2020-07-14 - Maths

Yesterday was not a good day, what with gunfighting and death at the casino. Rhys wasn't even there for the bad bits, and it still qualifies as not good. But as a result his today is, among various other adjectives, busy. It's going on lunchtime, and he's texted Sparrow to ask whether she minds him dropping by. There may have been some kind of Thai food bribery involved. Certainly when he shows up, there's an appropriate bag for such things involved. He's dressed like it's a low-key work day, which is to say, one where he's not likely to spend a lot of the evening out in the public areas of the casino and definitely not in those of the club -- so nice slacks, dress shirt, probably a fairly simple blazer that has not made the cut for being actually worn in the middle of a summer day when no one's paying him right now.

Sparrow, on the other hand, has no job to worry about, no business today beyond what's already done. And, likely, an afternoon of working in the kitchen with her brother to prepare a week's worth of meals for Mac. For now, she's lounging out back in a pair of rainbow-colored cut-off jean shorts and a black tee shirt with a dripping white eye on the front. Her phone sits on the table next to her with a half-empty bottle of some froofy natually flavored beside it. Along with an assortment of pencils, one of which is in her hand as she sketches, hunched forward slightly over her notebook. She issues a distracted, "Sec," while she finishes what she's working on, reshaping a line in what might be a portrait. Or a playing card. It's difficult to be certain at this stage.

Rhys brightens a touch on seeing Sparrow there, and heads that way, with a light "Ffft," at the 'Sec'. "I see how it is. Second fiddle to a pencil. I always knew it would come to this," he declares as he strolls over to the table and sets down the back, starting to unload the contents there. Careful of the art supplies, since she probably isn't feeling avant garde enough to aim for developing paint-by-curry. The sec is apparently being given, protests aside, as the drawing's not interrupted by further comment or, say, attempted kisses. Just food extraction and a lean to see just what it is she's working on so far.

"To inspiration," Sparrow corrects without any concern for potentially bruised egos, trusting in Rhys' resilience. A glance up from her work turns into proper study while he unpacks the food, lingering as he leans in, by which point it's skewed properly pensive. He might recognize his features in the roughly sketched figure, in the angular lines imitating a playing card king, but that could be coincidence. Setting the pencil down, she wonders, right on out of left field, "Do you own a gun?" with a twitch of a smile that doesn't quite achieve apology.

"Oh, well, if it's to inspiration," Rhys says, the serious tone making it only just to the end before the grin escapes. It's not quite to the usual standards, briefer than it might usually be, but genuine. He looks even more intrigued by the familiarity of those lines, but doesn't yet ask; instead, he answers. "A few," he answers, and now that the art's not being actively arted for a moment, he sits himself down in her lap. Plonks, almost, though there's enough control of the movement to give the impression without really giving her the gift of all his weight in one go. "Why, do you need something shot? Craving a day at the range?" Both sincere and amused questioning, though the amusement falters just slightly the moment after he's said it. A flicker, then back to normal.

Sparrow really does receive that weight as a gift, too, for how readily she wraps both of her arms right around Rhys. After a teensy tiny moment of wide-eyed disbelief at the magnificent presumption of that move. She squirms beneath him a bit, adjusting her position ever so slightly--limited as her mobility suddenly is--to bear his body more comfortably while they converse. A shake of her head ends with a look that might contradict that denial, her intention not limiting her interest now that other options are on the table. "Just. I dunno. Working through some stuff." Which doesn't actually answer the question, does it? "Uh. With art." Does that answer anything? She moves on, letting a grin creep into her expression. "But yeah, maybe might be up for a day at the range. If you're offering."

As long as it's magnificent, Rhys'll take presumptuous. He turns his head to plant a kiss on hers as he settles in, then reconsiders slightly and follows it up with a proper one. The day could use the improvement. "Working through some stuff with art and guns? Could be a winner. But sure, I can be offering. Thursday? Sunday might work too." A tiny pause. "Though, speaking of work." Not 'and guns', at least. "I got two small sets of questions for you."

