doesn't go on to explain. "He likes to bestow nicknames."

Sparrow's thumb plays absently at Alfie's, tracing lazily back and forth over knuckles, keeping time to something without paying any mind to it at all. "Now you've got me watching you while you sleep," she lies cheerfully. Sure, she's there, but not staring all creepy-like or anything. Mostly, she just, ya know, sleeps. More reliably than he does. With a tilt toward Alfie until her shoulder touches his, she adds quietly, "And no one will ever think to look for us in your room," like it's somehow a secret hiding place.

She follows Joe's look out toward the deck, attention lingering contentedly on Cris for a few seconds. When she looks back to present company, she notes, "I don't know what a bosun is," but the only suggestion of a question in that statement is in the arch of her brows. What she actually asks the author is, "What's the newest thing you've watched? Other than 2049."

Unsatisfactory to inquiring minds, Alfie doesn't specify what kind of 'went away'. At least, unasked. "There's a new one," he says, regarding Blade Runner - and Sparrow provides the title. But doesn't say whether or not he's properly seen said new one yet. Rather than nod her way when it's named, he's too busy with a dopey smile that sneaks up on him when Sparrow names herself the sleep-watcher. Equally reluctant to let go of her hand, and opting to keep the gesture going on instead - content as she traces and pets. A little snort at the hidden status of his room. "Other blue eyes is a Cris?" he asks, in order to put a name to a face - following Sparrow's gaze, in order to put two and two together. "Nostromo," he says, regarding Cris' nickname for Joe - falling further away from science fiction, in terms of literary references.

"A bosun's a warrant officer responsible for the actual physical components of a ship. State of the hull, rigging, small boats, all that." Another mouthful of coffee, "Ad Astra. The Lighthouse. I like to go see movies in the theater, still. I've seen 2049 and I really loved it."

A nod at the figure out on the deck, "Cristobal," he confirms. A cock of his head for the name. "What about the Nostromo? Conrad, or Alien?"

Sparrow seconds Joe's confirmation of the third blue-eyed guy with a nod of her own and another look that direction. Quietly, she notes, "He's where the new sticks came from." There's a very good chance that when Alfie gets a good look at Cristobal, he'll recognize him from a particular painting she'd been working on not too long ago. Though she tucks the explanation of 'bosun' away, she doesn't comment on it. Or, really, seem to acknowledge it at all, her curiosity caught by both Alfie's contribution and Joe's answer about movies. "Did you like Ad Astra? Maybe if we keep getting overlap like this..." The last thought seems directed at AJ, given the inquisitive look cast his way. Movie date? Eventually? Maybe? Man, time is hard.

Alfie tries to get a better look at Cristobal after confirmation from both of those present, craning his head - but eventually gives up, returning to the conversation at hand in time to catch the return question from Joe. "Both, I guess?" Alfie says - though he likely originally meant the former, and is only now making the connection now that Joe has pointed out the name of the ship from Alien. "But Conrad, mostly. The protagonist is nicknamed 'Nostromo'. Italian for 'bosun'." The connection, shared nicknames by way of translation with a literary figure. "Anything and everything," is his answer to overlap. He very much means to capitalize on his release from the schedule that has kept him at work, school, or bed. He's resolute in this answer.

Down to the dregs, and not disposed to go for another. Not until he knows what Cris's intentions are. "I liked it okay. It was very beautifully filmed, well done, but ....it didn't move me the way my favorite movies about space do. It honestly reminded me a lot of 'Apocalypse Now', if we're talkin' about Conrad and film. To the point that I went back and rewatched it."

He leans back in his chair, makes it creak. "It's been a long damn time since I read Conrad. Probably at least a decade. I'd forgotten that, if I knew it."

Sparrow's smile goes all wide and weird at that prompt answer from Alfie, decidedly dopey. And maybe a little bit proud. The fingers twined with his hold tighter for a couple of seconds, wordless assurance that she doesn't mean to let schedules eat him up again. All she says about it, though, is a simple, "Good." When Joe offers his review of Ad Astra, she files it away to wait for it to pop up on Netflix and declares, "Gozilla versus Kong, then," for the potential movie date. "I mean. Not that I didn't like Apocalypse Now, just." Probably not what she's looking for on a rare night out. Though she provides no commentary on the book talk, one might catch how her smile lingers, how comfortable she is in well-read company, even if she's not reading the same things.

Alfie squeezes Sparrow's hand a little tighter in response - a hug of hands that doesn't interrupt conversation or drink. A sharp nod agrees with Sparrow's conclusion on the matter. Good. "I've seen that one," he points out, when Joe names 'Apocalypse Now'. He has some catching up to do, when it comes to film. "Honestly, though?" he starts. "Most of what I read are travelogues. But also books that sometimes feel like travelogues. Conrad and Kerouac count, there." Like his eclectic reading habits need explanation. "Godzilla versus Kong," he repeats, curious in tone and a little confused. "Is that a newish C-G one, or, like, the old school people in costumes stomping around model towns?" Not that that question seems to matter with regard to whether or not it'll happen. Anything and everything.

"'pocalypse Now is pretty damn heavy for a random night out, yeah," Joe agrees, with a smile. "Though I have a weakness for the ass-numbingly long movies, if they're good ones. The kinna thing they used to build an intermission into." He's propped up an elbo on the table, leaning in a bit.

