2020-08-21 - So, How Was Your Day?

There are innumerable articles and the like around the internet with advice as to how one can tell whether one is in a relationship or some (clearly) lesser incarnation, like a 'situationship' or just an on-going hook-up. Probably nearly all of them start out with 'if he texts you something like 'Busy?' after 10pm he is not that into you, he just wants to get into you,' so none of the authors are likely to be the least bit surprised that the follow-up was simply 'I want you.' Plenty would probably be shaking their heads that the intervening time since then has culminated in various scattered clothing and a somewhat breathless tangle of limbs and linens.

Luckily, it's unlikely either Sparrow or Rhys would give two-ninths of a damn if they knew. The latter makes a wordless little sound of current contentment with the world, and stretches, pushing down along the length of his legs and out through his fingers before the arm belonging to one set rewraps itself around the woman beside him, and he leans to press a kiss into the small hollow between her neck and her nearer collarbone.

Whatever sort of ship this might be, Sparrow is rather clearly elated to be aboard. Her smile simply can't get any wider. This piracy thing is really working out for her, booty calls and all. Her head tips back as his dips in, offering up all the skin within Rhys' reach. And probably all the rest of it, too. One hand remains lazily tucked beneath the pillow beneath her head, but the other reconnects with him, fingers sliding from wrist to just-shy-of-elbow before going slack and retreating a few inches. "I dunno what inspired this urgency? But I'm kinda way into it." Fingers curl just enough to drag short, well-tended nails along his forearm. "Consider this my official request for more, Captain." Her head tils forward again so that she can peek at Rhys and, should he lift his head, steal an appreciative kiss before any answer can be issued. Really, it's the expected course of action. See above regarding her informal occupation.

It is, of course, a pirate ship. With all the booty and general plundering pertaining thereto. The kiss, therefore, cannot but be stolen, even if it's also freely given, which it is. Perhaps it's just being stolen on both sides. His smile is smaller, though it spreads out toward the natural grin before he lowers his head again to give the collarbone a nip. "What, already?" Rhys teases, "I hope we've laid in sufficient supplies. Fresh water, hardtack..."

His expression goes a little more serious as he trails off, and he lifts his head to study her face for a moment, fingertips playing over her side as he takes in the angle of her jaw, the way her lips curve, the shade of her eyes. "I think I can find some more urgency for you," he murmurs, "Later tonight, maybe in the morning, some random day next week..." A pause. It lingers another second or two as he watches her. Then, "There was almost a kidnapping, tonight. When I was at Table Thai." A beat, and he thinks to specify quickly, "Not of me. I just happened to be there at the time."

"Gummi worms," Sparrow appends to the list of supplies hopefully on hand, the addendum half-giggled in the wake of that nip. Her hand resumes its journey up his arm, making it as far as his shoulder this time before similarly sinking back again, this time in a faintly insistent curl about his bicep, a good handhold to tug when she wants to make good on that more. Her adoring expression edges toward curiosity when she catches that hint of something heavier in his consideration, though it doesn't hold long, the prospect of more of this more than once in the foreseeable future earning an eager squirm against him like she might find some urgency of her own sometime well within Option A. "I'll keep my schedule clear," fills those couple seconds of quietude, an easy eagerness that breezes right past any pensiveness in his pause.

Her smile dims only a couple watts at the mention of the kidnapping, eyebrows edging a little bit closer when he admits to being present. It's probably not over any concern for whether or not he got the name of the restaurant right. There are more concerning points to consider. Like, yes, whether it was his magnificent body somebody tried to steal. She doesn't even notice how very tight her hold on his arm has become, reflexively possessive at even the barest prospect of his abduction. It does not relent at the assurance which follows. "Nobody's allowed to kidnap you, so," she murmurs very matter-of-factly. It's apparently good for the abductors that they didn't even try. Concern creasing her forehead, she wonders, "Everything turn out alright?"

"Gummi worms." It's important to be prepared. Rhys isn't the slightest bit inclined to interfere with the travel of her hand, the muscle under its grip twitching with the not-entirely-voluntary urge to flex whe it's claimed. Clear schedules are good, but he doesn't look quite as pleased about it as he usually would, so whatever has his thoughts must indeed be heavier than he tends to let on.

If he notices how tight the hold on his arm becomes, he doesn't mention. A shift of weight might be leaning into it, but it's small enough it might just be resettling for more comfort. He watches her reactions, with a small, crooked smile at her murmur. "I've got it down on the naughty list, yeah," he says, "I mean, at least not without my consent." The smile grows a fraction at her question, though if anything it gets more wry. "About as well as possible, I guess. From the general non-kidnapper point of view. Victim got shot, but isn't kidnapped, and he'll live. Same for one of the kidnappers. Cops picked them all up at the scene."

