2019-05-18 - It Can & Will Rain All The Time

Around lunchtime, maybe a little after noon, Sutton jogs along out front of the attached buildings that house GHFD and GHPD, respectively. A storm's just blown in overhead, and she's a bit damp from getting caught in it between a Lyft and her destination, which appears to be one of the open bays at the firehouse. She slips inside, pulls over a folding chair, and eases into a seat to enjoy her deli bagged lunch while she watches a miserable thunderstorm flash and bang outside, like the clouds are having a tantrum of their own.

In the time it took her to go from Lyft to bay, she's damp and windblown, all semblance of professionalism wind-whipped right out of her. She reaches up to flick a hand through her damp hair, drops her bagged lunch on her lap, and crosses her legs, ignoring a few glances from some firemen going about their duty. When one makes a comment about her civvies, she flips him the bird and digs around for a sandwich she just bought.

"Of course it's bloody raining."

The exasperation is audible before the source, Carver making his appearance from a corner of the firehouse. Looks like his roundabout route to find the place ended up diverting him down an alleyway. Hands shoved deep into the grey pockets of his coat, the collar's already been pulled up tight around his neck when he comes in to view. The cigarette held between his teeth as his hands rummage is all alight with red cherry and smoke. Despite the rain, the coat hangs open, and while he's obviously in the same clothes he was the day previous, he's apparently had time to get rid of the tell-tale grass stains of before. It's a slow padding pace he walks at when he passes the bay, craning his head up to check out any signage with a squint and something of a mutter as another flash of lightning lights up the sky and drives a nail somewhere into his skull.

Drinking. Drinking is fun. The consequences never are.

It seems a pretty fair guess he walked here. Weird that he's drier than Sutton. For the moment. That's pretty rapidly changing, though.

Sutton is just in mid-sleeve roll on her right sleeve, one of a pair of cufflinks in hand as she destroys the neat french cuff she was wearing down before. She happens to glance over just as she finishes, then reaches over to unhook the cufflink on her left sleeve, hazel eyes turned to watch Carver sally forth in his popped collar and open coat. Does she notice he's not soaked through after what had to have been a long walk from somewhere else? Who knows.

Probably not. But she probably does notice the lack of grass stains today.

Her left sleeve is rolled neatly up to her elbow, revealing the lower half of her ink. Sutton reaches up to drop the cufflinks into her pocket. She doesn't say anything, but she's clearly seen Carver, and is now watching him approach the firehouse. She's thinking. If she notices him glance over? Yeah, she'll raise a hand in a wave.

The best part of watching Carver right now would probably be watching the usually mussed hair slowly plastering down across his forehead. He doesn't seem too bothered by it, checking out the signage that confirms he is, in fact, in the right place, but the guy could start a good line in pathetic chic if he's not out of the rain real soon.

Whatever his hands were rummaging for is found deep in those pockets, his face tucking back down and out of the rain as he pulls out his watch (as well as what seems to be about a week's worth of receipts, a gum wrapper, and some kind of business card) to slip the links back over his wrist, giving the whole hand a quick waggle to make sure it's sitting right. It's only when that little routine is done that he looks up. Directly into Sutton's glance.

The expression is confusion, and then something that at least falls under the definition of satisfaction.

Sutton blinks when Carver looks up and right at her. There's a pause before she digs her sandwich out of the bag, and begins unwrapping the deli paper, just after she waves the the rain-soaked Englishman. He doesn't look, at least on cursory glance, like he's bleeding or in need of medical care, so her lunch resumes as plotted. She turns her left wrist to glance at her watch. She tucks a strand of damp hair out of her face, her meticulously crafted waves turning to wild waves after application of rain, now drying. "Just out for a peaceful stroll?" She calls across the front lot, pulling half of a grilled turkey on rye out of the paper-wrap. "You should duck inside. Lightning strikes are occasionally hilarious, but that can scramble you for days."

First to blink loses. Advantage, Carver- Wait, nope, he just got rain in his eyes. He should've blinked. Stubbing the cigarette out on the wall of the building, then licking his thumb to make a cursory attempt at wiping away the black ash residue it left, the wave is returned.

At the question thrown his way, there's a little glance thrown up and down the street, as if there's the slightest chance she might be asking another slightly soggy Englishman who just so happened to be in the vicinity. They do travel in packs, you know. "Something like that!" He says, actually ducking inside. He's not larger than an engine. He doesn't need to. But his head bows forward all the same, traipsing a few wet shoe prints across the bay floor once he's cleared the entryway and pulled up beside her chair. "So, uh." Small talk. Small talk can kill a man. "Do they usually let you just sit around, or is there something special I missed?"

