2019-05-23 - Outsiders Wine

Despite his cemented outsider status, Carver's managed to snag himself a table on the upper deck, claiming the space with one empty pint glass, one half-filled pint glass, and a folded up newspaper. Because of his cemented outsider status, that's totally a table all to himself, and even during his occasional wanderings to look out towards the water, no local has dared claim it. A tourist came close, once, but Alistair's "Sure, mate, take a seat wherever." saw the man and his partner heading elsewhere. Must've been the accent.

Really, it must have been the accent, 'cause his clothes, at least for now, are pressed and cleaned to perfection.

At least he's got a paper to read. Which is being completely ignored for a small flip-cover notepad instead.

Sutton wanders out to the upper level of the deck not long after, a large glass of wine in hand. Surely they don't usually fill those that high without charging double. The brunette is slightly heavier on the blonde streaks today like she recently had a visit to the salon. Her clothing consists of a tee and a pair of shorts, which is hardly adequate for the weather out here. She does look a bit chilly, but she supposedly grew up with this weather, so maybe she's fine. A couple of paint spatters mark her clothes, like she's recently been painting something white -- a stark, cool white.

Sutton pauses to sip her wine and glances about the deck, then wanders over toward the railing to peer over the side. Eventually, she might come up from the glass to breathe. Give her a few moments.

Ah, the weather's not awful. If Sutton squinted, she might even find it remotely pleasant. Carver doesn't even have his coat on!

Please ignore the very warm looking synthetic waistcoat. Thanks.

Speaking of that guy, he's flipping the notepad shut when Sutton emerges, only really noticing the woman once she's moved to peer over the side. Some might say that's because he's now got a view of the back of her, and those people would be rude, gutter-thinking simpletons who are absolutely right. It looks for a moment as if, from his spot at the table, Carver is going to yell her name. Just for a second, though. Then there's the dawning realization that she's looking over a railing with a glass of wine in her hand, and any sudden shouts of her voice might end up with him buying a replacement, and boy howdy do they charge double for that.

So instead, he watches. Watches a little longer. Wonders how often she drinks wine like this. Checks out the paper.

The wine-bearing, short-short wearing paramedic has a backside worth a second glance. Those gutter-leaning types might at least notice that. Working in a physical job has its benefits and Sutton has reaped them. Even though, yes, she's been doing a lot less working out since her injury. She drains about a third of her glass before she turns from the railing, and glances behind her, almost like she could sense someone watching.

But probably she couldn't, and standing near a railing this high up has her checking behind her now and then for other reasons. Almost like she doesn't trust humans all that far. "I was just thinking that if this deck collapsed, there's not a super high chance we'd live long enough to get medical attention." She says that as she wanders over toward Carver's table. Seems she's spotted him. "I'm not a big fan of these avenues my brain rolls down when I'm trying to have a quiet drink." She promptly takes a seat at said table. "Anything interesting in the paper?"

Look, worth a second glance or not, Carver always appreciates short shorts. He's pointedly not when Sutton turns around, though, focused so intently on the paper that he might as well be darting his head around looking at everything but the paramedic for how poor of a ruse it is.

Seriously, all it needs is for someone to come sit next to him and say 'Zee crow flies at midnight.' That's how badly he's rusing right now.

"We'd probably clip a couple of rocks at least." He agrees, glancing up with a look of faux-surprise as someone he never noticed takes a seat next to him. A little shrug accompanies the slight dismissive twitch that hits the corner of his mouth, folding up the paper to almost pass it over her way. Well, it lands in the middle of the table. That counts. "Usual small town stuff. Some stuff going on in the park with a theater troupe doing Shakespeare in the park, but frankly, I'd rather choke to death on corn dogs than have to remember Secondary School."

"Are you having a stroke?" Sutton's comment is quiet, without judgment, merely curious-sounding. She sips from her wine now, doesn't put it down. She tucks her feet up on the rungs of her seat, but doesn't cross her legs. "You're not kidding. There are four plays I never need to hear from again." She puts her glass down finally, then rubs her hands over her thighs, and stops looking behind her over the railing. It's not long before she picks up her wine glass again, though. Maybe she has a thing about heights.

"You're looking tidy today." That has some implications, but she's polite enough not to outright ask. Sutton reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "If we were lucky, all we'd hit is rocks, though I'd be willing to bet the splintered railing would lead to a few body cavity impalements. Spear fishing for major organs is a friend to no one."

"C'mon, Sutton, both my hands were in clear view the entire time." Carver's just pandering to the gutter crew now, reaching out for his own drink as his new-found drinking companion tucks up her feet. She's watched. Unlike when she pointedly wasn't being watched, this is actually subtle. It probably helps that unlike a sizable population of the town, Carver can actually look in her direction without feeling an almost irresistible urge to squint. The fact that Sutton isn't 'special' absolutely making her special. Funny how that works.

"Figured if fate was going to give me an interesting night out, I might as well dress for the occasion." He answers her comment on his attire quickly. It possibly has a tint of snip to it. "That or I found a laundromat and a good dry cleaner. Dealer's choice." Wiping away a slight foam mustache, his brow raises just a hint at the idle comments he's weirdly come to expect from medical professionals. "So is that like, a career trait, or are you born with it?"

"Mhm." Sutton looks at Carver over her slowly dwindling red wine. "I've come to believe that where your hands seem to be and what they seem to be doing are of little consequence." Is that the voice of distrust there? Barely. She's amused, at the moment, by his assertion that he's above board. Well. His implication. Certainly there was an implication there.