He considers this a moment, running the events in his head, then nods. "Yeah. As of when they let me leave, at least, good triumphs." For certain values of good. But they're his values, so it counts. Does it entirely explain why the way he regards her is still a bit pensive, though?

Sparrow's smile returns, if a bit guiltily, when he makes note of the particular loophole she exploits whenever she abducts someone, admitting to her own pending intentions to kidnap him without saying a single word. It doesn't last, humor draining at the mention of gunfire. There's really no logical reason for her to look him over, to try to remember if his shirt had been in any sort of concerning condition when she'd pulled it off of him some while earlier. "Non-kidnapper," she echoes when she finishes her cursory inspection of what she can see of his body where it's not hidden against her own. Pulling her hand out from under her pillow, she brushes her fingers over his shoulder, so light and lazy in comparison to the firm grip she maintains on his other arm. "Non-victim. Just an innocent bystander entirely uninvolved in the situation?" It sounds more hopeful than accusatory, at least, but the furrow forming between her brows belies that optimism.

Rhys is unharmed; she's had plenty of opportunity to be sure of that, regardless of what human nature insists regarding taking another assessment to be sure. "All I was there for was a decent bowl of tom kha gai," he half-assures, half-complains, "100% innocent bystander." The temptation to just stop right there is definite, and there's just a touch of that studying again before he admits, "Not 100% uninvolved." He gives her a somewhat sheepish look. "I may have sort of... warned the guy when I saw the van that was waiting for him. And made a scene about what was going on to try to dissuade them when he went anyway and got grabbed. Idiot." The last word's muttered, with a small eyeroll. This could all have been avoided! "Aaand long story short, I may have ended up shooting a couple guys and a van."

Sparrow's pensiveness does not simply drain away at the initial admission of innocence. On the bright side, it doesn't precisely look like she might be waiting for more, but rather like she's trying to resolve her own feelings about things, working through some tangled knot of emotion... that only grows more twisted and complicated when he offers up the second half of that answer. Dark brows draw closer together, the furrow between them deepening as she listens. It all starts reasonably enough, trying to help a guy not get got, but it doesn't end quite so simply.

"And the cops let you leave?" Curious as she is about that, it's mostly a placeholder, the easiest thing to ask while she tries to find words for the rest. Her body shifts against his like she might be thinking about turning toward him, but she doesn't follow through, that restlessness lending itself to more questions. "How often do you have a gun on you? Cuz, I mean. Just out for soup." Well, it doesn't sound like an occasion to be carrying. Her eyes search his as she asks uncertainly, "Are there things I shouldn't ask about?" like maybe its context extends beyond just this particular conversation.

"Self-defense and the defense of others," Rhys replies, that being the easiest to answer as well as to ask. "Washington's a stand-your-ground state. No duty to retreat. Kidnappers still there, victim still able to give his side, and witnesses to say I was the one who pointed out what was going down, told them to call 911. No one dead. No one can even say I didn't try words first. I mean, yeah, they had me over for a couple cups of coffee and a chat, but it's almost a perfect storm of no good excuse for keeping me there."

He watches her -- the restlessness, the turn she doesn't make -- and when she searches his eyes, they search hers in return. "Most of the time," he answers that second question, levelly. "Never know what you might run into. Plus, now and then I gotta run cash to the bank and such, and somehow my naturally intimidating stature doesn't always make people think twice. Historically speaking." There's humour in that at least, the usual Rhysishness.

As for the last, the expression's a little more wry. "And there's always things people shouldn't ask about. Does this make my ass look big. Did that one guy do a better thing with his tongue. What exactly is in this hot dog. Things they only want certain answers to, mostly."

Surely, Sparrow knows that Washington is a stand-your-ground state, but there's a very good chance that she's never given the least little bit of thought to what that might actually mean in any practical sense. This is definitely the first time she's known someone who wasn't associated with law enforcement who fired a gun at an active crime scene. Well, the first time someone's told her about it, anyway. The first time she's had to consider how it all works, what it all means. Rhys' explanation helps, earning a little nod in acceptance of the sequence of events.

When he cops to keeping a gun on him most of the time, the fingers on his arm flex, loosening only to tighten again. It's the hint of potentially self-deprecating humor which sets her other hand to motion, digits drifting from his shoulder to cradle his cheek, fingertips catching along the edge of his jaw where they apply just a touch of tense pressure, more evidence of that restlessness. None of this is especially reassuring, even if it's all accepted without question.

