2019-05-29 - What $20 Brings You

The 5th floor hallway is quiet this time of night. Either everyone's out or everyone's in. Considering it's Saturday, most are probably out. So when a knock comes at the door, it doesn't take Sutton long to wander over and pull it open. "Hey." The lady of the house wears a pair of shorts and a tee, similar to what she wore to the bar the other night. Actually, it might be the same outfit. Yup, blue shorts. Yup, old paint-stained Seattle FD tee.

Sutton leaves the door to hang open, and lets Carver do his own walking inside and closing it. "Come in," she says, her back to him as she turns to head into the kitchen. "Red wine or whiskey?" She already left a pair of white plates on the low, long coffee table in front of a dove-grey couch. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."

Unit 503, Bayside is a bright, spacious apartment is sleekly furnished with modern, brushed steel fixtures and appliances. Blond hardwood floors are newly varnished, and the walls are painted a pure, cool-toned white. Dove-grey upholstered furniture provides a seating nook, with couch, two chairs, and a long, heavy coffee table. A flat screen is mounted on the wall, framed on either side by black and white photos of foggy forests at night, long exposures giving them a dreamlike quality. The living room is lit by recessed lighting and, at night, the large windows facing the ocean provide a beautiful, moonlit view, diaphanous sheers billowing in a slight breeze when the sliding glass door is left cracked open, like tonight.

The evening air is pleasantly warm on this spring night. A few stray clouds dance across an otherwise clear sky, chased by light breezes.

Even once he's reached the door to 503, Carver's still a little reeling. Possibly from the night and day he's had, but really it's largely the fact that the doorman actually let him pass. You know how it is, people say they'll let the staff know you're coming, but then you end up climbing in through a window anyway. At least, that's how it usually goes. The fact he gets to knock? Nigh unbelievable.

It must be to do with the cleaned up suit. Hell, it even looks like the coat's had a wash. He must have found a laundromat.

Or the deep blue box he has tucked under an arm. It's even got a ribbon tied around it, and definitely looks large enough to be holding Cake.

Sutton's outfit isn't given a second glance when she pulls open the door. If she's used to the suit, he's used to the casual shorts by now. Drinks and a little social isolation can do wonders for what you get accustomed to. All that is to say he greets it with the usual easy smile, coming on in when asked, and pulling the door closed behind him before making his way to the couch. Sure, the apartment is given a general once-over, but nothing is really lingered on for too long. Quite possibly because he's aware the Cake is the point, here, and someone might be about to bludgeon him for stealing twenty bucks. "Thanks, Sutton. I wouldn't say no to a whiskey."

The box is carefully placed on the table. His ass is not carefully placed in the couch. He might be a little addled, as it's only after he sits that he begins to take off his coat. "Niiiiice place. Is your wage most of the municipal budget or something?"

Sutton clinks around with glassware in the kitchen for a few moments, while Carver tries to figure out the finer points of removing his coat and sitting, but in backward order. She decants some wine into a tall, long-stemmed glass, and it's a long time before she answers that casual-seeming question rolled out on the end of the sit. "No, my wage with the city is too little for this. I don't really know why I picked this place. The rent's..." she trails off, splashing a generous amount of whiskey into a tumbler. She carries that and her red wine into the living area, which is line of sight from the kitchen. The open floor plan in here is probably why she picked it. Or the view.

The balcony door is open, and every time a breeze blows in off the water, it blows through the curtains and into the interior. "Death benefits pay the rent. I figured If I'm going to mourn, I'm going to do it looking at the ocean. It's fiscally irresponsible, but who cares. Am I right?" She moves to take a seat next to Carver, legs folded under her. She hands him the whiskey, puts down her wine, and rests her forearms on her knees. "You seem... are you okay?" Maybe she's asking because he said thanks, and didn't bust her balls about her liquor supply. She doesn't look at the box or ask after it yet.

Look, if Carver needs to bold up that he's had a long day, he can bold up that he's had a long day. See? And he might be struggling with his coat, but Carver's pulled the damn thing off while crammed into a cupboard before. The couch? That's just baby-town frolics. He only has to grunt twice, and swear once. "Exorbitant?" He finishes her unfinished sentence craning his head around to check on her progress. The cake deliberately, and importantly, goes untouched. "Insane? A mistake? Really good because you got a little chummy chummy with the landlord? Give me something to work with here, Sutton."

Oh good, he's back.

And then she's mentioning a whole bunch of words that have him leaning an arm on the back of his couch, resting his chin on the crook of a lazy elbow and watching her as she comes on back with the drink, shifting over slightly as she sits. Like a gentleman. Thank you. "I'm... Sorry. For what that's worth." Look! He can be tactful! Kinda! He obviously did well, because he's handed whiskey. Whiskey that he drinks. Immediately. It's a good mouthful, swallowed down like he's had nothing to drink since the last time they saw one another. Which is horrifyingly accurate. "I'll live. Ask again after two more glasses."

