2020-08-05 - Thin Threads

Sparrow is almost certainly home. There are clues. Like the familiar red Kia with its kitschy bumper stickers in the driveway. Or the upbeat music that can be heard through the door. Not long after the knock, the volume drops till the horns can hardly be heard from outside, an indistinct itch at the back of the brain. It resolves again into recognizable music when the door swings open to reveal a purple-haired Sparrow. She's barefoot, though no longer in pajamas, her obnoxiously sunshine-orange tee shirt with its eye-blindingly pink words--Own Your Power--paired with a nice, muted pair of cut-off jean shorts. The bright-eyed, cheerful smile she had prepared for the unknown entity on the other side of the door resolves promptly into stunned surprise when she identities the gentleman leaning against the porch post. Her gaze flits past Yule, almost certainly in search of his car given how her brow furrows when she doesn't find it. This situation is all kinds of off! Still, she doesn't leave him waiting more than a second or two before curiously greeting him, "Eight."

Those deep, brown eyes flicker over the form that comes to the door. The state of clothing isn't much of a surprise, but it's the changes over those months - such as the hair - that he observes first. But it is something more than just a surface look over, as if checking to see how she is doing, those small or large signs that the observant ME tries to pick at. It's that greeting that has a small snort coming from him, and whatever his first response? It's swallowed, a faint touch of a sincere, bemused smile curling to the corners of his mouth, "Yeah? Only lost one point, did I?" His head just shakes a bit, not dwelling on it, and those eyes fixate upon her. "Heard about the game shop. I wanted to come-" It's a momentary pause there, the wording picked over, "I should have come sooner. How is everyone-" Once more it is a pause, that catch. Certainly he's concerned for Abitha, and others that may or may not have been involved, but /they/ aren't why he is here now, and it is a very purposeful effort made to be clear about it, for good or bad. "I wanted to see you and just make sure. You know weird shit and this place and... anyway. How are you doing, Cards?"

Sparrow proves an oddly difficult read in that regards. Emotions rise too quickly to the surface to delve too deeply. She looks healthy, well-rested, as intentionaly put-together as she's likely to be on a morning home alone tending to chores. The good mood she'd worn when she opened the door, backed up by her future funk soundtrack, seemed sincere enough. It's just tucked away now, hidden behind a big old wall of reservation, a whole lot of uncertainty about this unexpected situation. Her brows pitch upward slightly at that first response, what might be a rhetorical question answered with a shallow nod, a matter-of-fact confirmation that, "You're still hot." Just, ya know, less than he used to be, undoubtedly due to personal bias.

When he mentions the Control Pad, she frowns faintly and looks away, though her head shakes for the matter of timing. And maybe for the initial inquiry about all and sundry. When Yule corrects and clarifies, though, her brown-eyed attention returns in full. And just lingers without answer for several seconds while she... studies him? Maybe. More likely, she's considering her own reply. Which might make the shallow shrug she eventually offers rather anticlimactic. Fortunately, she doesn't leave it at that. "I'm getting by. Good and bad. Got a new job, so." If that was part of the worry, no need. "You didn't need to show up on my doorstep to figure out how I am. Why are you here?" On the bright side, she sounds genuinely curious.

Another soft huff of air in faint amusement comes, his head just shaking a touch at her response, though in it? There is some comfort found for the retort offered up. It's the glance away when his question finally comes, sorting through the myriad meanings it might have, but it is when she looks back that, that particular connection of eyes that has him sinking in a bit more against that post. "Getting by, yeah? Better than a bull shit 'okay'. New job is useful. Maybe even helpful. But you aren't the job, and I wanted to see how /you/ were doing. Besides," It's a touch rueful, and finally his eyes shift to glance away briefly, letting those memories be touched but not dwelt upon for too long. "As I recall, us exchanging text messages didn't exactly always get the right points across, yeah?"

But his answer doesn't stop there. Back those eyes come to fixate, the arm closest to the pole lifting up to wrap about it lightly. "You." A beat of a pause as that singular answer, the reason he is here, is allowed to sink in, before he murmurs, "Because I did want to see how you are doing. And a phone call, or a 'Sorry your workplace burnt down' card, or a few text messages isn't /me/, and I didn't want it to feel insincere. Not the easiest thing to come knocking, and how it might be awkward," Once more, those lips tilt up, if ever so briefly, easy and relaxed at those potential prospects of how it might have - might still - play out, "Suppose that just touches the surface, yeah? But it's a start." One to see how she takes it, at least, before he offers up anything more.