A glance up again, "I like good travel writin'. Still got a weakness for Kerouac. You ever read Fermor or Halliburton, if you like the older ones?" Then a look to Sparrow, curious, as if the distinction mattered.

Sparrow's smile goes all soft again for a second when Alfie mentions his preferred reading, that sweetness disappearing incidentally behind another lift of her bottle while she listens. "New," comes for the question about her movie suggestion. "Just out today, I think. Might even be able to catch a late showing." Probably out of town, mind. Does the recently reopened local theatre have midnight showtimes for big blockbuster releases? She pulls a self-deprecating face at Joe's expressed preference for movie viewing and admits, "I've got a soft spot for fluff. The sorta stuff that gets a low-key cult following without, like, being actual cult classics. Not that I don't like some good B-movie kitsch or a whole lotta substance now and then, but. We're talking weaknesses, so." Her shameful secret out, that she might pick fun over substance most nights. Tch. The names he offers to Alfie aren't ones she knows, but she catches that look and grins as her brows go high and her gaze skirts off to the side.

Does Alfie catch that soft smile? Maybe the edge of it, as he glances over - or in his peripheral vision. "Movies that make it feel like you're somewhere else," Alfie agrees, with a taste for longer films. "Not so well suited for date nights," he concedes, in addition. "Welcome distractions," he names the challenge. "I've been binging Theroux," he admits. "Or, well, rebinging. I've read everything but his fiction, I think. Fermor and Halliburton, you said? I'll have to check those out. Any recommendation on where to start?" He takes a drink, and nods as he swallows, acknowledging Sparrow's answer regarding the datedness (or rather, the lack thereof) of the aforementioned movie title. An aside, "You should show me some of those. Your favorite not-cult-classics." As if there weren't enough movies that Alfie hasn't seen to select from.

"What kinna fluff?" he wonders, no criticism in his voice. "Movie weaknesses...if we're discussing real guilty pleasure....mmmh. Some of the old anime classics - Akira, Ghost in the Shell. Oddball black and white stuff, not really good enough to be super-artsy, like Kafka." He clinks a nail against the glass of the mug. "Though if you are up for somethin' long that will really take you away....Lawrence of Arabia. It's an odd one, some aspects of it don't hold up - it's got some great British actors in what amounts to blackface roles, because apparently Hollywood in the early 60s only had one actual Arab actor they were willing to admit exists, and he's one of the leads....but on the other hand, it has the best cinematography that's ever been done, and some beautiful dialogue." A glance up, and Joe grins again. "I'm a fan of Theroux. I haven't read his newest, the one about Mexico. Halliburton - Royal Road to Romance. Fermor - A Time of Gifts."

"We need another movie night," Sparrow mutters, her smile slipping some. "I mean. Scott Pilgrim counts. Empire Records. Mean Girls." Her beer gets a wobble to indicate that sorta thing. With a resurgence of her smile for Joe, she adds, "Any of the Ghibli classics, though I am a sucker for Howl's Moving Castle. Or Spirited Away." Her eyes go wide as she adds, "I don't think I really understood that movie until I watched it while coming down from shrooms." She lets that thought linger for a minute before continuing on to add, "Or like the Pacific Rim movies. Heh. Or Fast and Furious. Mission Impossible." Her expression grows thoughtful as she considers, "Maybe now that Monica's back from Colombia and we're finding more overlap in our schedules and there's been some life over in number nine..." But the look which follows, with a nose crinkle and distant look, suggests there are other things that need to fall into place and get fixed up first before she goes planning any social events like that. Better that she focus on the more pleasant things happening here and now, like this literary connection between the company she's currently keeping. That's nice. She keeps her thoughts there.

Alfie doesn't name any guilty pleasure movies - though he does follow the topic with some interest, letting his gaze bounce back and forth from Sparrow and Joe as they name titles. And he does nod at the mention of a much-needed repeat of movie night. Some of which he seems passingly familiar with. And then he's mouthing the titles of books again, definitely committing them to memory, and adding, afterward, "Thanks." A genuine, grateful smile touching his lips as he puts the knowledge away to later pursue. "On the Plain of Snakes?" he asks, with regard to Theroux. "Ghost Train to the Eastern Star felt like a 'last-book'. Everything that follows feels like very welcome bonus material." His nose scrunches at the mention that Monica is away in Columbia, like he's trying to recall if he already knew that, or if in his busy-ness, he didn't notice that they'd been down roommates. He drinks, momentarily lapsing into silence as he goes up against his spotty memory.

"Snakes on a Plane?" Sparrow almost certainly twists intentionally, weaving one thread of conversation with the other. Not that she gives her game away. Not intentionally, at least. Her eyes go a little too wide, the attempt at feigning innocence working against her. But she doesn't interrupt the book talk further. When she catches Alfie's uncertainty with regards to Monica, she explains quietly, "She just got back a little bit ago. Disappeared over the holidays, and." Her lips press thin, a preface to unpleasantness. "Her grandmother was sick, so." The look that follows? Probably means that there was a funeral before she made it back home. It's the sorta talk that grinds conversation to a halt, offering an easy exit for Joe to go check on Cristobal. And it leaves Sparrow bringing AJ up to speed on a few other details he might've missed lately, none of which is quite so grim as their Colombian housemate's holidays.