Unlike his evasion of the last question. His expression might skew toward wry, but hers remains serious and slightly concerned about something beyond his general well-being and weapon-toting habits. The last remark earns a quiet huff, a vague notion of agreement, even as she looks away, gaze skirting off to the side for just a second or two, enough time to gather one thought in particular and weave it into words. When her eyes find his again, she nods like she's agreeing to terms that he hasn't quite explicitly laid out. "I'm going to ask you a question I want a yes or no answer to. I don't need any explanation out the gates. I'm not asking for that. I just want to know yes or no." Her brows pitch upward to ask the Okay? that she doesn't actually speak. "I want to know because--" A hesitation, another quiet huff. Nerves. "Because I'm feeling some pretty serious feelings about you. You know we've been doing this for, like, eight months or so now? No fights. No weirdness. No boredom. Just fun. Contentment, connection." With a flash of a smile and a roll of her eyes, she adds, "Amazing sex," before refocusing on whatever point she's trying to get at. "With you's where I want to be most days. But I got this little itch at the back of my head, and I just wanna know. One way or the other. Yes or no."

She holds his gaze for a second and asks, "Are you involved in some illegal shit?"

Rhys tilts his head into the touch when her fingers find his cheek, as light an answering movement as the touch itself. While she's silent, he's still watching her, silent for the moment; the fingers resting against her side make soft, idle strokes again, half appreciation of the feeling of her there and half absent soothing.

Yes or no. JUST yes or no. Rhys doesn't usually operate in the zone of prespecified answers outside of a standardized test; it's not that the answers aren't perfectly straightforward often enough, just that he likes control over his words. Implications, connotations. Precision in what it is he aims to put across. It's not a stipulation he likes, and for a moment it looks as though he might argue-- but she's still speaking, and he listens. Her 'because' gets a smaller, slightly crooked smile, a bit softer in the eyes, though there's a hint of surprise at the mention of the time, a brief calculation. She's right, of course. Her little addition does make the smile spread a bit, though when she gets to the end, it fades -- not entirely, but to something much fainter, with a bit of that wryness in it.

When she holds that gaze, he searches it, and shifts, hand slipping up for his turn to brush against against her cheek, catch her jaw. When it does, he leans in to kiss her, lingering and gentle in that way that suggests intentional restraint of a competing desire not to be. He doesn't draw away far afterward, just enough to meet her eyes again, steady, voice quiet but definite when he says, "Yes."

It's definitely an answer to what she's asked. It may also be an answer to things she hasn't.

Sparrow catches that hint of softness. She can't hide her awareness, the way she mirrors in unconsciously, expression brightening by a few degrees. It's not where she means to focus in this moment, and so all that reflexive excitement is shoved back a little so she can get that question out. The brush of his fingers against her cheek might tug at that thread, but she keeps her focus on Rhys, expectant... right until he's all too close, and she's expecting something else entirely. Emotion floods forward, expressed in a quiet sound muffled against his lips, in an all too earnest encouragement of that held-back desire. How easily she could let herself be distracted from all this worry. For a little while, at least.

But she doesn't have to. The kiss breaks, and it takes her a second to catch up, for her brain to stop swimming in one yes and surface for another. She blinks and breaks eye contact, focused on his nose--or, more likely, nowhere in particular--for a couple seconds while she lets that answer set in. He might feel the moment when the processing's done, when the tension relents, her touch growing softer, her head tipping toward his hand. Her smile returns just before she focuses again, just before she nods. "Alright."

It might seem like that's that. All done and better. Nothing more to fuss over. Until she adds, "Well," and pauses like she might have a whole lot to say about that. "I, uhm. I meant what I said about those serious feelings. And that doesn't change anything, so." A few seconds pass without any follow-up, no grand declarations or revelations to build upon those earlier words, so easily delivered when couching a heavy question. In the end, she settles rather comfortably on, "Thank you," like she's pleased to have found a reasonable exit from all the noise inside her own head. Her smile has no right to look that relieved.

Rhys has done a lot of watching tonight, and this is not when that's going to change. His eyes stay on her while she processes, and in contrast to her earlier restlessness, he's quite still. No fidgeting, no attempts to let out any 'technically's or 'except's or 'but's that might be tempted to get themselves involved.