"Why choose? Both are possible." The woman looks like she stopped in the middle of a home improvement project and decided to go out for a drink, so she has no room to talk about clothing stains. "I'd say I was born with it. Or it was trained into me by a father set on being sure his children prepare themselves for all eventualities. It's impossible, sure, but the more you anticipate, the less likely it is you're going to fail horribly when a situation comes up." She gestures with her glass. "That's the theory. I'm still alive, so." She lifts her glass and tips it. Red wine. Good.

"Christ, are you this affronted every time someone slips something into your dress? How on earth do you enjoy nights out?" Carver is classy. All class. So much class he's apparently looped around thanks to an integer overflow. Which would explain the smile, at least. Just in case her reaction is to scowl, he's pre-emptively taking a gulp from his drink after that. Because, y'know. Implication.

"Nah, if I go for both I just end up getting confused." Says the guy who looks like he's spent a pretty good portion of his life being just that. "That's some pretty good fatherly training you got there. Business man or Survivalist Compound leader?" Again, he refuses to make the choice. "Eitherway, seems to have worked out. You're definitely still alive. My da taught me about how if someone locked the door before he got home from the pub he'd get into the terrace by throwing a garden chair through the window. I got no fucking clue what that taught me, but I'm still here too." He lifts his glass and tips it. Stout. Not so bad.

"Only when it's a business card and I didn't see them doing it," Sutton replies, without so much as a twitch of a frown. "Usually, when I'm out for a drink, I have enough to enjoy whatever ends up going up or down my dress. I barely had two shots. It's a new town. I'm easing into my social alcoholism." Her tone is pretty flat, but he's English. He can take it.

"Close. Career marine. Very similar." She nods at his story about the chair-thrower. "I've been known to chuck a piece of furniture in my time. Sometimes you have to improvise. Hopefully in a way that won't get you arrested." She takes a drink. "But if you do get arrested, be sure you've befriended a few cops ahead of time to help get you out of trouble. Maybe don't sleight of hand them. It makes them twitchy." Sutton with the survival tips. She winces slightly as a chilly ocean breeze blows across the upper deck, but takes a gulp of wine. More alcohol on board will counteract the sundown chill in the air.

"Up your game, Sutton. You live here now." Damn right Carver can take it. And recite the town motto from memory. Well. It should be. "And drink up." He can meet flat tone with flat tone, no matter the context. That tourist who asked to sit at the table is probably feeling real glad about their choices right now.

"Ah." The career makes sense. Carver nods. "So, Survivalist Businessman. Fits." And then there's her imparting upon him survival wisdom. His stubble is scratched at, his drink is drunk, his drunk is appreciated. The circle of life. "Y'know, I gotta agree with da on one point, I think." He starts bantering, ostensibly to take her mind off of the chill, leaning an elbow on the table as he does so. "Sometimes the best way to get out of trouble is to get into a different kind." Probably not the wisest move. "It's entertaining."

"I need at least two more of these to make the kind of decisions you're talking about." Sutton's drinking seems to be habitual, and she certainly has some kind of tolerance to need to go down the route of bad decisions. She brushes a hand over her shirt, picking at a patch of dry white paint. She reaches up to rub the back of her neck next. It's probably a minor miracle she doesn't also have paint in her hair.

"That explains so much about you. If that's your life philosophy." She thinks about it for a moment, draining another portion of the red wine still left in her glass. "Hm. No, wait. Maybe that's my philosophy. It would explain most of my career choices. Who else is going to be dumb enough to run into dangerous situations for pay, hang out with people who run into burning buildings for fun, and taunt men in high stress careers who wear guns for a living, also for fun."

Sutton thinks on that for another beat, then says, "Maybe it's time to go skydiving again. Really do some fate tempting." She tips her glass back, muscles working in her throat as she swallows down the last of it. "That was awful. I think I'll have another."

"Make it three, pet. No point in half-assing. Not in those shorts." She's only ever really seen Carver hungover. Or hair-of-the-dog'ing it. This is Carver comfortable. May God Have Mercy. "You've got a bit right... there." He indicates, scratching a spot where his cheekbone meets the edge of his nose. Whether she actually has a spot of paint there? Completely up for debate. He seems sincere, though. No bullshittery to be seen.

"See." He nods, looking pretty pleased with her deduction after she's taken another dose of grape medicine. "Most people don't catch on that quick. Everyone's always 'Oh, No. That's dumb. Don't go getting into more trouble. By the way, I'm up to my eyeballs in debt so I'm going to start working for unsavory people to try and work it off.'" Did he get mocking in tone? Absolutely. Can he be judged for that? Also yes. "At least you're honest with yourself." A beat. Vague hand wave. "I mean, eventually."

As for the wine, and the skydiving? Apart from that seeming a brilliant combination to the guy? It's just a nod. "Did you see them pour it out of a box or did the glass just appear?"

Sutton reaches up to rub her hand over her face when Carver indicates she might have some paint there. She gives it a scratch with her fingernail, short and tidy as her manicure is. She wrinkles her nose and says, "Well, I've been walking around all day like that." She smirks at his mention of her shorts. "No one's ever completely honest with themselves. It'd ruin the entire..." she waves a hand. "Thing." Yes, the thing. Totally ruinable. Whatever it is.

"I said enormous wine and this is what they gave me. It tastes like it came from a box, which probably means it's the house red." She rises, and says, "Stay there. I'm not drinking another one by myself. You look like you can keep up without slobbering on me or the table. You want another," she gestures to his glass. "You want another." And then she wanders toward the door, empty wine glass in hand, to disappear inside for a few moments.

"You asked for an enormous wine and the bartender didn't immediately start talking about their family troubles?" Carver looks shocked. Shocked, I tells ya. He even covers his mouth with a hand for a second, just to complete the effect. "Forget I said you need to up your game. This whole town is flagging."