Proper turns into greedy. Sparrow doesn't let that kiss go easily once it's given, leaning in enough that there might be some threat of unsettling should Rhys withdraw before she's ready. When that affection breaks, her smile bubbles up before she gets the rest of herself in order, forehead yet furrowed, hands curled a bit too snugly where they hold. It takes only a second or two for her to relax back into the chair, for that smile to settle in fully, for her focus to recent on the conversation. Belatedly. She might have missed that attempt to maybe confirm a range date day given that she provides no feedback to either suggestion at all. Her brows pitch upward toward purple bangs sternly in preemptive warning. Even as she encourages, "Alright."

Rhys can do greedy. Rhys is in fact generally pretty good at greedy given a chance. This is one he's happy to take. Range dates will wait for confirmation, then; there are priorities. Plus, at worst it's an excuse to start texting next time he's bored, as though he needs one.

"Well, obviously I've seen what happened to the Control Pad," he starts, taking it in straightforward mode today; there's both sympathy and some quiet anger there, though overall it hits remarkably businesslike for sitting in someone's lap. "So, first off, Joey mentioned he offered you the receptionist spot at the gym. If you're interested, there's a few potential slots at the club and the casino, too, depending what you want aside from a paycheck. Options."

Sparrow's arms keep loose around Rhys now as she listens, fingers barely touching at his hip. It makes it easier for her to focus on him--and his words--and not just his closeness, his scent, his lips. Such happy distractions on days like this. She doesn't seem the least little bit surprised by the options he provides. In truth, it looks like she was expecting it, which helps minimize the sourness in her expression when they land, her nose only scrunching a little bit. "Joey's offer suits me best. Limited work, high pay. Lets me do my homework on site. I'm not a good employee, Rhys." She's serious. See? Brows have shot right up again. "Soon as fall semester hits, all my focus is there. And I can kill my social life by taking a real job. Or?" Her hands leave his hips briefly as she shrugs, fingers splaying then falling back in together. "And I don't want you as my boss. No matter how many times it might be removed. You know I'm down to follow your lead, Captain, but not like that. Not." More nose crinkling. "In that need money to pay rent context. But, um. I appreciate where you're coming from?"

Rhys gives a small shrug, and a half-smile. "Well, the ones I had in mind wouldn't've reported directly to me and there's a variety of..." slight head-tilt, "let's say 'degree of constant focus' involved, but fair enough. Just making sure you know the options are there." A small pause. "And not, for the record, because you have a comfortable lap. Though you do. I should really colonize it more often. 'Good' employee or not, you're smart, competent, personable, and can improvise. That's valuable." Still pretty businesslike; presented as facts, not compliments.

That said, there's still a faint sense of something bothering him, directly related or not. "The other part..." He trails off, rearranging phrasing or perhaps just delaying the rest of that sentence a bit in favour of, "How's Mac holding up?" It probably isn't the heart of things; they've only met once or twice. Then again, if they knew each other better, he'd probably ask her himself.

Sparrow's expression softens at that easy dismissal of her potentially semi-prepared lecture. She may have been anticipating something like that, given her new circumstances and his positions. Her smile settles in more comfortably as she listens, a nod confirming her awareness of options. Her legs flex beneath him as he speaks to the comfort of her lap, not one little lick of protest issued at the prospect of future appropriation. What follows, though? Fact or not, it's hard not to hear it as compliment, hard to keep any color from rising to her cheeks. Or a little pride from creeping into her bearing. For a moment.

Until he works around to that second question. "Like shit," comes quietly. "Doesn't know what to do with herself. She lost everything she had in Gray Harbor. The whole life she'd built. It was all in that building, and it's gone. She's fucking wrecked." With a shrug that's less I dunno and more this all feels weird, she adds, "But don't. I dunno. I don't think she likes anyone knowing she's human, so. Let's not acknowledge that in front of her, alright?" With a head tip toward the house behind them, she notes, "C and I are gonna fix her up some food so she doesn't have to think too hard about at least that. Not sure what else I can do right now. Maybe shopping, when she's up for it. Cuz like. All her clothes. Everything. I dunno."

Rhys nods, expression darkening a little. "Ain't always easy, being human," he remarks, some sort of agreement to not acknowledging it. "That's good of you guys, the food. Bringing some clothes sounds good too, even if she's not up to shopping yet. Might not fit perfectly's still better than 'just got one shirt'." Not to mention underwear. Has him thinking, a bit, about what he'd have if the Account were destroyed. Might be time for more contingencies.