It probably isn't easy, though the best indicator of that is the faint relaxation and soft breath out that come when he feels her tension relax into that gentle tilt of her head, and the smile comes back out like the rim of the sun through clouds. "All right," he replies, with a tiny nod, and a little half-smile joining it. But she isn't quite done, it seems. There's more watching and waiting, but this one's less controlled in the expression -- more little twitches of the forehead and eyebrows in the waits, but his own relief means amusement is quietly winning over worry, right now. "You're welcome," he tells her solemnly when she gets to the end, and breaks into a grin like he might be about to also break into a Disney tune, but she's spared that. For now. Possibly only because he can't make the lyrics fit at a quick thought.

Possibly, on the other hand, because there are one or two heavier questions here, and what he's had to say about them so far hasn't made it into the form of words. "...I'm glad. That it doesn't. 'cause, you know. I've got some pretty serious feelings for you, too. I mean, I tell them a really good joke or invite them to come to karaoke or something and they just look at me like we got some real ant-and-the-grasshopper stuff going on in here and go back to doing the books or writing philosophy or something." The grin, perhaps a little more boyish than usual, and a shrug. The expression shades more serious itself, but perhaps whatever words come with that are trickier; instead he leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, right where that relieved smile turns up the farthest.

Sparrow could maybe buy Rhys as a downsized version of Maui for how easily she laughs at the grin which follows his response. Or maybe it's just whatever tension is left escaping all at once. Whatever the case, her smile lingers when he continues, skewing slightly leftward at the anthropomorphication of those emotions. "Pretty sure I've seen 'em around," she murmurs practically against his mouth as she tilts toward that brief kiss, nose nudging against his cheek as fingers sink to his neck. "And... I'm pretty good being grasshoppers. Cept that I'm pretty sure I know where I wanna be when the world gets cold. And I'm willing to work for it. If I have to. But I haven't had to." Close as they are, he might feel her eyes close, lashes brushing against his skin. "Nothing's been work with you," she all but whispers, the words soft and reverent, threaded with wonder. "Which is funny. Cuz this is maybe the most worth-working-for thing in my life." Her head wobbles a little against his as she mutters, "Except maybe school cuz I'm paying a ridiculous amount of money for that, but. You get what I mean, right?" Her eyes open, though she doesn't bother to seek distance in hopes of actually being able to focus on him, happily maintaining this blurry proximity for as long as he'd like. "How I'm kinda tryna say I love you?"

"You might've," Rhys allows, "I dunno if stealth is really their thing. They've got no time to properly enjoy frivolous things like playing hide 'n' seek. Now, I think they're missing out, but, you know. They are what they are." His eyes close as well, and she can likely feel the small spread of the smaller smile that comes with those last words. He shifts in a little closer beside her, as much as small movements will allow, ones that don't interfere with that nuzzle.

"Yeah. I know where I'd rather be when the world gets cold. So far it's all been surprisingly... warm. Though, I mean, if it helps any, I can work on seeing my way clear to letting you pay a ridiculous amount of money for this, too?" No, he can't. Particularly not when she has 13 kids to support! The husbands probably can't do it all.

"...I get what you mean, yeah." He does lift his head, then, just enough to clear up the blurriness a little -- enough to just barely focus on her face, and no more. "And you've got a lot going on worth working for, but-- I'm kinda tryna say I love you too." And in case English isn't serving the need sufficiently, he takes a moment to try translating it thoroughly into kiss.

"Should maybe get 'em together with mine," Sparrow murmurs of those serious feelings distractedly. "See if some socialization might loosen 'em up." But that's kinda what they're getting at here, isn't it? His shifting inspires some of her own, her nearer leg moving to hook one of his, to encourage more closeness, further tangling. Her laugh, when he poses potential arrangements for monetary compensation to represent her dedication to this loveliness, might be a bit loud, close as they are, but it's blessedly brief, a bright bark that dies with a sound of denial. She'll opt out of additional unnecessary debt, thank you!

When he lifts his head, hers follows reflexively, as if there were some sort of thread between them, his retreat demanding her advance, but she catches herself and, after a brush of her nose to his, sinks back to share that look, to take in those words. She doesn't get that he might include two husbands and thirteen kids within that a lot, but even without that, he's kinda right. School, house, family, friends, new job. This. Especially this. Rhys might have a brief moment to watch her smile twitch strangely, muted under a flood of emotion ranging from relief to excitement to adoration to--well, it doesn't matter after his lips find hers. That is a singular thought, a simple yes echoed in the pressure of fingertips against the back of his neck, in the lift of her head from the pillow to deepen that kiss.