"You're shit at it," Sparrow casually agrees of how bad their texting--to which they most certainly both contributed--went after a certain point. At least there's no bite to the words. It might even sound dryly playful by some exceedingly generous measure. Stepping out, she pulls the door closed behind her, music again dimming to indistinction, to an occasional rumble when the bass drops. By the time the 'you' arrives, her attention has shifted, gaze angled downward while she moves to sink into one of the porch chairs. Even so, the faint flinch in her features for that syllable is pretty easily observed. Her gaze lifts in time to catch that hint of a smile while her own expression remains reserved, uncertain. "First." Some habits never die. "I'm maybe more interested in what's beneath the surface. And second?" The left corner of her lips twitches upward ever so faintly. "Any card is more sincere when it's handmade. For future reference."

"Still haven't figured out emojis," Comes his dry witted reply to her own agreement at his texting abilities, no sting taken from that conclusion. He stands his ground, not retreating, but nor does he seek to come further onto the porch without an invitation extended. It's that arm around the post that is protective, making it hard to slice if he feels it needs his help in keeping upright, or the opposite. "It's even better when it's hand delivered," Comes Yule's addition to the last point first, his chin tucking down to give her a glance that, even if fleeting, holds a touch of warmth to it, "But then I'm old fashioned." But she won't get off that easy with her first point, one dark eyebrow arching upwards as he repeats that particular turn of phrase, "Maybe? Well, once you know for certain, and if it is a yes you want to know, then I'll give you a peek behind the curtain." Yes, some of those habits die hard for both of them. "Most of the family has moved on out. Had enough." Something in it speaks to being connected, if even by thin threads, to why he is here, "The irony isn't lost on me... me moving back here to help them out, to be the only one left in the city."

Sparrow can't help but smile at his retort in reference to card-delivery, though she's quick to shove it leftward into a smirk as she points out, "And yet here you are, empty-handed." When called on her noncommittal response, she doesn't offer any amusement or regret, no indication that she regrets her word choice. To the contrary, she nods ever so slightly at his offer, like maybe she needs a little time to figure out if she actually does want to look. A faint frown for the news of his family deepens with the two words which follow, her gaze skirting off down the road to watch a neighbor a few houses down and across the street unloading groceries from his car. "My parents have been considering it, too," she admits. "Zelie starts school soon. Away from here. But with all the violence the past couple of months and the murders last year..." Her nose crinkles, possibly marking the point where she abandons that train of thought, when her focus shifts from her own life back to his, when her gaze drifts back from its absent wandering. "How are you holding up?"

"Yeah. But I brought the most important thing." Him, apparently, that touch of calm pride and amusement filtering through in that moment. "Left the gift in my car." And his car who knows where, apparently. But that expression falters when Sparrow glances away, that conversation turning back towards family, and his voice picks up after a longer pause. "Bittersweet. Them leaving, yeah? On one hand, makes the place rather lonely. Different. On the other hand, not concerned that when another body comes in, it will be one of them." And therein might be another of those layered meanings, as his gaze comes back to the woman, studying her carefully for a few heartbeats as if to confirm that she is indeed present and real in the moment. "Good days and bad. You have someone to talk to that drags out the important stuff?" Slowly that arm unwinds from the post to fall back down to his side.

The porch doesn't so much as creak when Yule's arm draws away from the post, the structure sufficiently secure without his support. Sparrow doesn't falter either, not even the subtlest look or gesture toward the chair next to her extending invitation to join her. Hard to know for sure if that reluctance is intentional or it simply hasn't occurred to her yet. A faint frown twitches at her lips when he notes his loneliness, but it hardens a bit immediately after, evidence of annoyance at her readily expressed sympathy. Her comfortable slouch suggests ease. That's certainly what she's trying to project here. But the tension in her shoulders, in the way her fingers curl at the ends of the armrests, matches the continued wariness in her expression. "My best friend is a master interrogator by your own report," she points out of Nicole. And then leaves out how they were talking about him just the other day. His ego surely doesn't need that. "If you wanna pull at my threads..." There's a whole lot more to that thought, but none of it plays quite right in her head. In the end, she settles with a shrug and a quiet note of, "I'm here," though it doesn't entirely sound as if those two thoughts are connected.