Small talk may kill a man.

Something like that. Sutton presses her tongue to her teeth when she gets that answer, but leaves it be. Frankly asking for details is too much of a hassle sometimes, and this feels like one of those times. Why? Because she's talking to an Englishman.

"Here in America," Sutton begins, pointing to another folding chair folded up and leaning against the wall. "We have these things called lunch breaks." She turns her wrist one more time to have a look at the face of it, "I have about twelve minutes of freedom before I have to go back inside and pick up my headset to take over directing an entire shift of EMS around the town." She's not dressed in uniform, which begs the question is she a paramedic or isn't she.

She hands him the deli bag containing half of a grilled turkey and cheese on rye. "Eat that." She takes a big bite of her half. They must use half a pound of turkey on these sandwiches. It's really kind of ridiculously sized. Also explains why she would get a sandwich but no chips or crisps. No room. "I refused to eat at my desk today and have paid for it with wet hair and soggy clothing. But my supervisor's hugely pregnant, and she won't sit down unless she's trapped by a headset. So this is me taking a break outside." She watches it storm for a moment, heavy rainfall backlit by a flash of lightning. "I may have to buy a car. My Lyft driver ran off the road last night and almost hit a tree."

The pressing of her tongue causes a little tension in the tendons around her jaw. Carver's used to looking for that. It really seems to happen a lot when he's talking to someone. "So, what exactly is your job title?" The pointed out chair is straight-up moseyed to. Is it possible for someone's walk to be cavalier? Because Carver's walk is cavalier. Chair: Unfolded. Man: Sat. Deli Bag: Taken. Size: No object.

It's possible the last meal he had was that bacon the day before, and the chaser on that might have been lethal. Ignore the look of slight regret as wet coat edges start pressing up against what was, originally, dry parts of other clothing. The rest of her explanation is mused on while he sets upon the offered half of a turkey and rye like it personally did him wrong, eyes glancing over at the mention of refusing to eat at her desk, and then once more with a linger at mention of the lyft driver. Some cheese is being licked off of a finger by that point. "S'the Dress."

She never mentioned a reason, or the driver's gender. Doesn't matter, the dress conquers all.

"She goes where she'll endanger the fewest people," Sutton replies to his question without hesitation. She takes another bite of her sandwich half. "I fucked myself up, but not in a funny or fun way. I'm dispatching instead of being dispatched." She takes another bite of her sandwich, frowning at it. "Temporarily."

"I don't think it was the dress so much as me fishing around inside of it for things that didn't start the night there." Sutton finally glances over at Carver, now that he's seated and investigating the contents of the deli bag. "Like a business card situated between my breasts."

The woman regards the Englishman for a couple of beats, then turns her attention back to the storm. "It's a good dress, though. I feel pretty great when I wear it. Even if it's when I'm standing by the road in the dead of night googling the frequency of wolf attacks in Washington State."

"You fucked yourself up?" Carver watches her for a moment, brow giving a hint of a furrow before he raises a slightly battered half of a sandwich in a funhouse mirror facsimile of a toast. "No better way to do it, love. Someone else might get it wrong." That's probably his way of saying he's glad it's temporary. Probably.

And then she's talking about the card. He doesn't even look down at the sandwich in shame. The sandwich is probably feeling more shame than he is, come to think of it. "In my defense, I only put it through the slit in your dress. You've got a fantastic bra and physics to blame for it ending up where it did." Turkey grease on thumb: Meet mouth. "It definitely caught my attention. You looked great. And there's been an increase in the past couple of years. Mostly on cattle. It's doubled." A beat. "Or something." Oh look, they're both watching the storm.

"I did indeed." Sutton finishes off her half of the enormous turkey sandwich, efficient and neat. She wipes her hands together to one side of her chair, brushing a few crumbs off and onto the floor of the bay. She adjusts her seat, tipping back a little into something that's approaching, but not quite, a slouch. She rests her hands in her lap, elbows tucked in close to her body. "Most people do get it wrong. It's unbearably sad." She reaches up to stifle a yawn, then reaches up to thread her fingers into her hair. She doesn't have to look in the mirror to know her hair's been destroyed by the rain. "You can't blame physics for your stuffing a business card into my clothes. Nice try, though. And, yeah, cattle deaths have doubled. I learned that around 12:05 while my replacement Lyft tried to figure out where we were, exactly." She combs her hair back, highlights streaking more obviously caramel and blonde against the darker brown, and pulls an elastic off of her wrist to secure the length of it into a tail.