As for the paint? Nothing more than a "Well, it was a cute accessory." Whether that's cute on it's own, or merely an enhancement to hers is a question that requires more drink to answer. Luckily, he's got plenty in his pint, and she's soon vanishing to get more. And you know what? Carver doesn't even watch her behind as she goes. Truly he's an adult capable of restraint and forethou-

Oh, no, he's resisting the urge to huck his notebook at a tourist who totally is. Nevermind.

Sutton glances over her shoulder and squints at Carver, like he's just said something utterly worth a good long judgmental stare, but she's busy fetching enough alcohol to drown her ability to recognize a horrible pun. It's a very specific squint she gives him. She probably gets that squint from her English mother.

It's perhaps seven minutes later when the brunette finally returns, a small tray in hand. On it: two glasses of wine, two pints, and a basket of some kind of fried food item. Does this bar serve said foot item? Potentially! Or she has some kind of mysterious superpower dealing with bar-type food items and drinkery. She wanders back over, puts the tray down, and starts passing out the drinks. Two for her, thanks, two for Carver, welcome, and a basket of miniature, well. Those look like miniature corn dogs, no sticks. Corn dog bites. The universe has a sense of humor. "It's a madhouse in there. Have two."

Carver greets the sight of her bringing in the next two rounds with the only sentence that's enough to convey his true sentiment. "Oh, pet, I could fucking kiss you." He probably could, too. His drink's empty.

What was he doing before that? Who knows. Ignore the tourist staring daggers at him. That always happens.

And then, then he notices the corn dogs. Corn dog bites. Corn puppies? Look, just be glad he's not saying these out loud. "What? no mustard?" Really he's just grateful they came in a basket and not a polystyrene tub. He's been stateside for more than a few months now, and the habit of fried foods being in a basket is still so... unfamiliar. He risks one. Let's not say it meets with approval, but it only requires a mouthful of his drink to wash down, so they've got that going for them.

"Just thinking ahead to when it gets properly busy in there." Sutton moves to retake her seat. She tucks one foot into the footrest then crosses her legs carefully. She finds a slightly forward posture before she settles, then fishes a fried bit out of the basket. "I liberated them from another table. I've probably left the mustard behind." That confession leads to a brief glance around, and then she says, "If an enormous angry ginger comes storming out the door, throw the basket to the next table." That's said out of the corner of her mouth.

She reaches for a wine glass and glances around briefly. She notes the murder look one particular person's giving Carver, and says, "Maybe that guy's table." She pops the bite into her mouth, takes a few chews, and says, "That's disgusting." And then she eats another one. Seems to be a theme with Sutton, really.

If Sutton keeps going after disgusting things, let's be fair, she's sitting next to the right guy. Carver's popped two more in his mouth while she's complaining about the taste. "Wouldn't be the first thing thrown their way." He say regarding the other table, apropos of nothing and as innocent as a newborn lamb. "God, these are awful."

They're going to finish the basket before too long.

"How long have you been in town, anyway?" He eventually asks, once they've established a baseline distaste for the food on offer and settled into a resumed drinking rhythm. Half of his focus falls on her, half on the door in case of an enormous angry ginger, and despite Sutton nor anyone else having any clue, there's a pair of eyes on the tourist. And a pair of hands flicking them the bird. Not his though. That has pints. "And... why? Sorry if you told me this before, but... y'know. I wasn't listening."

The basket of bar fare doesn't stand a chance. It's true. "Yeah, what have you been throwing?" She glances over, then back. "Seriously, that's one pissed off midwesterner. You can tell because nothing's flying at your head and they're only staring the daggers." Sutton slides both glasses of wine a bit closer, shielded by her body, in case anything does start to fly. Protect the shitty wine first!

"Oh, not long. A few months. I was staying at this sweet old woman's house on the edge of town, but her previous tenant was returning from or failed out of college or something, so she needed the room back. I've just moved. With movers. Everything I own is piled in boxes in the corner of an apartment. I'm sure most of it's broken. I like to drink wine on my couch at night, contemplating, but never actually opening said boxes."

"Why what?" This is far belated, after she's made out a bit with one of the two new glasses of wine at the table. "Why did I come to town?" Lookit half that glass of wine go!

Taking what can only be accurate described as a hefty swig to make sure that, at least for the moment, all trace of the corndog taste is removed from his mouth, Carver throws a glance to the midwesterner. And a grin. "What is it the kids say? Shade. I think I threw shade." Knowing Carver, that possibly means cocktail umbrellas. Or larger. "And you can't tell me they're pissed because they're not throwing anything and then protect your wine. Puts doubt to your whole thesis." Sip. One day, he won't be so smug. Enjoy it when it comes.

"So-" His glace is placed down on the table so he can interlink his fingers in his lap, crossing a leg so his ankle rests atop a knee as he watches her solely for a few moments. "The paint is... redecorating? As another distraction from opening the boxes? I mean, that's the kind of thing I'd do, so I both want to scold you and give you a thumbs up and that is very confusing."

And where the fuck did that wine go? "Yes, why did you come to town?" Jeez, it's not a difficult question. Just... like, don't ask him the same one.

Sutton shrugs, and puts her glass down, but only to reach for another of the monstrosities in the basket there. She bites one in half, checks the contents, then pops the second half into her mouth. Yep. That's definitely a mini corn dog. "My apartment's white, but it was a warm white, and I didn't like it. I decided to repaint." She painted a white apartment... white. It sounds like she just said that.

