2021-01-27 - Calling the Shots

Gray Harbor is not a large town. By an hour after it happened, there's probably no one who hasn't heard about the violence going on at the strip mall today, even if the details are likely vague and confusing. Something about a hostage situation, maybe? But definitely gunfire, lots of gunfire. So it's an open question whether it's a relief or more of a concern when a text arrives for Sparrow.

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : Hey, cariad. I'm gonna be okay, but I'm in the hospital right now. Just figured I should warn you. Don't worry.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : You get that don't worry is code for worry, right?

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : Tell me you didn't get shot again, and I'll stop worrying 🙂

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : No, the code for worry is 'the uncrowned goose flies by sunset.'

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : And I would've had to get shot while we've known each other to get shot again.

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : Uh. So. First time for everything? But I really am going to be fine. They promise.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : You got shot AT before. Your shirt took injury, at least. That totally counts.

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : Okay, at, yeah. But it's an important preposition!

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : When it comes to worry, not so much.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : I'm worried.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : A little.

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : How can I worry you less? I can text, that's gotta count for something, right?

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : It does.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : How long are they keeping you?

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : Can I come see you?

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : I'm in room 412, if you want to... yeah, if you want to come see me. I don't know how long they'll keep me yet.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : I'm heading over. Need me to pick up anything?

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : Food? They do a pretty good jello here but man cannot live by gelatin alone. I'm pretty sure.

(TXT to Rhys) Sparrow : I can do that. See you in 30. Plus however long it takes to get signed in. 😘

(TXT to Sparrow) Rhys : Best first mate. See you then. <3

Visitors are currently being allowed, both to patients in general and Rhys in particular, so at least there's no need for exercising one's best ninja or social engineering moves to get in. Name and room number are enough to allow access, though there may need to be a little work done to prevent any issue with food being brought, depending just how obvious it is -- and perhaps what. But overall, there've been more difficult days to get an audience with someone.

Room 412 is technically a double, but currently seems to be Rhys's and Rhys's alone. It's clean and whiter than entirely comfortable, which may be why the lights are somewhat dimmed right now, and the blinds drawn. It's quiet in here right now, too, television and radio both turned off. The only sound is the soft noises of the various machines tracking vitals and maintaining the medication the IV is likely providing.

Rhys himself is lying in the bed, the head end propped up, and his own head-end fairly definitively bandaged at present. Possibly weird, seeing him with no hair showing. Not even on his face, which has been shaved, and leaves him looking younger, even with bruising around his eyes at present as though recovering from having them recently punched. It's not his best look, frankly. The phone is currently resting unused atop the bump one of his legs makes in the covers, and his hand rests on that, his eyes closed. He looks tired. There's only a fraction of a moment to see it, though, as his eyes open when the door does, and he breaks into a slightly sheepish smile, expecting it to be Sparrow who arrives this time.

The good thing about winter is that it means what's readily available in the Jones' kitchen is soup, which is pretty universally accepted as alright for most folks in recovery. Sparrow even assures them that it's chicken soup. Of course, it's actually thai coconut soup with chicken and mushrooms and onions, all deliciously sweet and spicy and tart and savory, but there's chicken in it. The chocolate bonbons in a little cold-pouch next to the thermos of soup might be a little more difficult to sell, but they allow it. Chocolate is apparently not contraindicated with whatever medications they've got Rhys on. Score!

On the wake of this little victory, Sparrow heads toward room 412 with undue optimism, worry effortlessly dashed by the prospect of delivering goodies to her hospitalized honey. He might even get to see a second of that. Ya know, before he watches the heartaching worry cross her features before she hardens it up with some more characteristic sternness, a means of wrangling way too many emotions flooding through her all at once. First things first, she closes the door behind her quietly, blocking out all the other beeps and bloops and bells pertaining to other people's problems. She's wearing her Baymax hoodie today, white with soft grey patches on the sides, on the upper left of her chest. Blue jeans, old sneaks, and fairly muted make-up, evidence that she wasn't planning on leaving the house. She holds up a reusable cloth grocery bag as she steps closer, a better armor than her attempt at sternness, her features melting back into concern the closer she gets, the more details she can catch, how off it all is.

"Hey," comes more quietly than it needs to. Blame the quiet of the room, like it's meant for whispering. Nevermind that it's probably just as likely due to how fragile Rhys looks right now, like too much her at her normal volume and level of energy might be bad for him. "I, uh. I'm not sure if anybody's said anything yet, so. Sorry if I'm the first, but? This kinda looks way worrying, beautiful. Like. A lot. A lot a lot."