"Yeah, she is. Doesn't mean you've let her, though." Comes his retort to the half answer she gives, but rather than concern, it brings a flicker of amusement to those features. It's only when she gives that lingering pause, a brief moment of uncertainty. Which threads to pull? Could he even find them? Is it a wise idea? It's how those last two words come off that has him focused back upon her in the present. "Yeah. That's what I'm worried about. You are never /just/ here," He murmurs of the larger than life college student. Only then is there a small step taken forward, towards her. He doesn't look to take that chair, only to offer a bridging of that distance a bit. "Noelle, Snow, everyone else leaving just left a hole. Fall into work, let it consume me. Made me think of Zelle leaving. Of you getting one year closer to graduation. Those conversations we had of what goes on in your head." A beat of a pause, "You taking care of yourself? Know I'm low on the list of people you'd look to, but if you need anything..." He lets that thought trail off, the offer there regardless even as his head tips to the side, watching as that neighbor finishes up their hauling of groceries from their car.

Sparrow's dark brows arch in pointed challenge at the emphasis Yule places on 'just,' like she's ready to show him how very just here she can be. That look grows a bit sterner when he steps forward, left eyebrow edging higher than the right with a question she doesn't bother to actually ask. On the bright side, her expression starts to soften as the conversation circles back toward family, school, plans. But then he keeps going. And earns himself the first eyeroll of this visit. "You're missing the mark, Eight." At least the annoyance in her tone sounds dull, indistinct. "I appreciate that you are a person who operates on genuine concern and worry. I would like you to appreciate that I am capable of finding what I need in my life. I'm doing alright. Really. I promise." Her words remain soft throughout, no edge to the line she's drawing. "If that's all you're here for? Alright. We can talk about my life until you feel properly reassured that I'm managing on my own. If, however, you're looking..." Her head shakes a bit with uncertainty as she looks aside. "I dunno. For actual conversation? Connection?" She looks back to him, certain as she settles on, "Something for yourself? Just be honest about it. Be direct. Ask to sit. Tell me you want my company." It looks, for a second, like she might say something more, but she catches herself, jaw clenching for a second, tension released with a heavy exhale.

"I believe you. Just wanted to hear it," Comes his assurance as to his appreciation for her resources, and indeed, that promise seems to be all the more thread pulling upon her personal well being that Yule offers up. It's her last words that have a wry smile curling towards the corners of his one mouth, "Sounds like your maybe is a yes after all," He points out about her earlier uncertainty, before one shoulder lifts up into a touch of a shrug. "I'm still figuring it out." He finally confides without a touch of shame as to his own unfamiliarity in this territory, "Went out for a walk. Next thing I know, I'm knocking on your door. Can't say I had a plan, but then? Someone once showed me it's pretty good to just live in the moment, rather than plan for the future," He offers up about their points of view, at least previously, upon how they dealt with life. "Yeah, I want your company. You are missed. Always have been." His head tucks down, those brown eyes studying her intently, and it is only when she holds something back, even if it comes with a released tension, that one dark brow arches upwards.

"Willing and wanting are two different things," Sparrow quips dryly in regards to her maybe, another quirk of her brow inviting further challenge with a hint of amusement. Though her eyes narrow faintly when he says 'always,' like she might wanna pick apart that word, certain it's not as absolute as it sounds, she tips her head toward the chair beside her own in fairly obvious invitation. "Really not into guys leaving me wondering if they want me right now," serves both as answer to his unspoken question and a little more insight into the current state of Sparrow's affairs. She shifts in her seat, hands relaxing, one pushing through her purple hair to tuck a strand behind her ear, restless fidgeting in a moment of transition between one uncertainty and the next. "You still seeing that detective?"

It's that catch of her eyes on that word that Yule picks up on, and in this banter? There is something familiar to catch onto, his own words smoothly flowing out, "Always. Life is a bitch that way, yeah? If you weren't missed, weren't still loved, I sure wouldn't have been angry and frustrated. It'd have been forgotten, moved on to the next thing in life. And I don't remember needing to spell things out to you implicitly before," But there is no barb in that tone, only a touch of dry humor, "I'm /here/. For you. What I haven't figured out is what my plan is beyond the motive of desire to see you. Didn't prepare any cue cards with witty banter on it, and I sure am not ready to ask for a card reading," Comes the other touch of humor to the conversation, and in a deep breath is taken, slowly released at that last question. "Yeah. Things have kept us both so busy though. More so than normal, even, around these parts."