"Seattle wasn't doing it for me anymore." Seattle's really not that far down the road, really. Perhaps two hours if you're a law abiding sort of driver. So she hasn't really gone all that far. She brushes her hands over her legs, leaving behind a small smear of grease from the fried food. She picks up her wine again. There's definitely more to that. She doesn't elaborate. Perhaps she needs to have put this second glass of wine to bed first.

"I'm protecting my wine because I have been wrong before, and you seem the sort to induce uncharacteristic rage in even the most midwestern." Sutton glances over her shoulder as if one quick look could measure the irritation of their table-watcher. "... Always prepare for eventualities. I said. Family training." She mhms, "Why did you come to town?" Hasn't she asked this before?

"Colour's important." Carver, oddly, agrees. Really, he doesn't seem to see anything amiss with what she went and did. He does seem to see something amiss with the corn dog balance, though, taking one for himself to put them a little more equal of footing. And possibly regret later on. Same difference, really. He doesn't check the contents. He knows better.

"Okay, wasn't doing it for you anymore, I get." Carver settles into a lean, drink in one hand, the other idly rubbing at the ankle he's got resting against his knee. The focus of his eyes switching between both the woman and the target of his massage in slowly widening intervals as the conversation goes on. The drinking, though, that stays at a steady pace. "But why here? Was there a job opening, or...? You like the rural life?" Keep drinking, Sutton. He's got questions. As for her protecting the wine and judging his abilities to piss someone off? Pshaw. No, literally. "Pshaw." See? "Roll with it. If he spills your wine, that's a cost you can extract right there." Did he just avoid a question? Did he?!

There's a moment when she really considers that question. Why here, indeed? "I..." It's almost like she didn't fully consider that question before. "It's on the coast. There was an opening. I took it. I think." She gestures again, slightly, with the hand that cups her wine glass. "I was very drunk at the time and somehow my internet search for paramedic positions landed on this place. I think. Or someone mentioned it -- in any case, I said yes, they said yes. They paid for my move." She frowns slightly.

"I injured myself, and now I'm off rest and on rehab." Sutton takes another long drink, then says, "Why did you say you came here again?" She mightn't have asked twice, but she did just spend a while talking about coming to this town. Flawed logic, Carver, bringing up the thing you yourself don't wish to answer. "I'd like to think things happen for a reason, but so far this is just another oddly plain Pacific Northwest town with a history of mowing down the very thing that makes this land beautiful." All the trees.

"Curiosity." It takes Carver a while to answer, the soft smile that crept across his face at her apparently confusion at her own answer lingering even still by the time he reaches his. At least he's the decorum not to say she sounds uncertain. Which, y'know, odd, for him. Oh, Look. Booze.

"Ah, things always happen for a reason, love." There we go, back into casual banter. Like nothing ever happened. Look, he's even winking. That's reassuring, right? "Sure, sometimes that reason is because 'You're an idiot who makes bad decisions', but that still counts." It definitely does for him, at least. Oh, oh boy does it. Jesus Christ, does it. "And besides, at least you came to the town that has a history of mowing down trees only to have like, a metric fuckton of people die up in the old sawmill." Oh good, he's been talking to the locals. That bodes well. So does his grin. "I mean, sure, Sawmills usually lose a lot of people, but... Well, I went to see it." Unintentionally. "And mother nature's claiming her right back."

Sutton most definitely sounds unsure of exactly how she picked this place, but she does sound sure she was drunk when she did it. Whatever the method of decision, here she is and here she'll stay until such time as something moderately disastrous punts her out of town. "Curiosity? About sawmill towns?"

"You came here because of curiosity and you've discovered the sawmill devours people." She thinks on this for a moment, then asks, "Are you one of those haunted places slash death adventure weirdos who visit plague sites and old tuberculosis hospitals and all that? I watched a lot of internet video when I was really high on painkillers one time, and those people are weird."

Nevermind that she can't help but start thinking up death and injury scenarios just standing on a deck with a glass of wine in hand at a bar. These two things are unrelated. "So it's a creepy vine covered sawmill... let me guess. Giant rusty blade in the middle, all creepy tetanus jab waiting to happen -- you didn't touch it, did you? Did you touch the rusty saw blade?"

"No." Carver actually looks ashamed. Not of himself, but of her conclusion. The eye-roll actually hurts. The hefty chug of his drink makes it better. It takes a moment, but say goodbye to glass Number 1. Well, technically glass Number 4. Whichever. "I came here because I'm doing a little road trip to find myself, like one of those hipster uni students. Except I guess this counts as a midlife crisis? Oh god, that's unsettling." Depends on when you plan on dying, Carver. 74's a pretty good run.

He's sipping at his drink, more casual now. More collected. More... at ease when Sutton starts making up her scenarios. He was probably expecting it after the talk of puncturing organs earlier, really. "Creepy vine and tree-reclaimed sawmill with a giant blade in the middle, a couple of raccoons, some propped up wood only an idiot would be scared by, yeah yeah." His hand waves in a small circle as she lists it off, and then his expression is one of PURE OFFENSE at the suggestion he'd be dumb enough to touch a rusty saw blade. "Really? Really. How big of an idiot do you think I am, Sutton?"

"I licked it." Sip.

Sutton finishes her second glass of wine, which is about par for the course during this conversation. She puts down the empty glass, on the other side of the table, and picks up the third one, the third and very full one. She fishes a freakish double mini corndog from the basket and into her mouth that goes. "You're so full of shit."

She watches him for a long moment when he talks about the sawmill, and actually does nod when he asks how big of an idiot she thinks he is, and goes so far as to open her mouth to respond... when he says he licked it. "Yeah, there it is. That one I might believe." She salutes him with her glass. "Might, but don't. It's not like rust is tempting, and unless you were drunk and dared, I don't see it happening."

