2020-04-11 - Not Here

It's not the nicest spring night that Gray Harbor has ever seen, but it's not so bad either, the sky fairly clear, the air not too chilly. It's alright. If a bit uncharacteristically quiet for a Saturday night of one Philomena Sparrow Jones. Quietish. Low-key. Chill. The music is playing loudly enough from the kitchen to carry not only into 7 Oak's backyard, but to spill across into neighboring territory, over fences and into any windows kept at least cracked. Sparrow's head bobs as shoulders and hips shimmy in the chair where she's comfortably reclined, denim-clad legs stretched out and crossed at booted ankles. She wears a black sweatshirt with a skeletal Death on the front, the collar stretched out, looser on one shoulder than the other, an easy path to follow down from exposed bra strap to the hand holding her half-empty beer. It's an alright night.

Jens heard the music, so he decided to skip over the fence and visit. He's in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt that says 'the drugs don't like me' on the front and 'they have stockholm's syndrom' on the back. He ambles up behind Sparrow and puts his hand on the shoulder that's bare of shirt, fingers slipping over her clavicle as he leans down and presses a smooch to the top of her head. "Hey."

The lazy little smile Sparrow had been wearing grows in both width and brilliance when she catches that movement from the next yard over, brown-eyed attention tracking Jens until he's right on up close and following the instructions in the song currently playing, putting his hand on her. She tilts into that affection with a, "Hey," of her own and a tip of her bottle toward the cracked-open back door leading into the house. "Beer in the fridge." Maybe even more than just the sours she favors. "And some fritters leftover from this morning." Which means cold, maybe a little dense. But, ya know, probably Corey-made and undeniably delicious.

"Ooh." Jens disappears briefly and then comes back with a beer of his own and a small plate of fritters. He finds a place to sit near her. "You look nice when you're all chill. I mean, you look nice all the time, but like... chill Sparrow is super pretty." He grins at her.

Sparrow angles a look towards Jens when he leads with that qualified compliment, a grin rising up for the correction... and then going all dopey at the end. Even though she chirps a quiet, "Weirdo," his way, it seems entirely affectionate. Appreciative, even. "If I spend the next few months setting chill-traps back here--" Like maybe that's all tonight was, just Jens-bait in disguise. "--it's your fault, and I'mma send all the neighborhood complaints--" For what? The low-key music coming from the kitchen? "--your way." Definitely an empty threat there.

"Oh, no." Jens deadpans, chewing, swallowing. "Not the complaints." He puts another fritter in his mouth, chews, swallows. "How evil." He takes a drink. "You know how much I care what my neighbors think of me." He grins. "So what's up, sugar butt?" Pause. "So not actual sugar, but maybe whipped cream one day, yeah?" Jesus, Jens.

One can almost watch the bad ideas cross through Sparrow's mind at that dryly professed disregard for their very nice and respectable neighbors. Might be a good thing that she's distracted by the thought of whipped cream, that mischief glinting far more obviously in her bright brown eyes. "Keep two cans in my fridge upstairs now. Just in case." Of what? She doesn't explain. But it does sound like this is a relatively recent development, a very intentional decision. "But." He had asked a question. "Been thinking about things." The way her smile sinks might be telling, even if there'd been nothing particularly gloomy about her demeanor before. "Dream things."

Jens groans a little bit, stuffing his mouth and sinking into his seat with a hrmph. He swallows again. "Dream things." He takes a long drink and then says, "Dream things are meh. I don't like dreams." Yes, Jens, we all know your absolute emnity with dreams.

"Yeah," is all Sparrow manages for several seconds while the music plays in the background, filling up what might otherwise qualify as silence. Eventually, there's a, "So," that takes another couple seconds to follow-up, knee tipped to settle in against Jens' while she looks his way. "I'm wondering if there's a way to have some more control over them. Specifically? If oneirogenic substances might alter the experience so they're not so relentlessly awful, ya know? If I could find a way to stop 'em altogether..." Well, that would be preferable, sure, but she's got no leads there. So says the apologetic look she offers up.

Jens sinks a little more, because he may be an ARTISTÉ but he knows enough about SCIENCÉ to know where this is going. He finishes his plate of fritters and sets it aside, and then takes two very long swallows of beer. "Am I the only guine pig or is there like a whole group and if there is a group can't I just be control?" He knows he can't, he's just kidding--in deferrence to the prospect of actually trying to find his dreams.