The smile, still so easy. A bit hollow.

"I mean the fees for this place a pretty much offensive." Sutton leans over to either take his coat, or help him off with it if he hasn't managed to unseat himself from the lower half of it. "Let me take this." She doesn't ask first, which is probably the wrong way to go about your guest, but you know. It happens. "I'm not chummy chummying my landlord. If I'm going to grope anyone in this building, it's the silver fox on one. Or the fine suit-wearing gentlemen down the hall."

"I'm sorry too. Thank you for saying. I'm not..." She stops speaking, watching him throw back his entire glass. There's a moment before she takes a breath and says, "I'll bring the bottle, shall I?"

"Oh, good." Carver places the glass down with his soft smile turning into a spreading grin, shifting himself aside so she can pull the coat out from under him. Tablecloth trick: GO. "I'll fit right in."

Once the coat is freed, and Sutton's done throwing out the list of potentials in the building, Carver seems to consider for a moment. It gives her time to deal with his coat, at least. His thumb brushes his chin, his eyes glance at the ceiling, and then there's a quick glance out of the window. "Which one's the cop?" He asks, finally.

Any awkwardness around his sympathy is dealt with like a true adult. Which is to say the man ignores it, and instead leans forward to undo the ribbon surrounding the cake box. It falls open, four sides, in order, the soft sound of cardboard displacing air against the table.

Holy shit that's at least four kinds of chocolate. "You should bring the wine, too." He finishes, eyes admiring the piece of art. That was way more than twenty bucks, if craftsmanship was included in the price.

Sutton's a little more graceful about it, but she basically does do a tablecloth trick on Carver with his coat. She moves to rise, unfolding her legs before she steps past him to move over and use an actual coat rack on the wall to hang his coat alongside an offensively yellow rain slicker, a chocolate brown flannel, and a fancy black evening coat that doesn't look like it gets a lot of wear. She picks up a knit scarf that falls, rehanging that as well. She pauses after she turns. "What makes you think one of them's a cop?"

She crosses past the table, headed for the kitchen area to fetch both the bottle of whiskey, freshly opened, and the entire swan-shaped decanter of red wine. He has a view of her back for a moment, the faded PARAMEDIC lettering, and the shine of her blonde highlights in the overhead lights. "Already on it." She turns and makes her way back, strides short, owing to her stature, but the apartment's not that big. She tucks in on her side of the touch after thumping the whiskey bottle down on his side of the table. "Oh, nice." Her gaze finally finds the cake. "If that cake tastes as good as it looks, you earned yourself a whole bottle of whiskey." NO PRESSURE.

And the flowers are still standing!

Carver's not, though. He's sat. Which, really, considering he could have been sprawled sideways along the couch by an over-eager hauling of his coat... Not the worst outcome. He's even got the wherewithal to pull his legs in slightly as she moves past to hang up his coat. Not entirely necessary, but apparently the guy is all about that social politeness tonight. Is that unsettling? It feels slightly like it should be unsettling.

When she turns, it's blatantly obvious that he was staring out of the window. That is to say, he's still doing it when she looks his way, only shaking his head a little to clear away some thought or another when her question reaches his ears. It even takes him a moment to actually digest what she said, the look of confusion completely clear on his face for half a second or so, hands resting down on his legs and fingers digging in around his knees in something of an attempt to remember where he is. "Oh! Right. You're a paramedic." As if it's simple as that. "One of them is always a cop."

And the next thing he knows is there's a bottle coming down by him. His eyes were out the window again. The noise of it snaps him back, the man not touching the bottle, and instead settling on tucking his legs up a little underneath him as he settles into the couch, turning slightly her way and throwing a glance to the complimented cake. "Yeah, I uh... I owed you. For disappearing. Something came up." Distracted? Check. Kind of non-committal? Check. Being a terrible house guest? Oh, fucking nailing it.

Sutton settles down on the couch again, pulling her legs up to sit with them pulled up on the couch with her. She shows off a lot of nicely muscled leg, which suggests she may be a runner when she's not sitting around drinking a bunch of wine and healing from some nonspecific injury to her person. She watches him watch the curtains billow in the breeze, almost introspective. That's definitely out of character to his usual. "That's definitely an offensive generalization," Sutton replies. One of them's always a cop, indeed.