All Sparrow has in answer to that explanation she didn't ask for is a quiet, "Yeah." Maybe it's indication that she feels similarly, that she's still holding onto a whole lot of emotion even these many months later. Or maybe it's agreement with her current insistence on explicitness. The scales might tip toward the latter when she moves on to note, "Given that pretty much most of our problems revolved around communication issues? Feels pretty reasonable to get things laid out as plainly as possible." She draws one foot up onto the chair as the other stretches out more comfortably, posture more casual, attention a bit steadier. Given the absent nod for the confirmation of his relationship status, it might be intentional filler, a bit of distance that pushes the conversation back his way for a second to give her some space to think, to keep her thoughts slow, her words deliberate. "What are you ready to ask?" She leaves off the 'for' intentionally, less a question about admittedly uncertain motives than an invitation for inquiries. But, following her own advice, she adds, "We could start with questions. Pick at threads."

There is a brief moment his mouth parts when she explains the source of their problems, but whatever his thoughts on it? It isn't a scab he is ready to pick at, closing those lips instead to listen to the rest of her own questions and thoughts. "Two way street, you know? Not just what I want. Do you want threads poked at? And yes, able to allow it and wanting it are two different things," He points out with a touch of humor, though questions? Those are already prepared, even if they are just probing. "So do you want your threads picked at? And if so, how do you feel about doing it proper, with a drive to nowhere?" A beat of a pause, and given his lack of vehicle at the moment, there might be a, 'when you are ready for it' unspoken in there with the offer. "And what is the new gig? Interesting, or just something for a paycheck?"

Sparrow may well be ready to point out her willingness when Yule preemptively calls her on it, inspiring a crooked smile and a brief diversion of her attention off to over there somewhere like she's not admitting to anything. It's easier to answer the invitation, a shallow shake of her head accompanying an, "I can't." With a tip of her chin toward the empty curb, the green vehicle nowhere in sight, she adds, "And we're missing our third, but. Maybe sometime soon." The left corner of her lips ticks upward in a slight smirk. "Maybe's what I've got right now. I'm game. That's gonna have to be good enough." The look she offers borders on apology without ever really crossing over, acknowledgment of the uncharacteristic caution in her current approach to this unexpected situation. "I'm handling the administrative work at Kelly's Gym, which." Which might be slightly concerning given how many times the cops have brought Joey Kelly in for questioning recently. And historically. "I mean. It's actually a bit more work than what I was doing at the Control Pad, inventory nights aside, but. Good pay and enough time for me to do my coursework while on the clock. Better than pretty much all the alternatives with the new semester starting up soon."

"Long as you know I push on maybes." Comes his murmured reply about what she's got right now, that it won't be something he'll easily let her get away with, anyway. But then it wouldn't be a conversation between /them/ if he did. "Yeah. See the police reports now and again in passing. People go to the wells they are used to when they can't explain shit." No judgement either way - innocent or guilty - as to what Joey might be, merely that in this town, there are things that can't be explained, and that often means other people get caught up in it. "And how are you feeling about your major? How was the conference? Any one interesting you met?" That, at least, seems to be a safe enough road to go down with his inquiries, before finally he circles back around to that first thought. "Yeah. Sometime soon." He repeats, though without the maybe attached to it.

Even without any indication of judgment, Sparrow assures, "Joey's good people," like it's simple fact. Like she's not worried about the association. She might be inclined to say more on the topic, necessary or not, but Yule steers them toward chemistry instead. To judge by the way she just stares with her lips pursed pensively for a few seconds, this might not be the safe territory he thinks it is. "The conference was good. Real good. Exciting, interesting." The 'but' hangs heavy in the pause between thoughts, a couple seconds before it leaves her tongue. "But coming home was hard. Like that's when it really hit that--" She flaps a hand between them indicatively, hoping that and a, "Ya know?" will be enough to sum up the whole heap of heartache that hit in February. "And there was a lot of complicated nonsense going down. Bax was in a bad way. Dreams that kept killing him. Stars calling and trees tearing and. I dunno. It was bad. Weeks of just... bad."