There's a knowing look from Sutton there. Like she knows what happens when alcohol and dares are bedfellows. "Just how many people has this sawmill claimed?" Oh, good. Now that's in her brain. She sips the third glass of wine, and uncrosses her legs to put both feet onto the footrest. Perhaps her perch is feeling a bit unsteady. Perhaps because most of that wine is hitting her bloodstream at the same time.

"I think it was like, over twenty in six months?" Carver's eyes almost seemed to light up at being called out. They really did. For a brief flicker, the guy looked genuinely happy. "And no shit I am. Have the guys at the station talked to you about what you and the family did to 'poor estranged Cousin Carver' yet?" Curiosity strikes at the same time as a little haze hits. Oh look, they're matching foot movements. Give Carver half an hour and three more pints and he'll be looking at himself in the bathroom mirror with the dawning realization that he's absolutely plastered.

And then the curiosity fades into a touch of contemplation. "Oh. Man. That's gonna be hilarious if we end up screwing each other."

"That seems like a lot." Sutton, personally, wouldn't go anywhere near a giant rotating blade, but... "That's a lot, right?" She's somewhat derailed by the mention of cousin Carver and the station question. She blinks. "I did get some weird looks last time I... what did you say?" She leans in. "Seriously, what did you say?" The brunette puts her wine down, but only for a moment. "Are you the reason Jennings asked me if I enjoy making men cry for fun? Do you know what big gossips firemen are? Do you have any idea how fast rumors spread to the other half of the building?"

"I am definitely not drunk enough for this." Sutton sits back, a little too far, and adjusts with a slight tensing of her abs. "This wine is awful, but potent." Whatever. She brings the glass to her lips, then says over the rim, "This is very close to war, my friend."

"Just that I was the black sheep. Ostracized at dear Great-Aunt Petunia's will reading and given nothing but scornful looks from the rest of our apparently sizable tree. Dear favourite Everly got so many lovely gifts, and I was left to weep in poor, poor destitution. All because I dared stand up to her and her painfully obvious addiction to gigolos. The heart attack was truly to be expected." That would be a 'Probably, yes, I am the reason Jennings asked you anything.' from Carver. Although, really, it's Jennings. And they're firemen. So maybe not!

"Get Drunker. It's easier that way. Chug your wine, dear." Look. Follow his lead. It turns out they're bringing the glasses up at the same time, so she's doing a really good job of it! He drinks while she talks, though. The glass is only lowered a touch to say. "No war, pet. You've got a more sizeable arse-" Sip. Another sip. A chug for luck. "-nal."

"The thing you have to remember, Carver," Sutton begins, pausing to sip her wine, "Is that while I'm part English, like you, I'm also American. Americans are crazy." She leans in again and says, "Do not talk about my arsenal." Funny, that's not the first time this week the topic of an arsenal has come up.

"Great-Aunt Petunia. Really?" She shakes her head and sighs. "Jennings is an idiot." Which doesn't bode well for the rest of them since Jennings is a Lieutenant. "They stayed with you past an addition to gigolos?" She shakes her head again. "You're right, though. I would be the favorite. I'm usually the favorite. Historically." She drains down about half of the third glass of wine. "So they think I gave you half my sandwich and left you to the rain to walk home." You might think she'd be mad about that, or at least mildly annoyed. But when she speaks again, after running a hand through her hair, what the brunette says is, "I could really use a grilled sandwich right about now." Copious amounts of wine make her hungry. "You're fired from the position of cousin. Our accents are only similar. Those idiots."

"Fired? From Cousin?" Carver finishes off the last of his glass, wiping his mouth away with a rather satisfied noise. Good thing those sleeves were rolled up. Also a good thing she got here late enough into his drinking that they've actually rolled down a touch to cover a little bit of ink near the inside of his elbow. No character development here, folks. "Again, the family fucks me over." He... doesn't sound to bothered by it.

You see how he just lets the threat of crazy Americans slide? That's a Carver life skill, right there. If you can't deal with it, side step it. Sure, raise an eyebrow at the word 'Arsenal' first, but staunchly refuse to point out it somehow sounds far more suited to the gutter-lovers when he says it. "And yeah, they stayed with it through the whole thing. Something tells me you're a little reticent with information about your life with your new workmates." That something probably being that everyone is, unless they're insane. "Also, I hate you. Now I want a grilled sandwich." He settles for a mini corn dog. It doesn't help.

"Yes, fired from cousin." Sutton seems to find this line of conversation acceptable, because she keeps going along with it. "You'll just have to get used to it. Now that I know you're the victim-y type, that's how you'll have to be cast in the narrative."

"I don't discuss it with them, no. No personal details. You share that shit with one of those hens before you've got hold of some proper blackmail material of your own, they spew it all over the firehouse. Same with cops, only they're even more chatty. Bunch of gossipy old ladies." She seems to be speaking from experience there. "A town this small? Disaster." She tips back her wine glass and all but finishes number three.

"I really want a grilled sandwich." Sutton contemplates this desire and the likelihood that she can make it to a diner with a griddle before such time as she becomes loudly intoxicated from the amount of wine metabolizing through her system. "... Hm." It's hard to do the drunk math when you're well on your way to drunk. "I should probably go home and eat cheese standing in front of the open fridge door instead." Instead of? She doesn't say all the drunk math out loud, of course, so it's a bit of a mystery.

"I play to what's expected of me." Carver adds little more to that. Which, considering how much the guy seems to love the sound of his own voice? Hm.

