2019-05-29 - Restless

Down the hall, a muffled whoosh of a shower turning on sounds.

"Believe me..." Carver's eyes move to look at the door to the bathroom before they even think to alight on the ghost perching on the arm of the couch. "If that's the outcome I was hoping for, I would've brought a bottle."

His glance lingers on the man's face for a moment, before drifting down to eye up the badge that clips to Elias' hip. The corner of his mouth breaks, just for a moment, into a full-blown smirk. It fades when his hand pats at an otherwise empty pocket of his waistcoat, the only noise coming from the motion being the soft crunch and scrape of fractured glass on metal. That throws his concentration off, summoning both an "Aw, for fuck's sake." and the man leaving the couch to head over to where his coat was hung up at the start of the evening. "How long've you been hanging around, then?"

Something is far, far too casual about this.

"Eh So-So." Carver replies, eyes glancing out to one side at the unconcious movement of hand to hip made by his new conversation partner, and immediately rolling his eyes when the meaning of it hits home. It doesn't take long, and he's patting down the pockets to find a pack of smokes when he adds a disappointed sigh. "I love how that always seems to be the cop go-to." He mutters, rolling the pack over his hand and heading for that open door towards the balcony, grinning when there's a cigarette placed firmly between his teeth.

"Months, huh?" He seems more entertained by the conversation than anything else. "That's gotta be frustrating, right?" What? You expect Carver to answer a guy with a badge's questions just because they happen to be a dead guy with a badge? C'mon.

Stepping on to the balcony, Carver reaches in to his pants pocket for a dulled bronze lighter. Leaning his forearm on the balcony railing and letting his eyes close in an appreciation of both nicotine and the breeze, he allows the dead man's stare to wash past him like a low tide. But Elias doesn't seem content to shut up, so he's turned to lean both elbows and lower back against the railing in time to catch the smirk. It actually draws a laugh. Not like, a guffaw, but there's some appreciation summoned in the short noise.

"Mate, I hate you tell you, but you're not your sister's keeper any more." The cigarette hands between two fingers as he waves a hand, an idle gesture to go with the words. "Although I've a feeling you'd argue about who earned that title more. Point is, neither am I. What make you think I'd stand a better chance than you?" Sutton the Sister probably hasn't had to deal with Carver at quite this level of infuriating. Yet, anyway.

"Mate, you might know your sister from top to bottom-" Carver's grin settles around the re-seated cigarette, not even having time to waft smoke from the lit end before the wind sends the stream of gray flying off behind the man. His hands turn palm up, still lower-rib height as those elbows lean on the railing. "But I can already tell she'd be more than content to ignore me. Most do. It's a life-skill."

And then the grin fades. It's only for a moment, eyes watching the ghost with a level of intensity that seems a little suprising for a guy that lives off of the definition of 'scatter-brained' and 'chill', as far as the other sibling may be concerned. "Why. Why leave here? It was her choice to come here, weren't it?"

"Not even a little, but I'm honest to myself about that." One of Carver's hands scratches at his rib as the Brit sniffs dismissively, actually breaking eye contact for a moment to take in the view from the balcony. Well, the side of a balcony. He's not turning around just yet.

And the home comment? That comment breaks his focus completely, summoning a barked laugh that not only can the living Sutton probably hear, but most of the neighbors will be complaining about tomorrow. "Mate. Mate. Ain't you ever heard that home is where the heart is? And believe me, I'm right at home wherever I happen to end up." Just because you can see ghosts, Carver seems to truly believe you don't have to be nice to them. Look, even his eyes narrow when Elias mentions throwing an idea at the woman currently ignoring all of this in a shower. "She just got here, mate. By the looks of things. And you want me to... what? Tell her to up sticks and fuck off because her brother's got his underwear in a knot?"

In the master bedroom in back, the main bath's shower cuts off. It becomes apparent, some moments later, that there is in fact some singing coming from down the hall. It's loud enough to be heard, but partially muffled by at least two doors.