Sparrow's brows pitch upward sternly as her lips press flat. "First? You aren't a fucking guinea pig, Jens. I would never, ever ask that of you. I'm not asking that of you. You asked what--" She stops there, huffing out a sigh and reeling back in that reflexive correction. "But yeah. I am getting a group together and we might need a control group. I just. I'm not sure what that would look like yet." She dwells on that for a couple distracted seconds before refocusing on the blue-eyed artist beside her. "You don't need to take up this mantle just cuz your dreams are particularly persistent. I'll let you know what we find either way. Promise."

Jens shakes his head, setting the plate and bottle down and then reaches over to slide his hand along her inner forearm, interlacing his fingers with hers and squeezing gently. "It's fine. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. and I mean, my dreams are particularly persistent so maybe I'll be a particularly good subject, you know? Can't throw out an opportunity like that, I guess."

Sparrow's reciprocal squeeze is a little more firm, maybe meant to offer reassurance, but coming off a little worried, like she's the one who needs the comfort. "You and Bax, yeah," she mutters of the exceptional suitability to this sorta project. "He got real fucked up little while back. Stayed here for a week or something so I could watch him, help get him out of his own head so he could sleep again." With a curious arch of her dark brows, she notes, "It was, uh. An interesting experiment. Psychedelic therapy. Confronting some of the lingering ick taking up residence." She taps her bottle to her temple indicatively. There seems an offer in there, but she doesn't make it outright.

"I mean my therapist left town so I'm still looking for a new one." The loss of the doc has had him on edge, but he seems to be, given the givens, dealing with it all right. He sighs a little bit and then says, "I mean we can try. I can't promise I won't freak out and just bail on it, though, okay? How about that?" Because bad things happen to the people he paints and dreaming usually involves painting.

"I'm definitely not a replacement therapist?" Sparrow starts, but that definitely sounds uncertain given some awareness of the words that had come out of her mouth just a moment ago. "But yeah. Sounds fair. On all counts. I mean, the therapy? Doesn't really involve dreaming. Just a heavy dose of a psilocybin analog while we try to navigate whatever nonsense is leftover in your head. Pretty much the literal definition of a bad trip, but I'm there as an anchor, a way back to the not-so-bad." Both her hands tip a little, the one tangled with his and the one holding her beer. "As to the experiments? Entirely bailable every step of the way. For any reason. Even if it's just cuz you don't like the company I keep. Though, I mean. I like 'em, so." Everybody should, right? With a little lift of his hand, she asks, "You okay with this in front of other people?"

He takes a deep breath at that last question. "If I start automatic-painting, just make sure nobody sees anything they're in. I thinkt hat should be fine." Jens figures he needs to face all this shit eventually, and it might as well be now. At least he trusts her with all this. "Fuck, this fucking town is so messed up, I swear."

Sparrow watches Jens for a moment then nods, already thinking about how to make arrangements to contain that risk from the go, something to factor in to certain phases of the experimentation. She lifts his hand again, this time right up to her cheek, holding his knuckles to her skin until her head tips to press kiss there. "Is it shitty to ask why you haven't left? I mean." Her hold tightens. "I don't want you to. But I'd drive a bit to see you. If you found somewhere safer to sleep."

He shrugs. "I dunno. Family? Familiarity? The gnawing suspicion that being born here means you take it with you no matter where the fuck you go?" He stretches his fingers a little and brushes her hair behind her ear. "I don't know. Maybe there's something in the water that makes me want to stay. Fuck."

Sparrow's fingers loosen in his as she reaches over to set her bottle down nest to his abandoned beer. She's on her feet for all of three seconds, just enough time to step closer and pivot, before she sinks down into his lap whether he was ready to furniture or not. With a kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth, she teases sweetly, "It's okay. You can admit it's me," following it up with a sweetly spoken lie. "You are absolutely the reason I stay. Gonna be a pain in the ass finding another place right next door to you if you ever move."

She drops down on his lap and he has a hand there waiting for her butt to land on it. He turns his face and presses a kiss back against her cheek, and then he gives her ass a long, slow squeeze. It might even qualify as a rather intimate grope with the way his fingers grind a little. He licks her ear and says, "I mean, I'm never going to complain about having you next door, so you know." He laughs a little, husky, right in her ear, and leans his face against hers.