"One of them starts fires so he can feel useful, two of them really want to date each other but find it awkward with the whole 'wife' situation, and one still falls asleep every night picturing that old car wreck. There." The man pats around his pockets for his usual beaten-up packet of smokes. "You're all caught up. I'll leave it to you to figure out who's who." It's not to light one, or even take them out. Just to make sure they're there. The movement ends up with him rubbing his right thigh for a moment or two. He shifted awkwardly. It woke something up.

The drinks are finished, she wants food. He's rubbing his thigh. A perfect end cap. "Then go home, Sutton. Eat cheese in your underwear in front of an open fridge door, bathed only in the tiny light from within." If he was an actor, Carver would be throwing a hand across his chest right now. "It's your god-given right as an American." A beat. Two. An appraising little look. He's not entirely sure where the underwear part came from either. But, really, it makes sense, right? "You sober enough to get yourself a ride?"

"Do you always play to what's expected of you? Or do you say that because it makes it easier to avoid any entanglements with lasting ties?" Sutton thinks for a moment after all that comes out of her mouth, and she frowns at her third glass of wine, which is basically gone. Where did it go. Where has the wine gone? She glances down at the glass, then sets it aside.

The brunette is quiet for a long moment, just looking at Carver when he spews some secrets that may or may not belong to the firehouse. She squints at him. "Yeah, well, there's one of those in every house," she finally says, though the look in her eyes suggests she believes there are at least two truths there. She doesn't look at Carver for a long moment, instead fishing one of the now-cold corndog bites from the basket. She turns to glance over at the tourist, still staring, and says, "EYES ON YOUR OWN TABLE, ASS!" And then she wings the food nugget at the dude. Three glasses of wine down, and she has less control of her physical responses than she ought. It bonks right off his forehead. She almost slides off her stool backwards and halfway into Carver's lap before she grabs the table and stands.

As to the sobriety question, she says, "Probably not, but that never stopped me before." Seems accurate, given she just winged a piece of food at a stranger with a staring problem. While the midwesterner is gasping indignantly and trying to plot a no-doubt managerially inclined rejoinder, she says, "I'm getting a Lyft to the diner before I go home. Grilled sandwich time. You coming?" She's remarkably steady on her feet as she heads for the door, considering. Her phone's slid out of her pocket and she tappy-taps through to the app to summon a car.

"Always, love." Carver is nothing if not an archetype, and knows how to play to it. "Unless someone's used to it, then things can get a little more... murky." The murky comes with a waggle of his hand. It's more of a see-saw motion, but he's more than a few pints in and simple gestures are a little bit on the tough side.

Sleight of hand? Piss easy when absolutely sloshed. But he's not trying to be sleighty. And don't underestimate Carver. He's fully latching on to that little look in his drinking partner's eyes as she considers the firehouse rumors. Sure, they were all absolute guesses and vagaries, but there's a little twitch of satisfaction when some seem to hit home. The lack of eye-contact means he's going for his own mini corn dog when she does. Except, y'know, his goes in his mouth.

And then comes right back out as she hucks her own towards a tourist. It's spat out sideways like someone gave him a heimlich, his palm pressing her shoulder to make sure she at least ends up upright. Which is also what he moves to do, quickly. He's a very chill man, our Alistair Carver, but he knows how to make a hastiy...ish exit. "Bloody right I'm coming. I need someone to point to and go 'She Did It!'"

"Oh, come on, man. Don't narc me out." Sutton scuttles through the door to the bar, laughing as she goes. "You wouldn't, would you?" She turns, nearly stumbles over an uneven spot that's either in the floor or in her mind. "That's utter bull crap." There are moments when any hint of an accent flies, and this is one of those times. That is to say purely American. It's a little disconcerting to some, no doubt. She doesn't even notice anymore.

"Ride should be here in four minutes. I love this app. It's everything that's right with the world of never gonna buy a car." Sutton glances over to be sure Carver's actually back there following. She lifts a hand to wave to the bartender on her way by. He may or may not notice. She's not looking to see, making a beeline for the front door, and jostling a few people on her way. When did it get so busy in here? "Of the two of us, no one's going to believe it was me."

"I'm aghast you'd even think of me doing such a thing." Fancy words do not fit Carver's accent at all. Wrong kind of Brit, right there. He's walking relatively straight and true, rocking the content smile of someone who is three sheets and possibly a functioning alcoholic. Basically, he'll be fine until the ground starts moving on him. Like the bastard it is.

"I remember when I was a kid I was told not to talk to strangers on the internet." Kid, sixteen, same difference. "And don't get in cars of people I don't know. And now there's a woman in front of me in shorts getting a stranger from the internet to pick her up in a car. " Oh, yeah, he's following. And doesn't seem all that bothered by the absolute destruction of the rules of his youth. She's like an icebreaker for his egress, after all. "You'd think that. But I can be convincing, sometimes."

"That is because Stranger Danger is a lie," Sutton replies, not the least bit put off by this story of days or yore internet cautionary tales. She frowns and glances back, shoving her phone into her back pocket again. It barely fits in said pocket, and really anyone could walk by and just take it. She seems unconcerned, and rubs her hands up and down her arms before she says, "I really need to unpack my flannels and hoodies. I should have labeled my boxes. The last one I opened was all -- " She glances back, then closes her mouth. He doesn't need to know what was in the box she opened.

"Nevermind. Not hoodies and flannels." Sutton thinks for a moment, then says, "Glassware. Who needs that right now? Not. Me." She pushes out the front door, down a couple steps and crosses her arms, standing near the lot outside and waiting for her specified car to arrive. She's silent for a couple of beats before she says, "I can cry on command. Do you know how much a crying girl freaks people out? No one's going to think it was me."