~ And nobody does it better ~
~ Though sometimes I wish someone could ~
~ Nobody does it quite the way you do ~
~ Why'd you have to be so good? ~

So, yes. Sutton does sing Carly Simon at the top of her lungs in the shower.

"Look. Don't take this personally or nothing, but-" Carver, like the asshole he is, throws the cigarette off the side of the balcony before stepping back in through the doorway. "That's her decision to make. Just like it was her decision to stay there and hold your hand while you fucking died." There's no anger behind his works. There's not even a sense of probing. It's just... blunt.

Which breaks when he hears the sound of singing coming from the shower. And takes the chance to pour himself another small drink. Well, it's most of the glass, but that totally counts as small sometimes, right? The ducking of his head to do it helps, too. It hides the smile. "She didn't get a choice in what you decided to do. Why should you get a say in hers?"

Okay, that sounded a little pissed.

It's easy to track Sutton's progress through the apartment, much to the neighbors' dismay, probably, because the loud singing progresses toward the end of the song and gets slightly louder as she moves out of the master bath. One less door between them:

~ Whenever you hold me ~
~ There's some kind of magic inside you ~

A drawer thumps shut.

~ That keeps me from runnin' ~
~ But just keep it comin' ~

The song approaches the bedroom door that leads into the hall, so the very last line is quite loud:

~ How'd you learn to do the things you do? ~

"No, her business was yours. You don't get a say in that shit any more. You don't get to wreck someone's life and then saunter back on in like nothing ever fucking happened." It almost looks like Carver's going to light up another cigarette there and then, but instead he turns the hand twitch into an unbuttoning of his waistcoat, the sound of glass still crinkling within one of those pockets as he moves to tuck it over the already-hung coat. "And I don't think she's been okay for a while, you colossal fucknugget." And that came from a successful composure roll!

But hey, The living Sutton is reaching the end of her song, the volume raising as she approaches the door. Carver does the same in return, bringing his drink with him as he lingers in that corridor.

"You know 'Don't Smoke In Bed', Pet?"

Sutton slips out of her bedroom and wanders down the hall in an old SFD tee and a pair of soft cotton sleep shorts. She has her hair wrapped up in a towel, and is completely unaware of the conversation going on out here, though she may have heard part of something Carver said. Likely not, what with the singing. "Hey, what? Oh, Nina? Yeah, 'course I do, but it's really better with a piano. God, her voice."

She cut the song off shy of the last chorus where it really would have gotten louder. Probably in deference to Carver's not needing to know how loudly she sings. Although... well. He clearly got a taste through the door.

~ Take care of everything ~
~ I'm leaving my wedding ring ~
~ Don't look for me ~

She picks up in the middle, drawing those lines out low and slow. She stops just shy of a full verse, though, "I always wondered what she meant by I'll get a hand. Sounds a little dirty, if you ask me." Sutton pauses at the end of the hall where Carver lingers, and rests her hands at the small of her back. "I came out to put the cake away, but then I remembered the stand is probably in one of the huge pile of boxes." The huge pile of boxes taking up most of one corner of the room, which she clearly has yet to unpack.

Carver doesn't sing. It's really for the best that his reaction to her rolling on out of that door is one that takes him a few seconds to hide, completely ruining his notion to start joining in when she gets going on the Nina.

It's surprise. Just surprise. Get your heads out of the gutter.

Hey eyes drift over from the bottom of her chin to the pictures that line the wall when she sings, taking the time to loosen his tie a little more, pulling it up and over his head just in time to nearly get it caught as he laughs at the talk of hands. "Oh, of course it was. '97? Slap that innuendo in there." His bright expression might be a little at odds with her hands-at-her-back stance, but her posture doesn't stop him from stepping back and out of the way, just about resisting the urge to drape a tie over her head as he does so. "We've got plates. Throw it in the fridge and call it a night."

He doesn't comment on the boxes. He found tact from somewhere.

"Nina makes just about everything sound like sex, though. Slow it down and soul it up." Sutton smiles a bit at Carver, then follows his gaze to the myriad of photos she spent the last week hanging, a few every night. They line the walls hung salon style, clustered up loosely by age. She mhms. "Can't help but notice you're disrobing. You know, I could sing you a little beat and you could just do it really slow. See if we can get you a weekend gig at -- surely this town has a male revue." She doesn't comment on the we've got plates. Maybe she didn't notice that proprietary language.