If she were as smart as she thinks she is, she'd let the verbal component of their conversation end there, surrendering to other, more articulate expressions of affection. Instead, she breaks the kiss before it leads to too much more so she can murmur, "Just don't get weird on me, okay? I know those are big words, and they can make things weird, but. Don't let 'em?" However casually she might've meant to make that request, it's pretty clearly a real concern given how she searches his eyes, how she frowns despite all the warm skin still pressed against hers, despite how decidedly Not Weird he's being right now. "Everything's been weird lately. From that stupid GoFundMe campaign, to the way everyone looks at me, to my parents not talking with me, to one of my friends showing up out of nowhere all but dead." Beat. "Don't worry. She's in the hospital. Just. Really? Only things that are making sense right now are you, school, my job at the gym and Cris dumping me to focus on Dante. Which, like. Sucks, I guess? But. I get it. And I'm rambling." When did her gaze unfocus? Who knows, but she refocuses now as she declares, "I'm being weird," and chirps an amused, "Sorry."

"We'll spike their coffee," Rhys suggests, before methods of dealing with the Serious Feelings are abandoned in favour of-- well, a certain amount of dealing with the serious feelings. He'd likely be entirely happy to conduct the rest of the conversation in the language of kiss (which is one of his favourite tongues), but when she breaks it he only chases it enough to brush lips to hers again while she murmurs those first words, then lets her actually say the rest.

He lifts a brow at her emphasis on lack-of-weirdness, and the intensity of the way she searches his eyes, and the smile she gets is smaller and crookeder than usual. The, well, yes, arguably rambling only makes it get a bit more quizzical as she goes, and by the end he leans in to kiss her again to get in the way of the tail end of that 'sorry'. "Shhsh," he says when he lets her mouth go free again, and the tone is teasing, if a bit wry. "I promise it's not the very first time it's occurred to me, and I'm pretty sure I haven't gotten weird yet. Or, you know. No weirder than usual."

Proper grin, then, though it falters when some more of those details settle in, his brow furrowing. "Wait, hold up. Cris left you? But--" He shifts position, not drawing away, but supporting himself with one arm enough to see her face more properly -- and, in consequence, making his somewhat easier to see as well. "When did this happen? Dante's okay with this? Is everything gonna be okay with the kids?" Half a beat, the fingers of his free hand brushing the side of her neck. "Are you okay?"

Sparrow has an argument to make about exactly why things get weird, but between his admission of pre-existing emotions, almost certainly serious, and the kiss which precedes it, she's a touch distracted. All the protest which tries to surface finds itself softened, fighting against a dopey smile that grows far easier to appreciate when Rhys claims that little bit of distance. Her objections redouble their efforts, managing to manifest in a high arch of her dark brows at the way he phrases the first question, like maybe she might object to his word choice. Fingers drift down to play at his collar bone, gaze momentarily focused there through when and who and... Wait. What?

Her expression sours at the mention of kids. He's joking, right? Why doesn't it sound like he's joking? Her jaw clenches for just a second. When she relaxes, it takes effort, an accompanying squirm suggesting the bed's slightly less comfortable now than it's been for the last good long while. "First? Yeah, I'm okay. I mean." Her hand pulls back to gesture between them, indicative of this particular arrangement. Definitely an okay thing. "Second? Cris and Dante have always been closer. Pretty sure Dante's super-okay with this, though I should prolly let him know that I'm okay with it. Seriously. Sucks that I'm losing out, but this is one hundred percent the best decision for both of 'em. And I care about both of 'em, so." Just ignore the faintly sour face she makes, a concession to her own loss, to how weird it is to be happy for others while feeling bad for herself.

It segues into a more pointed irritation, albeit mild, as she refocuses on Rhys in full. "And lastly? No jokes about the kids, alright?" Cuz he had to be joking. Right? "It's a shit rumor. And it's making leaving the house pretty much miserable lately, and I've only got so many dirty looks left in me. I'm not meant to be this angry all the time. It's exhausting!" An all too earnest frown takes shape as she confides, "I'm exhausted, Rhys. No more talk about imaginary kids, okay?"

Wait. What? is clearly going around. This being definitely an okay thing, well, that Rhys can only really agree with, even if he's concerned about the rest. But the assumption that he's joking, the framing things as a rumour, the adjective imaginary... wait, what?

He pushes up a little bit farther, brow more strongly furrowed as he regards her. No, he's not joking. Is she joking? How would that even work as a joke? Nothing thus far has suggested she's quite the actress this would require, either, and it just doesn't seem... her...

It's not that he can't imagine her joking about not having the kids, maybe mock-wishing them away on a particularly hard day. It's that he can't imagine her joking about it like this.