Carver seems to take her conclusion in stride, watching for a moment too long where that phone ends up. It's fine, though, nobody's paying attention to him, after all. "Cutlery and kitchenware, right?" That's gotta be what was in the box. He seems to believe it, anyway. There's not even a wink.

Just.

It takes him a few moments longer than Sutton to appear through the door, so she's down by the bottom of the steps before he emerges, his coat slung over an arm, shoes giving a soft but distinct tapping as he jaunts down the steps. Risky, considering his drinking, but there's no major collisions at the bottom, so it'll go into the win column. "Man." Glassware. There's a cross of disappointment and 'Eh, could have been more wrong' on his face for a moment, watching around in a most-casual of fashions, pointedly ignoring that he's holding an unused coat and she's looking a little cold. "So can I. And I do pathetic like no other. God, pet, I have honed pathetic."

"Uhh.. huh." Sutton agree, at length, shooting a sideways glance at Carver. "A gravy boat a shit." There's little chance she owns a gravy boat. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, glances the the readout and says, "It's a black Escalade." She may be a little cold, but she's definitely not going to ask for his unused coat. It's a perfect match, really.

Sutton snorts and says, "I can believe that. You and the honing. I already barely trust you as far as I can throw you, which isn't very far, in case you were wondering. I don't think you're murderous, though, so that's a plus." She licks her lips briefly, then asks, "Do you have any gum?" Perhaps she's aware she's talking too much. Sutton reaches up and gathers her hair back from her face, combing her fingers through it. "I think that might be our ride." She watches a high pair of headlights bounces into the lot as a high-sitting vehicle turns in, half hopping the curb. Bodes well for the ride.

"Nothing good ever came from getting in a black Escalade." Carver ponders, quietly, mostly to himself. Loud enough for Sutton to clearly hear. Because, y'know, drinking. His 'quiet' right now is everyone else's conversational volume. The coat on his arm is shifted for a moment as he turns to watch out for any signs of the vehicle. Yeah, the coat's just mocking them both at this point.

"Aw, you don't think I killed my wife and have a mistress? That's sweet." Really, he's touched. Hand on heart. "I barely remember how that rumour started, but there were two elderly women out in front of the library talking about the Brit tourist on the run from the cops this morning." At least the slightly rambling anecdote comes with the offering of a shiny silver wrapper. That contains gum. It probably came from the coat. It covers the wince he throws in the direction of the headlights pretty well. "Oh good. I hate comfortable suspension."

Sutton watches the vehicle as it rolls toward them, then turns to pull alongside. She glances over at Carver and nods. "Yeah, I know, but at least if this one runs off the road, we have a decent chance of surviving any tree strikes." That's how she evaluates her Lyfts now, ever since leaving the other bar the last time they drank together.

There's a smile when Sutton says, "I wouldn't ever peg you for married, so no. I don't think you killed your wife or your mistress." She reaches over to take the gum, unwrapping it before she pops it into her mouth. She doesn't even sniff it first, or check it for an expiration date. She's a trusting soul this evening. "Did you run from the cops this morning, or was that more of a general fugitive status rather than active run away?" She moves up to the window to flash her phone, prove her reservation, then speaks briefly about the diner, gives the street crossing, and pulls open the back door to slip inside. "Hey, it smells nice in here." Definite change from her last two ride. "Ordering now, just gonna run in for it then grab a ride to Bayside." She leans in and says something else to the driver, but it's too quiet to hear.

"Interesting perspective." Carver's tone suggests just that. It's 'Interesting.' No positive or negative connotat-Okay, it actually sounds like he appreciates interesting. The real question is, can he do more damage than a business card?

"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment." He decides, watching Sutton trust him with gum. And that, no hint of a lie, or a bullshittery roll, does actually have him a little touched. It's a weird sensation to the guy, being trusted. No matter how little it is. Or that could be the booze. It's probably the booze. "I never run from the cops, pet. I'm more a fan of the classic saunter. They never pick the guy sauntering to chase." Not true. Oh, how he wishes it were. "Oh, I'm glad." would be his comment on the interior smell. "But less sniff, more shift. How much of a backseat can you really take up?"

It's possible he's a catty drunk, slipping the door closed behind him.

Sutton shifts over with a grunt, "Come on, how much room does one skinny Brit need?" She jostles along the seat and then hops over to the other one. There's really a lot of room back here. He could have gone 'round to open the other door, but noooo. She shifts to cross her legs, a lot of skin against black leather. She uses her phone to place an order with the diner. "What you want to eat? Same as last time? They also have ham and cheese." She squints at the menu and taps around on her phone.

"A saunter will get you farther, generally, yes, but some of them are just eagle eyed bastards." Sutton chews away at the gum she was offered earlier, glancing over to Carver. "You split some fries with me?" She reaches over to touch his shoulder. "Wait, do they have chocolate cake? We're having cake too." The escalade pulls away from the bar, the driver only glancing at them in the rear view briefly, once. So far, so good!

"More than you were offering." Sure, Carver could have opened up the other door, but the vehicle is American big, and he didn't feel like walking into a different area code just to open a bloody door. He's no skin against black leather as he settles in, all previous internal bitching about Americans and their cars fading as soon as he's sinking in to the seat. "I think I could get away with just splitting the fries. And maybe some toast." Oh! Apparently he's eaten today. Must have raided a dumpster.

His eyes glance over when there's a hand on his shoulder, confused for a brief moment before realizing it's more to do with the hope of chocolate cake. Confusion is replaced with understanding. And possibly a touch of sass. "We're having cake. Yes." He agrees with a smile. "If I pushed you across this seat, you'd squeak so much." Drunk is a solid minus two to his wits, right? Right.