"Silver fox." Sutton says that simply, without a smirk, still watching Carver. She leans across the table to pick up the bottle, and splash another couple of fingers of whiskey into his glass. She puts the bottle down again. When she leans back, she pauses halfway and touches the man's shoulder. "Hey." Her voice is soft. "Do you want to talk or do you want to drink?" She smells like spiced black tea and coconut soap. "We can do both. Do you want some cake, love?"

"I fucking knew it." Carver's smile seems a little brighter when she calls out the silver fox, even though his lightening expression meets her simple, smirk-less face. He doesn't care. There's even a touch of his eyes creasing from the rising corners of his mouth. Carver needed a win. Didn't matter how small it was.

His hand reaches out for the glass, leaning forward to grasp it and rest the base of it on his thigh. It's almost like just knowing it's close is enough for the moment, a thumb running back and forth over the rim as his head lowers to watch the slowly rolling liquid when her voice softens. Have you ever seen a con-artist unable to make eye contact with someone? 'Pathetic' probably doesn't quite cut it. "I..."

The words don't so much catch in his throat as they just... fade. There's a beat, a deep, deep exhale, and then his eyes are looking to the hand on his shoulder, and then Sutton's face. It's a sigh for the ages as he sinks back into the couch a little more. "You ever know someone who could needle all your weak spots like it was nothing? All your uncertainties. All your shortcomings. They could pluck them out with a set of tweezers like it was nothing?" That's probably a long way of saying 'Both.'

"Yes," Sutton says. "Yes, apparently I like fit older men. Not crazy about the cop-tude or the stress levels or the lower life expectancy." She leans against the back of the couch, staying tipped in a little closer than she was before. She reaches for her wine glass, but doesn't violate the cake just yet. She rests an elbow against the cushions, her hand slipping free of his shoulder, but resting against the couch nearby.

When he won't make eye contact, she watches him still, but doesn't say anything about it. She gives him the time to choose his words there. The chance to say no, or yes, or something else.

"Yeah." She pauses, then repeats, "Yes." There's a quiet moment when she takes a drink of her wine, tipping the glass and taking a drink. Just a taste, really. She's not throwing it back like the other night, like there was a prize at the bottom of the glass. "There aren't many people with the ability to do something like that. For me, my Dad's mom. She was a horror, and she never liked me. Loved my brother, though." She rests the glass against her thigh, fingers curled under the curve of the glass. "I was rarely alone with her, but when I was..." She shakes her head and lifts her wine glass again.

"Who doesn't?" Hey, Carver knows when to appreciate too, after all. Or, at the very least, it's meant to come off as a comforting platitude from a guy that hasn't once in his life met a cop he'd trust to hold his wallet. When Sutton's hand leaves his shoulder, the soft smile's settled back in place, bringing up his glass to take a softer drink now. Much more social as his eyes watch her do the same. They're both experts at pulling off talking and drinking, it would seem. Give him six more glasses, watch as he tries to do both at once.

But that's definitely for later. For now, he's just watching her face as she tells about family. For a guy that bullshits a good eighty-seven percent of the time, it can still be a little surprising what just a glimmer of honesty can get you in return. His drink never quite reaches his thigh again, his thumb tucking in underneath it to worry against the glass; an almost unconscious habit.

"I can guess." There's the sound of a fingernail 'ting'ing off of the glass when Sutton pulls to a stop. Well, of the talking. Drinking is A-OK. "I can't imagine-" Carver clarifies with a casual tap from the back of his hand against her knee, actually content to make something approaching eye contact when she's done drinking. "But I can guess. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come in to your place and dragged this shit with me." And honestly? He does seem apologetic. Or maybe just disappointed. Or both. It's a good night for both. "Cake?"

That sounds hopeful, though.

"Oh, stop. I could have ignored your face. I could have said here's some liquor, bitch, gimme cake." Sutton leans forward to put her wine glass down, bending over the coffee table to slide the cake closer. She picks up a long, wide cake knife. She would have a cake knife. She pulls it cleanly through the cake, sliding it out again before she turns the cake slightly and cuts it again. "Big piece or small piece?" She licks frosting off her thumb, then puts a big piece on her plate. She doesn't really wait for him to answer her before she puts a big piece on the other plate, too.

"The whole point of hanging out with other people who ask how you are and mean it is so you can talk if you need or want to talk. My couch is a judgment free zone for whomever's sitting on it at the time." Sutton glances over at the decanter and says, "I sit on it and drink every night before bed. I have vivid, weird dreams I don't remember if not. I woke up this morning crying." She jabs a fork into her cake and tips back with that and her wine, balancing the plate on her thigh. "I hope they don't make me go through another psych eval before they put me back in the field." She sounds like she's joking, but not quite 100% joking.