That, however, is not where he needs to go with this right now. "Joey said some cop threatened her not long before it happened, that she thinks he's behind this? Did she say why, what he said he wanted from her? Could just be this one guy trying to flex, but it might not. And I don't want to see this happening to other innocent folks, either way."

A smile cracks through the half-confused gloom that had settled into Sparrow's expression, growing as the suggestion of adding clothes cascades in her head to include a few other necessities she might easily be able to handle, too. Including at least one of the way-too-many-blankets they've got boxed up thanks to her dad. "Yeah. Yeah. I can do that." She doesn't say 'thanks' outright, but the appreciation is pretty easily read in her tone. And felt in the brief squeeze to his hip. Way easier to handle all her weird feelings if she can channel it into a full care package!

The lead in to the next set of questions isn't out of place. Rhys spending time at Joey's gym was common place. She can appreciate curiosity. It's the volume which follows which sees her smile draining a bit, brows knitting with a hint of wariness. Suspicion? Maybe. But could be concern. He's not gonna go poking at all of this, is he? "Two cops," she corrects quietly. "She said they were looking for information about one of her customers. She didn't say who. Pretty sure she knows, but. They were being jerks, so." She falls quiet, brow knit as she studies Rhys for a moment. Rather than wonder about the ethics of omitting information about how Mac knew the guy was bad news to avoid a bigger conversation about glimmer and what she knows about it, she presses quietly but firmly, "What else do you know about all of this?"

'Care' is right on the label, after all! Rhys approves of this overall plan, not to mention the brief squeeze. Maybe slightly less so the brow-knit studying, but to be fair, there's a lot he approves of less than appreciation and squeezes, and there isn't really much change to his expression beyond the seriousness it's already settled into.

"Two," Rhys echoes, accepting the correction, and makes a bit of a face at the didn't-say-who and them being jerks, though the latter gets a wry half-smile after. "Yeah, well. I figure if they were being professional and gentlemanly she wouldn't be looking their way for it," he says with a slight nod. It's probably ethically okay not to bring up the glimmer thing, right? People can tell other people are bad news all the time out in the normal world anyway, after all. Doesn't have to be anything weird about it!

And there doesn't have to be anything weird about his interest, either. "Well, I know a month ago the police chief got murdered, for starters," he says. "And I know then some folks attacked his funeral. I know they weren't locals. I know we apparently got cops acting like mafia now. And I know the best way to figure out how to stop something and what's likely to happen next if you can't is to figure out why it's happening to start with." A small pause, and another wry half-smile, "Don't worry, I know where my strengths lie. I'm not planning to try and go all Hollywood action hero here or anything."

That's the difference between a good liar and a bad one right there: a good liar has the logical explanation ready at hand while the bad liar misses all that rationality while trying to skirt around whatever they're trying to hide. Sparrow's, "Right?" in answer to Rhys' very reasonable view Mac's suspicions might, therefore, be a bit more emphatic than it really needs to be. Like it's got a big underscoring of duh to go with it.

As he runs through the details with which he's familiar--and willing to share--she seems surprised by, oh, none of it. Which, in and of itself, might not be concerning. Even the stuff that isn't necessarily big news or affecting her direct circle of friends would carry easily enough through the small town rumor mill. It's just something about her expression when he flashes that near-smile that seems weird. Like she's waiting for something more, for details that just don't come. And, well, there's the little twinge of uncertainty that crosses her features when she realizes that info won't be forthcoming. But she moves on, rolling her eyes and nudging up one knee as she concludes, "Alright. Long as you don't go all vigilante on me," like that was her worry all along. It wasn't. It's not. "Did you bring pad thai or not?"

Many people in this town got all kinds of nifty magic handed to them when talents were being passed out. So far, Rhys seems to have missed out on that set, but he did get hold of a few others, and one of the strongest was paying attention. So it might be that he notices that touch of excess emphasis in the response to his, indeed, completely reasonable view, maybe even makes note of the potential suggestion it creates that there could be something there he's missing in that reasoning, something she knows. If so, that one's tucked away silently, hidden behind his listing of the basic reasons.

It's likely he also notices the lack of surprise at the things listed, though it would only be reasonable to expect that the things Rhys Evans, not-even-glimmery accountant, is aware of in this town would overlap reasonably strongly with those of the average resident, surely? Which is not, of course, to imply Sparrow is average in any way. Perish the thought. And quite possibly he catches that little twinge in her expression. If so, however, nothing about his presentation changes to make it clear.