But he remembers--

But he remembers Byron Thorne reported murdered by his fiancee as well, and Thorne's alive and well. Still. It's not the same, something being misreported; all he really remembered was it being reported, right? And that part really did happen.

Didn't it?

The changes in his expression are subtle but there -- the confusion clear enough, the sense of creeping dread decidedly fainter as it edges in. "But I remember--" A bunch of bird names. Bringing little gifts to be given to them. Debating whether he could deal with all those rugrats, deciding as long as they stayed other people's responsibilities...

Doesn't he?

She's too young to have that many children they're adopted she was never dating Dante of course she was you can't be married to two people 'married' isn't always literal this doesn't make any SENSE.

None of this makes any sense.

He sits up entirely, then, one hand coming up to rub his head as though it hurts. Focus. "This isn't right," he says quietly, looking somewhere in the middle distance, then around the room in general. "Something's wrong. With--" With? "--things." His breath's changed, just a small difference -- still silent, but slower, deeper, more measured. Controlled. A shift of position, twisting to better look at her again, assess her more critically for anything off there. She seems... entirely Sparrow. "I'm not joking. You're not joking. Are you?" It's a tiny flicker of hope he doesn't believe. "I remember it. I remember them, I remember-- the situation. But I also... no, you're not. There aren't... Something is wrong." That he manages to sound as matter-of-fact about it as he does may well qualify too. "Am I-- but it isn't just me." Not if she's wearing out her glare. A breath of a laugh, a flicker of a smile entirely wry, a dart of a look around. Don't panic. "Feels like a Doctor Who episode. Not sure this is the part I would've auditioned for."

Sparrow's fingers curl against Rhys' chest when he retreats further, wordlessly requesting his return before the contact breaks, fingers falling back to her own belly. She watches as he works through his confusion, as he tries to reconcile what he remembers with what she's said. Not one little iota of amusement crosses her features. Not even the most malicious glint of darkest humor. This clearly isn't a joke. Nor is it any grand revelation. Just a terrible sinking acceptance that nobody's immune to this bullshit. It was easier to believe that her parents were reacting to the gossip and drama, that there was something else, anything else going on, that the people who know her best would surely know better. But here's Rhys, caught on the wrong side of reality. No wonder her mom won't talk with her.

When he draws upright, requiring that she untangle her legs from his, she follows... in no small part so that she can bridge that distance, bent knees tucking in against his lap as she scoots closer, as she leans in. One hand seeks his, pulling it closer if caught, fussing with fingers while confirms, "Not joking," so very quietly. The sympathy in her expression might be misread as apology, if only there were any thread of guilt to go along with it. When he asserts that he remembers, she nods. Just like she nods to confirm that, no, it's not just him. "I'm not a mother of thirteen kids. Adopted or otherwise. I've never been married, and. Definitely not to two guys at once." Shoulders shrugging up high, she adds, "Dante and I have never even dated. Or hooked up or." Eyes widen slightly. "Anything." Her shoulders sink with a sigh as her fingers fidget restlessly, tracing his knuckles if she still holds them, fussing with her own if not.

"But." A smile twitches at the corner of her lips. "It didn't matter. I mean--yeah. Fuck, I get that this probably shouldn't be my take away from all of this and I am legit for real concerned about your memories being messed with, but." The smile settles in properly, if unsteadily. "You love me. Even thinking that was my life. Even thinking there were, like. What? Fifteen others vying for my time and affection?" Yeah. That's what she's going to focus on, that he still kept coming around, that he still saw her through all the bullshit. That he's here. That he sees her past all of the Veil's lies. That's a happy thing.

Rhys's hand is caught; his figers curl against hers as she fusses with them, and he watches as she replies, watches the way she holds herself and the way she speaks, takes in that expression and tone as she confirms one side of his memories while the other insists on a decidedly different past. There's enough of the former woven in with the latter to be bolstered by her claims, to make the other stand out like the nonsensical arrangement it would be--

--but he still remembers.

He cracks a grin at her takeaway, albeit one a lot smaller and more crooked than the usual. "You're a popular woman." Humour's something to hold on to, and so, in its way, is what she's actually latched on to. "....yeah. Even then." It helps, a bit. He studies her a moment, then looks down to their hands.

There's a good few seconds of silence before one of those subtly measured breaths is a little deeper, and he looks up to find her face again. "I don't know what to do with this," he admits. "The memory thing. What else isn't right? What else can't I trust? And what's fucking with my head, how? How is it doing it to ev--" clearly not, "so many of us, and how do we stop it?" The grip on her fingers tightens, just a little; it's a quiet leak of the panic he's still managing to otherwise fight down while he tries to think things through. But if he can't trust his mind, what can he trust? How can he know that anything is real?