"Right, but if I put it in the fridge, then it has to come out an hour in advance of eating it again so it warms back up to room temperature." Sutton considers that like it's a serious matter. "I guess it'll have to do." She reaches over to touch his shoulder. "Come on, you can drop the plates in the dishwasher. I'll clear up the rest." There's a pause before she asks, "You ok? You seem..."

"I feel a little bad." Carver admits, returning a smile that's in absolute defiance of his words as he leans in to check one particular photo a little more closely for a second. "I never really listened to her until my 30's." It's like he's spooling around an idea in his head and needed something to hide the reason for a slight pondering expression on his face. But then he's being mhm'd at. "I've already taken my tie off, pet. That's like, the most sexy part when someone's a few glasses of whiskey in." Oh shit, he has his whiskey with him! Fantastic. It's sipped. "Are they gonna pull it off all heated like, or is there gonna be some accidental asphyxiation. Only the fates will decide!" There's a quick eye narrow. Just a quick one.

It comes with a dawning smile and a slight carnival barker tone to his voice. "But you can find out, tonight only, at Slow It Down And Soul It Up!." .... ... ... "Nah. That'd be a terrible name for a revue. Around here it'd probably be 'Lumber Jacks.'"

As if to escape his slowly dawning embarrassment at his inability to name clubs, his hand comes up to pat her s when it touches his shoulder. "There are worse things to happen to a cake than having to de-coldify." And then he's turning to go get those plates. Still smiling, even! "I seem what?" There's no turning around.

Sutton glances over her shoulder, but keeps walking across the living area. There shouldn't be any obstruction unless he's moved her furniture around. "Nina comes to you when you need her the most." Her shoulders shake with her snorted little chuckle. "Asphyxia is incredibly sexy. Don't knock it till you've tried it." The funny thing about that is it's very hard to say for sure she's kidding. She just has that kind of delivery. Probably learned it from her mother.

"Try to avoid jacking in a title." Sutton murmurs, bending to sweep up the cake and cake knife. "Kills all the mystery. Will they, won't they."

"You seem like your mind's turning over something you don't want to say to me. Probably has nothing to do with me. I should probably not bring it up, because it's hardly polite to be so nosy." She carries the cake on into the kitchen, putting it down on the counter next to the fridge. She turns to face Carver. "I can't help it. Most of my day, the first thing I ask people is do you have any medical conditions, allergies, and are you on any medication. All I do is invade. Professionally." She pauses, "I mean usually, before all this dispatching, where mainly I say 'I copy' about eight thousand times in a single shift." She opens the fridge and stows the cake.

Sutton grabs the cake. Carver grabs the plates. That's teamwork, right there. "Used to know someone who'd never get that the point wasn't to try and crush my windpipe." he casually throws out when he's scooping them up, stacking the forks on top and holding them in place with a thumb as he gives a short quick nod in her direction at her title criticisms. "I gotta wonder, do people really go places like that for mystery?"

Says the guy who didn't even look at her bending. That's either a sheltered mind, or one who well and truly knows the answer.

"My mind, Love? My mind is usually a whirlpool of white noise, the sound of a washing machine out of balance, and dogs barking three blocks down the road. I promise you, if there was something I wanted to say to you, I'd have said it." He follows her to the kitchen as they talk, flipping two fingers to nobody in particular as he walks behind, then scraping off any overly large pieces of cake residue into the wastebi---His mouth. With a thumb. Then there's some rinsing before he hands the plates over. You don't fuck with a stranger's dishwasher, for they are often esoteric and confusing.

"You're just being you. Not nosy. Nothing wrong with that." He offers with a little smile and a larger shrug. There's even a pat to her arm. Look, physical contact that she didn't initiate! He is feeling better. "And for what it's worth, no, no, and no. Although my eyes sometimes hurt around cats. That's an allergy, right?"