"Hey, gorgeous. ...you should see the other guys?" Rhys tries, nearly managing a grin for her; it's both a bit too sheepish and a bit too wry to really reach the familiar form he'd probably prefer to be providing. "Really, my head's--" 'killing me' is belatedly rejected, "pounding and I'm gonna have to be careful what I whack it with for a while but, mostly I think they just wanna keep an eye on me for a bit. Everything seems like it's in working order. I mean, really, they probably just don't want to give up the excuse to keep me around so soon. Most people don't get the sort of opportunities you do to bask in the glory that is me." A little better on the grin this time, cheekier. Pushing it, maybe, but at least it's evidence things could be worse, right?

"Come sit." He pats the bed; it's a little high for easy perching, but there's plenty of room. "What'd you bring me?"

"You left out the in the fucking HEAD part of 'I got shot,'" isn't quite as dryly delivered as Sparrow had intended, so they're even for missing the mark on tone. It would be inaccurate to call it anger, but it definitely falls in the not exactly happy category. Would it have been better to incite panic with that detail before hand? Probably not. It was almost certainly the better decision to leave it out. That just means that she's got to wrangle with all the complicated emotions of how very close he came to death right here and now. Fleeting anger gives way to momentary panic which she shoves to the back of her brain in favor of answering that bed-patting. Sort of. She closes the distance, but moves farther up the bed, empty hand lifting to slowly approach his clean-shaven face to alight gingerly along his jaw and tell him plainly, "I'm going to kiss you now." There's time to tell her no, to note that the nurses might disapprove or that it might be bad for his blood pressure or whatever, but as long as there's no protest before her lips find his, Sparrow does, indeed, kiss Rhys. Gently, mostly. She means to be gentle about it, but she can't help the little bit of push behind it, the hints of desperation and relief at him still being him and here and hers even if he smells weird, tastes strange, lacks the fuzz she's used to. It's him. And it helps.

When she draws back, she murmurs, "They might be stuck basking in my glory too," with a little petulance, like they might have to fight her to leave. For now, though, the perch she assumes is a good, temporary one, settled sideways with her feet dangling, the roll-over table drawn close so she can set out the goodies. First, there's a little Pinky Pie beanie baby, a pale pink horse with big curly dark pink hair and a three-balloon cutie mark on her hip. Something from her collection at home. "To keep you company." In case they succeed in kicking her out. Which they almost certainly will. Meanies. Second, she draws out a thermos and a spoon, explaining, "Soup from last night. It's fucking amazing." Third comes the little silver-lined bag meant to insulate the contents, to keep the chocolates chilled despite the thermos' warmth. The box is from the Patisserie Vydal. There aren't many bonbons in it, but what's there is undoubtedly exquisite. "And a treat to make the awful a little less so." She keeps her hands busy for a few seconds longer, folding up the bag and setting it aside.

"Yeah, I find that one kinda undermines the whole 'don't worry' part a bit," Rhys replies, as if it were simply a discussion of the technicalities of How to Deliver Bad (But Not Unbearable) News and not also the not-quite-apology it is as well. He's not about to claim he'll be sure to put that in if there's a next time. He almost definitely still won't. But it feels like it may be an acknowledgement of being at least a bit of a dick for it, despite probably being a properly-choosing one as well.

He isn't currently feeling chatty enough to need interrupting in order to inform him of his imminent fate, and as far as he's concerned his blood pressure is definitely the nurses' problem when it comes to this. The kiss on his side is gentle as well, encouraged to be by how much various parts of his head and face hurt right now even with the painkillers working their magic, but nonetheless some of the less-gentle feeling is mirrored there. Relief, flares of belated fear now that he has time to think about just how close a call this really was. The rightness of Sparrowness and the temptation to see if falling into that would push the other bits away. But he can't help a tiny wince when he risks a little too much pressure, and his head is definitely happier with him when he lies back a bit again.

Possibly it did peg something with the BP or heartrate. A nurse peeks in, just long enough to confirm the patient doesn't appear to be in distress, consider briefly, and decide to leave the pair of them be for now.

"They should be so lucky," he murmurs back, and runs his hand down her back as she starts setting things out, then plucks at his sheet. "I can hide you under here. Just stay still and do your best impression of legs. They'll never notice." He looks a little tired, but brightens as the gifts emerge. "Mm. You bring the best booty," he decides, "Definitely calling you right away if I ever end up here again." If. He reaches out to pluck the pony from the table and tuck it in beside him, then lets his hand fall on her human avatar again. "Gonna feed me? What with being, y'know, an invalid and all." Milking it while he can! Or trying to minimize it with humour. Possibly both.