And he may be just a little upset that there are apparently people not susceptible to this memory-changing, and they aren't him.

"Even then," Sparrow echoes quietly, her joy in that truth at odds with the uncomfortable weight of the rest of the revelation. She leans a little closer to breathe him in, to anchor deeper in that detail while she can. Before the discordant memories catch up and Rhys pushes harder for useful answers. When she sinks back, she draws his hand with her, nearer to her own lap even as her knees maintain their tilt toward him. Her fidgeting stops when his grip tightens, her free hand joining the other, doubling up on what little comfort that contact might provide.

"Those are big questions," is a place-holder, acknowledgment without answer while she figures out how to tackle all of it. If she tells him everything up front, there's a good chance he'll hold onto the feeling that she's some nutjob who believes in nonsense without remembering any of the useful supporting data. If she doesn't tell him anything useful at all, it could feel like a betrayal of trust. So where's the happy medium? "I don't know exactly what's causing it, but it's been going on for weeks now." Honest enough. "I know that Joey isn't a high school teacher, Nicole isn't an actress, Mac was prolly never a cheerleader and Vyv's shop has never had a bug problem. And there's no angry celebrity chef in town working at the Twofer." The rest, aside from the complications set upon her aforementioned husband, just aren't well-known enough for their truths to have righted themselves in her recollection of reality yet.

"I know it's something about this town." That seems safe enough. "No idea what exactly. Been kinda hoping somebody would figure it out and fix it." When it was mostly just her own suffering she was concerned over. Seeing Rhys like this, facing that fracture... She doesn't say anything, but the thought is clear enough in the silence which follows; this is the hero accepting responsibility. Or, at the very least, considering it. Nevermind that Sparrow is very much not a hero by any means. "Until then, I'll do my best to keep you informed about objective reality."

Rhys's hand is hers, both to draw closer and to capture with her other, and he takes what comfort from it he can. It's difficult, with his mind simultaneously trying to make sense of the situation and to vet everything he remembers, everything, for signs the memory is false. And then she's listing off others, and he can feel that edge of panic welling up again; there's a hint of it in the lift of his brows and tiny twitch of the jaw before it settles firmly again.

Right. Okay. He can do this. Most of his memories have to be accurate; surely nothing has time to mess with them all? It doesn't stop his mind chasing itself around, but it makes it a little easier to keep himself together. "And Lilith Winslow hasn't murdered Byron Thorne," he adds to her list, "because I've seen and talked to him. Do you remember hearing or reading about that?" A moment or two of silence, his brow furrowed. "Joey really doesn't also teach gym?" That one in particular's clearly giving him some trouble, maybe because he knows him best of the list. And maybe because that one actually kind of feels right, somehow. "Most of them-- if I really try to focus on those, now that they're mentioned, they seem out of place. Why would Lilith murder him before the wedding, how would a bakery stay in business if it kept getting infested, Mac isn't even from here and, not that you can't be a cheerleader and a gamer, but she really doesn't give off any go-fight-win vibes. ...Joey teaching PE and coaching football just sounds about right, though. Busy, with the gym too," and everything else, "but still." Even so, this is something: the wrong ones really aren't quite right, are they? So maybe if he just pays close enough attention...

It probably won't be enough. But he can hope.

He squeezes her hand again, and manages a crooked smile. If he's going to fall apart over this, maybe later, when he's alone. "I'm gonna end up sending you the weirdest texts. Weirder than usual, even." One more important question comes to mind: "How long has this been going on?"

Sparrow shakes her head promptly when he asserts that Lilith hasn't murdered Byron. "Yeah," she did hear about that one. "She and Corey had some sorta thing a while back, and. I mean. I remember thinking bullet dodged." Right? But this isn't rewritten memory. This is second-hand. Gossip and social media about someone she only casually knows. Reports of other people's memories. And evidence of her own fallibility when it comes to reporting objective reality. Which might explain the color creeping into her cheeks as the last of her optimism drains. Even the, "He'd be good at it, right?" in regards to the job Joey doesn't have comes out gloomy. "But people with reputations--" And possibly criminal records. "--like his don't get to teach kids. Which is dumb. Cuz he helped me plenty when I was in high school." But now she's just babbling about what she does know as a means of avoiding thinking too hard about how much she probably doesn't know.