Sparrow squirms a bit against those distracting digits, almost lost to filthy thoughts before that slick drag of his tongue along her earlobe pulls her attention... well, back up if not exactly toward the conversation again. What with his breath falling warm against her wet skin, causing goosebumps to erupt over neck and shoulder as she squirms in closer. "You are definitely the second best thing about this place," she murmurs with a little nuzzle back against his head, making no mention of what holds first place. But he's seen her bathtub, right?

One of the things that make Jens--well, Jens--is that his ego is almost entirely a facade in the best way possible. She says that and he just grins, opening his mouth to wrap his lips over her earlobe, sucking on it slowly, lazily, as his fingers squeeze a little more, a little tighter, digging and winding and sliding up between the back of her thighs. "This entire town would be worse off by several orders of magnitude without you in it, Philo," he promises with a whisper.

Sparrow's eyes close as her mouth opens, as she draws in an unsteady breath. Thighs part without thinking as she murmurs an airy, "True," in agreement with his assessment of Gray Harbor. Who knows how genuine her ego is, but she certainly has no shame about showing it off. It's a couple of seconds before the rational part of her brain reasserts itself, past pride and desire and back toward responsible housemate. Legs press back together as she angles a look over his shoulder toward the house, currently quiet except the music still working through a playlist over bluetooth. "Not here, alright?"

Jens doesn't seem to hear her immediately, but then he blinks, and with a finally squeeze between her thighs, he presses a kiss against her cheek. "Okay." His hand wiggles a little, sliding out from under her ass and wrapping around her waist along with the other one, leaning back. He looks up at her and preens a bit.

Sparrow whimpers in petulant protest with her own damned decision to respect this shared space when that means those fingers moving away from where she likes 'em. Not that they're so bad where they end up, her fingers sliding up the back of his hand until they can sink between his in a loose weave. When he looks up at her like that, her smile goes all dopey without her noticing, soft and sweet and off-center, though she's quick to roll that affection from her eyes as she draws in a deep breath and looks skyward, toward what few stars peek out past the intermittent cloud cover. "I tell you I was right about my friend writing that smut based--I mean. Loosely on that fucked up bodyswap dream? Crumbled the second I mentioned it." Looking back to Jens, she asks, "Did you get a chance to read it?"

He shakes his head. "You didn't tell me. And I did not read it. But I will later when I get home. I just gotta remember. I mean, I gotta do something later after just now," he says, licking his lips and looking up at her. "Is it any good? Is it true to life based on what I know?" He snakes a hand to her front and tickles gently.

"It's alright," Sparrow says of the novella, the inflection lilting downward as if maybe she doesn't wholly believe that. The rest of her review is interrupted by a squawked bit of giggling as her muscles tense, as she shoves his hand away, a wide-eyed look angled down at him, not nearly as sternly as intended. "The writing is good. And it's got some actual story. I mean. It's a good read. But it's, well. Ya know. Not my kinda porn." That has her leaning in to steal a little nip of his lower lip, retaliation and temptation both at once. "You do know you're allowed up into my room, right? In the after just now sense?" Her face goes weird for a split second before she appends, "In any sense, really. Just." Right.

"I know," Jens says with a sudden laugh. "I'm just teasing." He lifts his hand up and slides his fingers up over her throat, wrapping his hand around it slowly, almost casually, before pulling her towards him by that grip, pressing his mouth against hers and letting his tongue slide in past her lips.

A touch of color blooms on Sparrow's cheeks, brighter when fingers wrap around her neck, when her expression changes to want, to worry, with another flick toward the lights inside. Just before his lips claim hers, mouth opening to let him in as eyes close to blot out thoughts of who might catch her like this. She leans in. To the kiss, yes, but also into his hand, her own settling low on his body to curl around a fistful of shirt and pull a little. Not here, she says. Uh huh.

Jens lets her neck go and puts his hands on her lap, smiling against her mouth. He understands. He tilts his head forward and presses his forehead against hers with a lazy smile. "Kinda craving ice cream. I mean, it's April. You wanna go get some ice cream?"

"You fuck me up so bad," doesn't sound like a complaint, especially when murmured so softly while their lips are still so very close. It's followed by a breath of laughter, Sparrow's head rocking against his. "Craving ice cream is kinda my default state," doesn't sound as sincere as it usually might, like there's some other common condition overriding that one right now, rendering that desire a distant second to another. Still, she presses a quick, soft kiss to his lips and finds her way back to her feet. Hand offered over, it's, "You, me and some extra whipped cream. C'mon."