Worse, any reference to even the most unlikely and wholly hypothetical 'next time' isn't likely to be well-received on the wake of pleas of 'stop getting shot at.' Sparrow's being nice and not pointing out something she recalled on the drive over, that this is actually the third time she's aware of Rhys getting caught in a shoot-out and it's escalated each time. She's not in a good place to consider what 'next time' might look like.

This time is fairly well terrible enough. Catching that hint of a wince--and the sound of the door opening--she withdraws from the kiss and contact a bit more quickly than she otherwise might, back to playing the role of Good Visitor even if all she wants to do is hide under those sheets and hold on until he's better. She could help that along. Maybe she should. Would he notice? Would it matter if he did, the way memories of the strange seem to fade? He probably doesn't even remember that span of months when he was dating a mother of thirteen, now that she's back to being herself, her personal history snapped back into its natural shape.

The touch to her back distracts her from overthinking, the rhythm of the unpacking hitching for the barest instant as that bit of normalcy sets some things right inside her head. It makes the quip which follows, a teasing murmur of, "You don't get my booty till you're out of here," shot back with an easy grin. Like nothing's wrong. Until the look his way registers all the very obvious wrongness of bandage and bruising and shaving, and her mask cracks again. Her eyes fill with uncomfortable levels of concern that turns too quickly to hurt when he does make that joke about some hypothetical next time. Anger flares, before she looks away, rather incidentally toward the door as it just happens to be in the most conveniently away direction. Still, when he touches her, she leans into it, muttering, "Don't press your luck," even as she picks up the thermos to start pouring the tom kha gai into the lid. "I'm not against spilling soup all over you when I'm not the one who's gonna have to clean it up." It comes with an almost playful look of warning as she offers over the lid-cup and the spoon to see if he'll take them on his own or push for doting again.

Out of not-quite-nowhere, but certainly off-topic, she asks, "Am I gonna have to get used to the idea of maybe really losing you forever and for good?"

"No," Rhys says promptly, and maybe there's a tiny bit of apology in there? Reassurance, definitely, and it even manages to sound like it's not necessarily meant partly for himself. "Not really more than anyone else, anyway. This was an unusual situation. And the cause of it," a tiny pause, "should be out of commission, now. They took him away. Everything that's been going on, everything scary, traces back to one guy in this situation, and he ought to be out of our hair now. None of this is usual. Usually? You would've had more to worry about when I was deployed." Instead of taking the cup and spoon, he reaches for the front of her shirt, fingers curling into it to pull gently in aid of his own leaning in to kiss her again, and let his forehead lightly touch hers. "I've got no intention of going anywhere. Promise."

With that, he drops back into the pillow/bed support, making a tiny bit of a face as his head's rattled by it, but it doesn't look that bad. Maybe because of painkillers, yes, but they must be doing their job then. Instead of taking the advice regarding his luck, he bats his lashes at her, doing a less than totally convincing puppy-dog look. "So no on the feeding me?" Woe. He does hold his hands out to be given the cup and spoon now, though. "...thank you," he says, after a beat. "For the gifts, too, but-- for coming." Not even an innuendo right now. "And staying."

Sparrow appreciates both the certainty and sobriety in that prompt response, but she looks like she might protest, might bring up those other incidents of her favorite person being caught in gunfight until he mentions the cause. That assurance in particular goes a long, long way to alleviating the worry that's been gnawing at her. When his hand bypasses food to grab at her hoodie, the fabric soft and thick and warm, she leans in and lowers both of her arms, holding them wider than necessary. Really, she's only trying to keep the soup out of spilling range. The likelihood of her spilling an empty spoon is... well, okay, a little higher in Gray Harbor than places where plausibility matters, but still. She follows after the kiss, after that press of his head to hers, wanting to sink into that. But... right. Food.