She looks askance with a frown, tracking a passing car for a couple seconds. "Got this idea about using oneirogenic substances to try and control dreams. Getting in and out. Where you end up. What you can do in 'em. Just." She shrugs as she looks back to Yule. "Summer didn't exactly go the way I wanted. Now seems a real shit time to start any sorta experimentation. I'm not sure there's ever gonna be a good time. Or that there's any reasonable way to set up a proper experiment with the controls and safeties I'd want." And maybe a handful of other concerns, too, that she dismisses with an uneven shrug. "But yeah. I keep interesting company. I always do, Eight. You know that."

"Never a good time, and there will never be the amount of safety you want in it, Sparrow. It's what makes it such a damned if you do, damned if you don't. Take your time, try and do it right? And you draw attention before you can even get halfway. Rush too fast... well, dream shit is always risky." The explosion that had happened, that last fateful encounter afterwards in the diner goes unspoken, but that tone makes it clear he understands those emotions she grapples with, that decision to go over the edge or not. "Just have to figure out what is right for you." Up his eyes roll to her last words, and the dry wit offers up that humor once more, "I meant at the conference, not in general. You only keep interesting company, yes."

A deep breath comes in, and for a while, it seems like he'll avoid that whole month of February, those concerns and heartaches. "Yeah," He finally speaks, a frown twitching to life for him briefly. "Bad in all sorts of ways. And /was/? No more complicated nonsense now?" He sounds dubious about that, not with her in particular, but that this town would ever allow things to just be simple. "The color looks good on you. It the only color change you've done since red? And," Yes. It's a meandering line of thought, but it is all things that come to mind when he thinks of her, "how has the whole band thing been going?"

"And the others involved," Sparrow counters when he proposes figuring out what's right for her. "Can't rightly run this kind of experiment with only singular, subjective experience. Especially given that I'm the one with a hypothesis to prove. Too easy to read significance where there might not be any." The flat look which follows isn't entirely intentional, an all too honest projection of her current feelings about this visit, a good bit less eager to invest in what if now that she's seen one potential ending. She moves past it quickly, another of those imbalanced shrugs accompanying an assurance that, "I did a little networking," but it doesn't sound like anything immediately exciting.

She snorts a quiet laugh as she rolls her eyes at the emphasis on that past tense. "I mean. It's complicated in different ways now. Less weird, but. Not anything I understand either. All this violence. All this loss. But I don't have my oldest friend in the world curled up in my lap all broken and scared, so." She'll take that little win, even if there's still a lot of losing. The question about her hair color gets a shake of her head with a faint, impish grin. It was not a direct path from red to purple, but she's not telling him about whatever came between. He hadn't really asked. But the question about the band has her nose scrunching, killing that mischief quickly. "No band. Jaime moved away, and I don't blame him. Garrett and I talked a bit about maybe starting up some new project, but." Shrug. "Just kinda drifted. Not sure I wanna look for something new. Kinda okay just banging away in my basement most days."

She pulls a sour face, a hint of self-deprecating humor easily read in that expression. "I'm not selling that doing okay thing, am I? I haven't even mentioned how Monica left, like. March? Went back to be with her family full time after her grandmom died over the holidays. And AJ's got his own stuff, so. Not sure how much longer we'll be able to hold onto this place. And someone I care about has made a point of pushing me away for my own safety, but. I mean. Even so?" Brows arch high. "I got it handled. And I've got plenty good to go with it, so."

"None of us have it handled alone," Comes his clarifying point, not assuming she isn't relying on others, but making it clear that it? Should be part of that plan. "Cause I know from experience that when you think you can do it all on your own? That's when you really can't sell the whole you are okay shtick." Only then does his attention turn to the house, the door, the porch, as if considering it in a whole different light. "That sucks. About everyone moving, leaving, busy," But that isn't the heart of his thought, no question until, "Are you going to be okay moving, if you need to? Yeah, yeah. Moving /sucks/. Boxes and shit and whatever. But I mean /you/ and this place. I," His mouth parts, something more on the tip of that tongue, but then it closes, his head just shaking a touch.