"I'm glad that's a 'used to know'. Crushing your windpipe is not sexy." Sutton clearly has her priorities in order. She hip-checks the fridge closed. "There's always someone taking it too damn far."

She takes the plates one by one, sliding them into the bottom rack of her dishwasher. "I'm going to treat that as a rhetorical question." In regards to mystery and strip clubs, she says, "I think we both know the answer." Sutton leans against the counter, crossing her arms loosely. She rests the ball of one foot atop the other. When he says he'd say something if he had it in mind, she replies simply: "Fair."

"Being me is nosy AF." Sutton tells him, like this is a revelation. "But thank you for saying. That was kinda sweet." She smiles again as he rattles off his answers to her standard questions. "That's good to know. Means if you have a medical emergency, I don't have to waste a bunch of time -- wait, do you use drugs recreationally? While we're on the subject, I figured should ask."

"It usually gets pretty chilly at night out here, so you might want to close the sliding door before you settle down, if you meant it about sleeping on the couch." Sutton just couldn't let it go without mothering him a little bit.

"Or not knowing how to grip properly." Carver had his in order too, it seems. What with the 'used to' and all that. Plates handed over, he leans his back up against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest to very impolitely just watch her tidy. Like a monster.

"I can be sweet sometimes." There's a little nonchalant shrug, and a pointed look towards one of the cupboards for no other reason than trying and failing to hide a smirk. "I mean, it takes a while, and I've got to like the person, but..." Hands turn up. Double shrug. "It happens." And then there's a beat about the recreational use of drugs. Y'know, casual kitchen chatter, there. "If you're asking if I've got eighteen grams of methamphetamine running through me right now... no. Weed? Sometimes. Helps turn the white noise in my head down sometimes." He is a pretty chill seeming guy. It's a fair question. And assumption.

And then he's glancing to the door when she calls it out, throwing out a casual as fuck "Yeah, I might well do. And the couch is fine." His head turns back, smile in place, thumbs up. "Guest beds always feel a little... weird. And I figure you've not had enough to drink to ask for company in yours."

"Yeah, I figured it was within your ability to be sweet. You know you have that English charm working for you." Sutton eyes him with those brown-leaning hazel eyes of hers. "It's what makes you dangerous, love." She twitches a bit of a smile at that, the corners of her mouth turning up. "Don't think I don't know this about you."

"I'm going to finish that last glass of wine." There is still a bit of red wine left in the decanter, and it might actually be about a glass. Hard to say, without a practiced eye. She's pretty practiced, though. "I smoke a little now and then, but it's difficult considering my profession. Meth would be a deal-breaker. So it's good you're not carrying a fuck-load of it in your coat." Yes, a fuck-load is a measure.

Sutton wanders back to the living area, and bends to sweep up the delicate glass swan, tipping it out into the wine glass. There's quite a lot of wine there, probably more like a glass and a half. Funny that she goes to do that after he makes a comment about company in her bed, and not being drunk enough to ask for it. "If you fancy a cuddle, all you have to do is knock. I'm not going to take you to my bed to test your endurance tonight, no. Though I wouldn't have to be drunk for that either." She looks at him a bit oddly at the suggestion she might need altering.

"I'd like to say a lot of things make me dangerous-" Carver muses, pursing his lips up a little in an attempt to actual hide the smile that soon follows. At least there was an attempt. "But I'd be lying. I'm an indiot that occasionally falls down hills in a forest, then thinks the next thing he really needs to do is grab food at a diner he's never been to, and meet new people." Oh, look. Casually dropping a little insight into their first meeting for her. He is being sweet.

"Drug tests are a bitch, sometimes." would be the entirety of his opinion on her occasional usage. And the issues with. No mention of fuck-loads of illicit substances in his coat. It might not even be a lie of omission!