"Good," sounds brief and borders on cheerful, but there's a weight behind it that she needs time to work up to voicing. It's only when he reaches for the soup that she remembers she's still holding it slightly away from her, inspiring a dopey smile in answer to the dejected puppy-dog look which surely follows the pitiful one which missed its mark. On the bright side, once her hands are free, she finds other things to do with them. Reasonably chaste and appropriate for not precisely private hospital rooms, but surely more comforting than spoon-holding, like lightly rubbing his stomach, blanket and hospital gown between them. And maybe give a little nudge of spirit magic to encourage him toward wellness. "It's my duty, captain," is a gentle tease, the delivery not up to her usual standards. "And I love you. Entirely. I would way rather be here with you and all your tubes and bloops than at home imagining all the tubes and bloops while worrying about you. Definitely prefer accuracy in my tubes and bloops."

Whether Rhys should manage quite so much certainty may be a genuine question; the odds of him getting shot probably remain rather higher than that of most accountants and managers of public entertainment venues. All the same, what he's said is true: this is unusual, they know and have just removed the proximate cause, and he really is probably in less immediate physical danger than he was in his first job out of high school. He believes what he's saying, at the very least.

He also believes in that kiss, careful though he currently is with it. The headache is trying to fight the painkillers, and he's not inclined to help it out. If he notices that little nudge of her magic right now it's only in the form of a gentle warmth it's easy to attribute to her touch, even through the fabrics. Why would he think it's anything out of the ordinary, right? "Worthy of your title, first mate Jones," he murmurs back to the tease, and smiles a bit better at the rest. "I love you too. And you're right, there's nothing wrong than an inaccurate tube and/or bloop. I'm still 100 percent offering to hide you under these sheets if you want to maintain your observations until they let me go, by the way. I mean, yeah, they might be a little thin for it but I can always ring for an extra blanket."

He scoops up a spoonful of the soup, but pauses before eating it. "Sometime soon I should take you somewhere they'll being us extra blankets if we ring for it without them providing any particular tubes and bloops. Somewhere interesting that doesn't smell even a little bit like disinfectant spray, maybe." The spoonful is eaten. "....mmm. We could bring your brother. But he and his pots and pans get a separate room if we do."

"I'm game if you are," Sparrow consents quietly, keeping her voice at an entirely unnecessary conspiratorial hush, totally up for hiding beneath an extra layer of blankets. Or anywhere, really, that lets her be here with him instead of home. Even if she now has an accurate accounting of all the tubes and bloops. She'd surely forget some of them by the time she got home, and that just wouldn't do! "And definitely game for hiding away somewhere a bit classier than this joint after they let you out, but. Like. Without my brother. Let his cooking be the siren call that brings us back home." Rather than the third wheel accompanying them on an adventure. The hand on his stomach slides to his hip as she leans a little to toe off her sneakers, one after the other, evidenced by the dull thuds following each short fall. "I do owe you a day. If you want me to make the arrangements, but. I'll prolly need you to pay if you really do want anything nicer than this." Her free hand lifts to gesture, a little circle-point around the room. "You got any preferences, cap?"

She'd be stuck endlessly trying to recall precisely the correct tubes and bloops and imagine the outcome if her tally were wrong! Okay, probably identical to if it were right, but this way, neither of them would be alone. Rhys probably doesn't even know why he feels a little better now even than he did when she arrived (and that definitely did make him feel a bit better) -- easy to attribute it to her presence, and the fact that she doesn't seem to have decided that this is too much to deal with. That he's too much to deal with. Healing assistance aside, that's a relief he didn't entirely realise had been a concern. Few could've blamed her, after all.

"Fiiiiine, I guess we can do without him, if you insist." It's not particularly convincing. He doesn't care. "And yeah, you do owe me a day. I've been saving it up. I really should've asked about interest rates..." He eats more soup. He's hungrier than he was, suddenly, maybe because the soup is good. Hospital jello cannot compete. Her offer needs some consideration, in any case. "Yeah," he decides, with a firm and slightly aborted nod. Not that much immediately better. "Make the arrangements. Surprise me." A grin, a proper one. "But beyond at least one night involving people bringing us things if we ring for them and the place not smelling like they had to work really hard to make sure we can't smell whatever happened in there before we showed up, and all of it being interesting and involving you, I think my main preference is seeing what you come up with. Maybe find me an extra day or two to add into it? And as long as it's not too extravagant, I think I can probably handle the finances. How could I ever hold up my head at the next meeting of the Mystic Siblinghood of the Golden Abacus if I failed?"

He glances down toward where the sound of her shoes thumping onto the floor suggests they fell, then shifts position a bit -- enough that, with the spoon held in his mouth, he can use the freed hand to lift up the sheet invitingly, even if she would have to get up just to sit (lie?) back down again. The invitation stands. How long they can prevail against the dread 'visiting hours are over' remains to be seen.