"Are there more good days or bad days?" Comes the next question, and as if to give something in exchange, he answers it for his own end, too. "Me? Fifty fifty." At least things sound better, all in all told, his head bobbing at the mention of her oldest friend on the mend, of the news of the band. A deep breath in, and it is slowly let out, and once more his mouth curves into a faint smile, "Sure hope you are trying to convince me, and not yourself, about having it handled. Course, not that I have any justification to come poke into your shit. But," There was something in it all reassuring to him, his head tilting to the side as he considers, "At least your life is still complicated. I'd only really worry if you told me it was all simple and everything made sense."

Is Sparrow going to be okay? She arches an eyebrow as a hint of a cocky grin begins to take shape. Like he even needs to ask. The other eyebrow joins in the curiosity when his thought cuts short, a moment spent waiting for the rest even after it's clear it's not gonna show up. On the bright side, a more reliable, if tiny, smile sets in as she listens, growing with a brief laugh at the end. "It could be simpler," sounds like all this complication is a choice, like she could trim down some of the trouble if she wanted to. Hard to tell if she's teasing or not. "But there's more good than bad." Not quantified in days. "A lot of good, really. Just doesn't look as impressive as disaster and drama does, so. Seems smaller than it actually is." With that, she brings her right hand to her chest to draw an X over the center, missing her heart. Some people never learn. "I'm more worried about Corey, really. Losing the kitchen and the garden and all. I mean, yeah, the bathtub's great. And the closets." Her eyes flash wide, a genuine truth revealed about her actual priorities; that's gonna be a hard loss. "But I don't need all that space." A little softer, with slightly less casual consideration of the ME, she adds, "And if you're asking if I can manage to find another place? Yeah. Not sure what yet, but. I've got options. And income. So." She'll get by. With a lift of her chin, she finally tosses another question to him, trying to change the tone of the conversation some by insisting, "Tell me about the good fifty. What's been going right?"

"You wouldn't be happy with simpler," He murmurs, all too knowing that those complications, at least in part, of are her own doing. His head bobs into a faint nod at that, the more good than bad, and a soft snort comes at her description of the different perspectives of how good and bad look. "Yeah. Always easier to see the bad from far away, isn't it." His mouth quirks up into a faint smile as she says she doesn't /need/ it, his eyes glittering with a touch of amusement, "Yeah. What we need and what we want are two different things. You remember the trailer, after all. None of us need all that space." And it is if that draws a realization on multiple levels, with the ME taking one step forward. It isn't tentative, but it is slow to allow her to duck out of the way, to show that this part she isn't ready or wanting. In comes that hand, seeking to press for a brief moment to her cheek, a caress of the few strands of purple hair it draws into contact. "It's sort of morbid, the good, yeah? Having work to focus on, to concentrate on, helps... but of course, that means a whole lot of bad has to go on. Took a trip to New York with -" But then there is the ring. The sound of that phone going off, and it draws his hand back. Out a breath of air is pushed, and his eyes flicker down to see the text when it comes across, an all too familiar look of yet more Bad with the Good of work. "Summer means good weather for driving, that's been good. And I still want to look into a boat. So. Driving, yeah? You just let me know when. Next few days? I'll figure out a way to make sure," That phone is given a small wiggle in indication, that it won't be a problem then, whenever then is. "isn't an issue."

"I could be happy with simpler," might be pure reflex, a need to buck against somebody else telling her about herself. "I mean. I'd have to complicate it, but." Sparrow flashes a mischievous grin. "That's half the fun, right?" Her expression grows a touch wry when he mentions the trailer. Yeah, she remembers. She remembers his infuriating patience. She remembers his fingers. She remembers the white musk and citrus, that faint hint of lilac. She breathes deep without either drawing away or leaning in, permitting the contact while her fingers curl tight where they lay, one around the shin of her bent leg, the other on the armrest. Though she keeps her gaze on his, it's hard to tell how much of his words she's taking in, gears turning behind her eyes. As evidenced by how sharply she refocuses her attention when his phone rings, pulled out of that moment and all its meanings into something much more simple. Contact broken, she relaxes, appearing untroubled by the work call. "Spring was the right time for the boat, Eight." It's not a chastisement so much as a push toward urgency, toward action. "But yeah. Sunday maybe." Still with the maybe. "I'll text to confirm." With a little wobble of her head, she ventures, "And I'll bring my cards."