There's something there, though, even as he lets the half-smile spread at her knee-nudge and assurance, assures in return, "I really can't pull off bat ears and a cape. Pretty sure you gotta be at least pushing six foot, 200 pounds or so to avoid looking like a kid at halloween. Or have a movie crew involved. And yeah, of course I brought pad thai, what do you take me for?" Something that hangs there a bit as he leans to draw the boxes of food closer, within easier reach; something turned over silently in his mind; something making the easy grin more difficult.

A few seconds of arrangement before one box is opened, revealing the promised pad thai, and after a beat he says quietly, "And I know that yesterday someone tried to kill my boss, did kill a guy everybody including me liked, and by today people are trying to pin it all on a friend I've known since I was maybe two. Is any of that connected to a couple rogue cops looking for some kind info on some guy, without any warrant, and burning shit down when they don't get it? I dunno. But I intend to."

Sparrow mutters beneath her breath, easily heard at this distance, "Pretty sure you're just tryna lure me into telling you how hot you'd look in a cape." Whether that counts, particularly when considered in conjunction with the low-lidded smirk with which it's delivered, will be up to Rhys to judge. When he leans to snag the food, she lets her humor slip as easily as her hands draw from his hip. One settles loose against his thigh, but the other roams, slow and restless, along his back. For a few seconds, anyway. Until he picks up where he left off.

"You know somebody stole his car?" Fair exchange, more for more. "Joey's, I mean. Ran Cris off the road with it. I don't--" She falls quiet, brow knitting, that pad thai she was so interested in a moment ago ignored. It takes a few seconds for her to find the right words, and, even then, her gaze is unfocused, set at an empty point in the near-distance. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this. About multiple people I know and care about being caught up in this kind of violence. In life-altering, life-ending violence. And I just--I dunno. I, uh. I dunno." Shaking her head, she musters a very unconvincing smile, meant to encourage the conversation along, to refocus on food, and failing miserably.

Rhys would probably take that mutter as a cue to absolutely lure her into doing just that, under more usual circumstances. As it is-- well, there's that Something, and the following remarks. And for the moment between the resettling of her hands and the beginning of his additions, there's a tiny welcoming pressure into the stroking, just perceptible.

He gives a small, single nod to the question of whether he's aware there's been a car theft, though it's harder to tell whether or not he knew at all about Cris. It's not particularly hard to tell there's a little bit of concern in the way he watches her as she hunts her words. When she finds them, there's another nod, not exactly relieved, but at least on a similar page. This is not the most dignified position for a serious conversation, which he doesn't appear to currently notice. Possibly on purpose. It's his own fault anyway.

"I dunno how we're supposed to feel about it, either," he admits, "but right now I'm kinda inclined to go with 'pissed the hell off,' personally. Someone's here in our territory," the way he looks at her on 'our' suggests she's part of that pronoun, and comes with a gesture that encompasses... probably the town, "messing with our people. I want to know who, I want to know why, and I want to know the best way to make them wish they never started. But I'd settle for just how to make them fuck all the damn way off. And that requires data." The gesturing hand lifts to brush some of her hair away from her cheek, whether it was truly encroaching or not. "Help me?"

Sparrow breathes a quiet sound that comes close to laughter at his admitted inclination toward anger, though it doesn't look like she has it in her to muster any of her own outrage at the moment. Not that she doesn't absently nod her agreement as explanation angles toward plea, as he invites her to join him on his data-collection crusade to combat these assholes. It's just that there's no fire behind it. Not right now.

Right now, his touch means more than his words do. His current perch might not be particularly dignified, but it is awfully convenient when a little heavy-leaning into his hand turns into full-on sinking forward against him. When her arms wrap around Rhys this time, it's not so low as before, circling his torso tightly while her face presses to his shoulder. Here, she nods again... and again, the absent gesture maybe meant to assure one of them that she's alright. Even if the soundless sob that shakes her body says otherwise.