"Sometimes you have to ask for the space you need. Does no one teach you anything in England? Is it all just stiff upper lip and don't inconvenience anyone?" Sutton recrosses her legs and sinks into the embrace of the ridiculously posh seat, leather nice and warm. She flicks the seat warmer onto high and enjoys the radiant heat on her lower back too. "This almost make me rethink my no cars rule." Purchasing, that is. She rests her phone on her thigh, hand over it.

"You better not push me across this seat." Sutton shoots a look over. "My sweaty thighs aren't for your personal entertainment." She starts to pick up her phone again, then shoots a look over. "Forget I mentioned anything about that." She taps a couple more things on the screen. "Order should be ready right about the time we get there." The ride's pretty smooth in this vehicle, and the driver's kind enough to keep it climate controlled and comfortable. No obnoxious music, either.

"Yes." Sutton nailed it in one. "Which I usually don't adhere to at all." Carver continues, brushing a piece of fluff from a pants leg and settling even further into the seat. Seriously, what do they make these out of? "However, I'm trying to stay on your good side. Or get on it. Generally..." There's that hand gesture of vague thought escaping him again as he turns his head to watch her get comfortable. "linger? I think linger works."

"I'm not going to push you across the seat, Sutton." He's being shot a look, and so responds with a roll of the eyes, brushing away an itch from his chin now that his pants are fluff-less. "As much as I'm sure I'd be entertained by your sweaty thighs, I know you've done yourself a mischief lately and I'm not entirely sure of what. Last thing I need is a driver being a witness to an accidental bodily harm."

The 'Again' is basically unspoken but accepted at this point, right? Right.

"And I will never forget. Memory like a steel trap." Ignore that plenty of those designs have holes in them. Thanks!

"It's fine. You can be reprogrammed. You're in America now. You can't just ... let other people dictate your standing." Sutton talks a good game, but she's just as drunk (perhaps more?) and in the back of a Lyft headed to a diner just the same as Carver. The roads wheels by outside, some stands of trees between houses. Why is it the shadows always seem darker between trees than anywhere else?

"You'd have to actively be obnoxious to slide onto my bad side." Sutton waves a hand dismissively. "I don't know why it matters, save I have the largest first aid kit this side of an actual ambulance. I don't know why, but I have this feeling..." She glances over. "You might need that in your life. Maybe it's the sawmill thing." Truth be told, it's other things, like that she's 88% sure he's living rough.

"Stop saying sweaty thighs." The brunette grunts and follows up with, "It's my back, which is on the mend, but I have to be careful not to irritate it again in the next couple of weeks. I have to do all these annoying strengthening exercises." She fiddles with her phone, then sits forward to jam it into her back pocket, sitting back shortly after. "It'll probably be fine, but if it's not, I might have to consider surgery. And then I'll be looking for a new career. Just never look at web MD when you have a problem. Everything's dire."

"That's a sentence I never want to hear again. The first part, I mean." Carver throws another piece of gum from somewhere into his mouth without a single thought put in to it. There was barely even the sound of a wrapper being undone beforehand. And even though she didn't say it out loud, he's well aware the shadows are darker between the trees because that's where all the things that suck in light await them. He points this out by chewing. Thoughtfully.

"I'll put you on retainer. Although I've been real good lately." Drunk. Hungover. Sober. Doesn't matter, Carver does casual like most folks do breathing. "Only fell through a roof, bounced off of a wall and careened off of a tree and down a hill this week." It should probably worry people that he actually looks proud about this. Like he did a good job.

"Sweaty thighs." He sniffs. "And I'm sorry. Back pain is always a pain in the..." He squints, the end of the sentence running away from him as he realizes how obvious every single joke he could make would be. At least she's distracting him with talk of Web MD and certain movements. "So you sit with a phone in your back pocket. That fucks up your posture, you know." Chew. "How many times has your phone had the words 'It's Arse Cancer' pop up while you've been 3AM diagnosing?"

When they finally pull into the diner lot, once again bouncing over the curb, because apparently this driver is excellent at everything but fine depth perception, there's a chill in the air that indicates it might actually rain again. "If I leave you here for the two minutes it's going to take me to scoop up the take away, do you think you can refrain from making up any ridiculously unflattering stories about me?" She leans on the arm rest of her seat, and eyes Carver for a long moment. "You can try, right?"

"You shouldn't fall through things or bounce off things. You're asking for major trauma. Major trauma is fun for no one. Major trauma leads to large amounts of very potent drugs and internal bleeding, which can kill you before anyone realizes you're dead." Sutton slides out of the Escalade on that sentence. "My posture's fine, mom." She closes the door with a thud, but helpfully shouts from outside, "It's not arse cancer!" The shout is loud enough that several people headed into the diner turn full around to look at her.

"What? It's not." That's less loud, but still not quiet. And she's off, headed for the diner doors to go inside, fetch several bags, and pay. She'll be back in a couple minutes.

The driver's seat leather creaks, and there's a moment before he turns to say to Carver, "She seems nice."

"Cross my heart and hope to die, love. I'll tell him nothing but the God's honest truth." Carver throws back in a soft whisper, shifting slightly in his seat to adjust a few pieces of clothing after the brief affair with a curb. Look, he's not even looking smug about it. That totally means he's telling the truth.

"You said potent drugs. I'm in." See? Carver's in for falling through things. He's also in for a hangover, and not entirely paying attention to long sentences right now, but at least he's honing in on the important words leaving Sutton's mouth. Like 'Drugs' 'Kill you' 'Mom' and 'Arse Cancer'. You know, all the stuff he needs to hear, and meets with a slightly tight-lipped nod. That goes on a little too long.

Much to what would be Sutton's horror, he greets the Driver's words with a smile, and begins to talk.