"Last year, a pack of wolves chased a researcher up a tree in Okanogan County, and didn't disperse until a rescue chopper showed up. This is after she called for her own rescue via satellite phone." Google knows all, and now Sutton knows this too, and has it to think about every time she's riding her Triumph down a long stretch of road flanked by tall forest. "Thanks." About the dress, probably.

Probably. Carver gives her a little curious look as she settles back into the chair, doing his best not to smirk as those fingers go into her hair. He's trying. There might have been a time in his past when he had the same concerns regarding hair and rain. We never talk of those times. Those dark, dark times. "I wasn't. I was blaming it for where it ended up. And I'll continue to do so." Probably a threat, definitely a promise. A piece of turkey is pulled from some rye bedding, popped into the corner of his mouth as he takes a second or two consider a couple of notions.

"Didn't know about the researcher. Sounds lucky." Or a moral tale about being prepared. But Carver doesn't know anything about that, so it was definitely just luck. "You're welcome. You toss the card?"

Sutton turns her wrist to glance down at her watch just as a sharp crack of thunder crashes right overhead, or maybe slightly behind the firehouse. It certainly sounded like a tree took a hit and blew off some bark, at the very least. Sutton jumps, can't help it. She glances up then back, not that she can see anything through the building, just a firefighter about four yards back quietly futzing around with some gear, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. She raises her brows, then turns back to looking at the storm.

Did she toss the card? A smirk answers that question before she replies, "I have a little jar for phone numbers on my breakfast bar." Maybe she means business cards. The brunette glances over at Carter, briefly, perhaps checking to see that his hands are still occupied with lunch. "Did you think I would bin it?"

Carver doesn't jump at the sound and light, but there's definitely a flare of the nostrils and a sharp inhale when it happens. That and a wince. LOUD NOISES ARE G-Sorry. Loud noises are great when you're dealing with your fourth hangover in as many days. Travel takes it out of a man.

The smirk, honestly, attracts more of his attention than the lightning, his eyes glancing down after a too-long look to brush the crumbs away from his hands. Hopefully he used sleight of hand on that, too, because that's a lot of sandwich to disappear so quickly. And his pockets are deep. "Most do. I aim for saturation over anything else, I guess." Alistair Carver business cards: The Landfill confetti.

"That's... unrepentantly English. You do your people proud, sir." Sutton shakes her head and moves to rise, pulling her folding chair folded after she does so, just a slight hitch when she bends. She straightens before she lifts the chair, then steps over to tip it against the wall. She slips a hand into her pocket, and pulls out a small enamel pillbox. She clicks the top open and dumps a few burgundy rounds into her hand, isolating a few with her thumb before she dumps the rest into her mouth. She offers the remainder over to Carver. "Take these." She holds her palm up. "You look like you need some too."

"I've got to go take charge of the day shift to make sure none of these senior officers are sitting around letting the PPOs take all the runs." By that she means she has couple someones to send on a kitten rescue or noise complaint or cross-town traffic incident without injuries. She touches Carver's shoulder briefly. "Stay out of the rain. You can wait here till it lets up. None of these guys are gonna give you shit." She pauses, then amends, "About anything other than the company you keep."

"How dare you." Carver's smile beams at the idea he might ever do his countrymen proud, taking one last moment to lick any remainder of the sandwich from his fingers with a couple of satisfied noises. There's an even bigger one of those noises when she offers out pills, his facial expression suggesting someone just started giving him a thoroughly needed back massage. "Pet, I could kiss you. Thank you." Pills. Pills. Like her, taken dry with the impatience of someone who's made that swallowing motion with years of practice.

"Alright, so you've gotta go do a bunch of things that I don't quite understand. Got it." There's another of those grins when her hand touches his shoulder for a moment and she's telling him to stay out of the rain. A medical care professional through and through. "And got that, too. Last thing this hangover needs is a cold to go with it, right?" He adds, offering her a little shooing motion at the sign of what might even approach concern. "And don't worry about me and your boys, love." He starts, voice getting a little louder as he watches her depart. "We're gonna get along like a house on fire."

By the time the rain has let up a little and Carver's made his way out, a few of the guys are in the middle of a heated debate about what her estranged cousin is doing in town, and why her family would have done such a cruel, cruel thing to him that one time back in Seattle.