His off-center smile inspires her own to peek back up, the threat about fact-checking texts seeing it brightening enough that it doesn't disappear entirely when it recedes again. "Can't be puns and pole-counting all the time," she laments, the playfulness a bit half-hearted. Especially when that follow-up question hits. With a shake of her head, she guesses, "Mid-August? After your birthday, pretty sure." Brows inch upward as she asks, "You didn't wish to make everything worse, right? Cuz that's a bad birthday wish. You coulda had a pony."

"Maybe literally," Rhys jokes, though it's a bit weaker than it'd usually be. But maybe Sparrow really did hear about it? He's fairly sure most of his memories around that one are real, most of them... how can he be sure? Well, one thing's certain: he's not going to go ask Felix whether or not they had a conversation he recalls. And the rest... "I could swear I read about it in the paper. I thought it was just-- a strange misreporting, or something. But now I dunno. Did someone there get a memory fucked with and report it? Or was it never even there? Kinda wanna get up and go look at their back issues and try to find it." A tiny pause. "Pretty sure they're not 24-hour poke-through-our-files, though." Also it would require getting up and getting dressed, but somehow these are smaller hurdles than they might usually be, right now.

He runs his free hand through his hair, and sighs. Every path his mind goes down ends up in the same place: how can he know? The more he runs through it, the more it's almost too big to panic about. "Yeah." Joey'd be good at it. "...and yeah, it's dumb." Puns-and-pole-counting does help a touch, and her comment on birthday wishes gets an actual laugh, sharp and short but genuine despite the edge. "Oh, sure, now you tell me. If I knew ponies were on the table I'd never have gone with existential crises."

He catches the inside of his bottom lip with his teeth, focus going vague. "Okay. So. Not that long, then. Couple weeks. That's good, mostly. I mean-- I can't be sure things from before then are right, but..." It gets less reassuring as he thinks about it, so this once, he decides not to think about it. Just for now, he'll try to let the vague feeling that 'not that long' is good outweigh the sneaking suspicion it doesn't really make much difference, after all. "...fuck. I don't even know where to start. Who could do something like this, and how the fuck do we find them and make 'em stop if we can't even trust what's in our own heads?" There's an inevitable sudden question in his mind -- could it be related to the group trying to move in? -- but no, if they had some weird way to do something like that, they'd have won by now...

That's actually a faintly relieving thought. Whatever the source of this wants, it probably already has. Maybe it'll just stop?

"I mean..." Sparrow glances over her shoulder at the laptop resting on the nightstand beside her bed, an easy enough means of looking up recent articles in the Gazette without having to put on any pants. It's a door she leaves open and acknowledged without charging through herself. She's not about to steer anyone away from Not Thinking about Unfun Things when that's her own personal MO. Besides, Rhys laughs, and that's enough to distract her from the details, smile brightening as she answers his quip about existential crises with her own sputtering mirth.

All the while, some happy part of her brain jots down notes for future reference about just how normal and good and safe this feels even as things are getting super-weird. Sure, sure, not in the way she meant, but still. It's a thought worth holding onto. And it explains how her smile doesn't disappear when he starts working through timelines and ideas, toward figuring out how to even start figuring this out. "How about we start, tonight, with just one true thing. That I am unmarried and kidless and all yours." Leaning forward, she nudges her nose to his cheek and murmurs quietly, "Then, tomorrow? We can scour articles online and compare memories." It might not solve the problem, but it might help with scope and scale. And it's easier than babbling about Dark Men and the Veil and all the other implausibilities of life in Gray Harbor when she'd really prefer that he believe in her relative sanity, in the objective truth of her assertions about her own life. "Wanna watch Memento?"

Rhys follows the glance, though he looks a tiny bit dubious about it as an option, whether that be because the Gazette is a relatively small and local paper and he doesn't expect much to be there or because if someone's messing with memories computers seem even easier (though surely paper is easier than memories as well) or some other reason entirely. Whatever might be the case, it settles into a tiny nod, more of a decision that it'd at least be a place to start than an intended communication.

But putting it aside for right now -- as much as his mind will allow, at least -- still has its draw. This is big, and scary in a way most things he deals with aren't. May well be the scariest thing he's dealt with today, and earlier he was being shot at. And she makes it easier, with her suggestion. He couldn't help a small smile at her one true thing if he tried, and he doesn't try, instead moving the arm of the hand she hasn't got to wrap gently around her. It's a good true thing, and the murmur that follows gets a small nod, and then another laugh, not too unlike the last one, when she suggests the movie. "In the morning," he agrees, "And if necessary we'll go in person, but until then... yeah, okay, let's watch Memento. At least we know I don't have any unexplained tattoos."