Rhys may be somewhat heavier than he looks, but luckily (in this case), that still leaves him less than crushing, even when he twists a bit further, the better to wrap his arms around her in return and draw her in when he feels that shake. The soft 'shhh' is more a soothing than a silencing, and muffled itself by ending up buried in her hair as he tilts his head down to kiss hers, and then just stays there quietly a few long moments. "You shouldn't have to be dealing with this kinda thing," he murmurs eventually; it might be as much to himself as to her, really. Less the case for the equally soft, "But if you do have to, you can. You're unsinkable, Miss Jones." It's warm, affectionate; an assertion that doesn't seem to mean she can't also need to cry a bit, as he doesn't seem in any hurry to let her go.

The chair protests more than Sparrow does when Rhys shifts like that, though it's barely more than an annoyed creak. Patio furniture is not known for its sympathetic inclinations. Sparrow, though, only clings a bit more emphatically for the reciprocation, as if he were giving her permission to fall apart a little by providing a safe space in which she might do so. Not that she's particularly loud about it. Were a stray roommate to pass by the backdoor and consider coming out, they might move on under suspicion of entirely different circumstances given the pair's positioning. But it's not their shirt she's weeping into. It's Rhys'. And there are a couple of wet spots from her quiet crying. Which is a little less quiet when he tells her how unsinkable she is, a rough, wet laugh almost certainly leaving a little snot on his shirt, if the sniffle when she draws back to wipe her face on her own arm is any indication. "Sinking doesn't sound so bad right now," is followed by another sniff. "Tea party at the bottom of the bay. Nothing but fishes and crimpets."

Rhys takes being cried on pretty decently, all in all. Definitely not exactly his realm of comfort and expertise, but he's not too bad at quietly holding, and he can do patient where appropriate. Now seems appropriate. Her remarks about sinking get a soft laugh, and a wrinkled nose. "Diluted, salty tea? I'll pass. And all those sad soggy eclairs and scones and all?" He clicks his tongue. "Seems disrespectful to folks like your brother. I say stay unsunk and just go to the patisserie."

He leans in to kiss her on the temple, and hesitates a moment. There's a reluctance to actually come out with, "With helping me... if Abitha will tell you just what it is those assholes wanted from her, or anything else involved, let know, please? But outside that... be careful, okay? I know you've got sense, but you're also brave, so I'm saying it anyway. If you actually ask questions rather than just listening, be careful who you ask what and who hears." That wryer than usual half-smile again: "A spyrate's life isn't all champagne and cutlasses, y'know." One of the arms wrapped around her retreats, just enough to let him slide a lock of her hair away again, fingers lightly settling against the outside of her cheek so his thumb can brush any residual moisture from beneath her eye. "Food's probably getting cold," he observes in a murmur, but nonetheless leans in to kiss her instead.

"You're lucky I accept dessert bribes," Sparrow murmurs with a none-too-subtle note of expectation as she leans into that press of lips to her temple. Evidently, all this chaos is causing Rhys to rack up some debt in the form of dates, nevermind that he's not even remotely part of the problem. Sometimes, a girl needs proper incentive to stay afloat. Like promises of learning how to shoot and sharing unsoggy eclairs.

She's quick to correct, "Mac," when Rhys uses her former employer's proper name, something about the sound of it just not clicking right with the woman she knows. The eyeroll which answers his words of concern and caution is accidentally undermined by the sniffle which follows, by the continued softness in her red-eyed expression. On the bright side, her make-up, minimal as it is for a warm summer day like this, is remarkably stubborn, not a streak or smudge on either her cheeks or his shirt. Her mutter of, "Adventure and alliteration," might have a hint of petulance to it, like spyrates needn't get all bogged down in violence and vigilance. Even if circumstances demand otherwise at the moment.

Lips part to say something more, but his mouth finds hers before she manages words, and whatever other worry or objection she might have meant to voice is forgotten in those few wonderful seconds of connection. She even smiles when the kiss breaks, ready to set aside all the understandable angst for a little while to instead negotiate what days they owe one another over thai takeout.

Some debts, Rhys can be convinced to take on. "Mac," he echoes, looking very faintly chagrined for some reason, though it's there and gone again as he continues. After the kiss, there's a smile back, and a light touch of nose-tip to nose-tip before it's away from angst and onward to adventure and alliteration, or at any rate to arguing and arrangements amid an admirable array of appetizing aliments. Someday soon, shooting and scones.