And then he's following her to the wine. Well, not completely true. He's following her to the edge of the counter, casually taking a sip of his drink that just so happens to finish it. Does that make it a big sip? Yes. Leaning an elbow to the top as he watches her pour, there's a slight eyebrow at her offer, as well as the slight clarification on words he heard earlier from a completely different source. Interesting. And mentally noted. The twin lies. Or doesn't know his sister as well as he used to. Oooor he underestimated the accent. Never, ever underestimate the accent, Elias. That's a rookie mistake. Whichever it is, Sutton just gets herself a little shrug, a tilt of the head, and then a mild softening of the guy's expression.

And the sound of his hand rapping at the counter.

"You don't have to say it. I'll think it for you." Sutton returns to the kitchen to rinse the decanter, putting her glass down long enough to do so. She turns it out to dry on a rack, balancing it carefully. It'll require a more thorough wash later. Something she's not going to do with a guest watching her. "Diners are a good place to turn up. It's how you connect with people who know a good fry and appreciate the simple things in life. Not a lot of stuck up assholes in a good diner." Not a lot. Some. Sometimes. Nothing's perfect.

Sutton picks up her glass and has a sip, then glances over her shoulder at the rapping. She glances down at the counter, his hand there, then back up to trail her gaze over the line of his upper body. "Oh, really? Well, come on then." She exits the kitchen again, this time headed toward the hallway. "Kick off whatever you don't want to sleep in." That's an oddly open-ended statement, and could lead to an awkward moment in a few, when she actually turns around after walking into her bedroom. "Oh, if you still want a shower, I put out some towels."

Carver would totally respond to the points of her assumptions about how dangerous he can be, or how great diners are for meeting new people. He'd totally do that if he wasn't preoccupied with the knowledge that he's going to knock on the counter. It's that little sense of childish amusement that would totally ruin any mystique he might ever have if it broke through to his face.

So naturally once she's started for the hallway, it breaks through to his face.

The 'Kick off whatever you don't want to sleep in.' only makes things so much worse. and his face creases slightly. And then a bit more. And then he laughs. He just breaks into a laugh, long and rolling that has him wiping away a few tears from his eyes.

"I'm... god. God I'm so sorry. I just imagined being full balls-out when you turned around just there." He takes a moment to try and remember how to breathe, hands pressing against his thighs as he leans forward in deep, long breaths that seem to have a tinge of a wheeze to them. "I... I should.." A hand comes up to wave a finger of 'you made a good point, I just need a minute.' "...have that shower. Yeah."

This guy is fucking smooth.

And he can't help it. He can't help the soft "Swinging back and forth like fucking conkers." after a beat of silence that sends him into a whole new bout of giggles.

To her credit, Sutton makes it about halfway down the hall before she has to stop walking. She's about to turn when he makes the comment about being full balls out when she turned around. She snorts and it's ill-timed. Maybe a little dribble of wine there, it's fine. She pats her shirt and lowers the glass, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. "You know." She clears her throat. "That has happened to me before." She pauses, then catches sight of his face. "Are you crying right now?" She's about to push into her bedroom with one hand when he adds the last. He had to add the last.

"Oh fucking hell." Sutton laughs and shoves her bedroom door open, striding inside. Has the offer been rescinded? There's a fair to middling chance of that. "Oh my god. I can't get that image out of my mind." Must drink more. Surely, that'll help.

Some moments later. "Fuck." Nope, still there.

"I..." Carver actually coughs a little, nearly knocked off course once more when that curse leaves the bedroom door. He actually has to put a hand on the counter again to pull himself upright, still breathing a little awkwardly with the occasional bout of wheezy laughing every couple of seconds until there's finally a low, soft "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew." that escapes. At least he had the sense of mind to fill up that empty glass with a touch of water from the tap, taking a couple of testing sips before it's downed. He didn't want to risk laughing whiskey all over the wall, after all.

It's only a touch later when he's heading towards the shower that he calls out "I.. am going to shower. Feel free to yell fuck off when I knock!"

And if she doesn't? He probably wouldn't take any immediately laughter too badly.

There's no reply from within the bedroom. Sutton's probably killing the last of that bottle of wine.

At some point, while Carver's in the shower, she goes to get herself a tall glass of water, and finishes that, too.

Carver's lucky ghosts can't affect the corporeal world, or he'd probably have a fatal slip in the shower right about now.