"Feeling a little haunted this week?" She forks off a bite of the heavily frosted side of the cake and puts it in her mouth.

"I won't lie, that's kind of what I expected?" Carver's glass is placed off to one side of the table as the cake slides closer, unravelling his legs from beneath him so he can end up leaning forward, elbows on thighs. It's risky, considering the cake knife, but sometimes you've got to be brave in the face of potential danger. Seriously, He's sure Sutton could do some damage with a cake knife.

"Big pi-Oh, good." Well. He doesn't exactly look bothered by the fact he doesn't get to answer. In fact, there's more of his regular smile at just what passes for a 'big piece' in Sutton's mind. "I'm... Not exactly used to people asking how I am and meaning it. I think that's the problem." It's a conclusion he comes to once he's resettled himself, legs tucking back up once he's claimed his plate, pulling both it and the fork on to what passes for a lap in the tangle of legs he's got going on. There's a small piece of prodded cake placed in his mouth as she seemingly opens up like it's nothing. Which, He's Carver. He assumes they're lies. Or just an attempt to get him to open up. That might be why the response is a slightly off-hand "You drink every night and have a go at me for my habits?"

It's three chews in and a slight look of realization on his face that she could have been telling the truth later that his eyes widen a touch. "Wait, really?" That's right, divert from mentions of the word haunted, Carver. Like your life depended on i-"I dunno. Have you?"

Oh, you fucker.

"Another day, you probably could have expected it and been vindicated when that was exactly what happened." Sutton takes another bite of cake, and it shuts her up for a while. A good while. She licks the frosting off of her fork and says, "I drink a few glasses of wine. Course I'm going to have a go at you. Whiskey is serious business. Wine is a hobby."

"I spend my life caring for strangers. Assume when I ask you, I mean it. Chatting with cops all day at work makes me a little sassy, but ultimately, I care about people." She gestures with her fork. "Quite a lot, thank you very much." She's probably had a couple of glasses of wine already tonight. She puts her fork down and sips her wine, then mmhms and picks up her fork again, scraping the sweet frosting off the back of the cake. "I don't remember the content of my dreams, but I remember being upset about it. Sometimes I write them down, but they're gone so fast. I have to get off the desk. Listening to the radio all day's messing with my brain." Obviously that's the problem she's having. "Am I what? Feeling haunted? Not really." Not that she remembers.

Carver raises his now empty fork up with a slightly open mouth at Sutton's opinions regarding wine and whiskey. And then lowers it. He probably had an argument at the start of that motion, but all it took was a slight shift of his eyes to somewhere behind the woman's left ear to throw his mental train off the rails. Not that that's hard normally, but... look, shut up.

"I should have guessed, really. I've met medical staff that would slap you right upside the head for the dumb shit you did, but would squeeze your hand so tight when they reset the dislocation." That'd be Carver's version of a 'It shows, sometimes', then. Or at least his idea of a compliment. Eitherway, his fork demands sacrifice by the time Sutton's talking about dreams, and boy howdy does it get them.

That's not to say he's shoveling cake. He's enjoying it. There's a difference. No frosting scraping for this man. No sir. Just chunks forked off of the slice, then stabbed. Then gone. "Upsetting dreams happen to everyone. Not that I'm trying to be an arse." It comes naturally. He doesn't have to try. "It's probably more a case of you not being able to do your job, right? Radio's not to blame. You're just stuck and feeling sedentary or something." Casual platitudes and stuff la la la look, more cake. "Glad you're not feeling haunted." Is all he follows up with, reaching out for his glass once more.

"I'd say that's an accurate assessment of people in my line of work. Tough love, extra on the love." Sutton licks her fork. That must be good frosting. Her face says so. She works up another bite of cake. "Look, you listen to that radio chirping all day, day after day, and sometimes you hear it when it's not even there. You've got your loud talkers and your mumblers, your guys who sound like they're holding the mic out the window on the highway, the ones who mush mouth everything, and then the one person who actually enunciates clearly and always gives a location when he's on a stop. If you don't have a headache at the end of the day, you're not doing your job."

"The dreams are probably anxiety over a new city. Or restlessness with the job. It's fine, it'll pass." Sutton doesn't turn around when Carver looks behind her. She doesn't expect anything to be there, and she doesn't really think he's looking at anything in particular. "You've gone a bit platitude-y. It's..." She waves her fork after she takes a bite, and says with cake in her mouth, "A little worrying. Why do you keep saying haunted? Is that some kind of obscure reference I'm missing? We're talking about you and the whole mojo disturbance you're experiencing." She digs out the chocolate layer between two chocolate cake layers. It just might be a rich, thick ganache.

She only finishes about half the piece of cake before she leans over to put it down, and re-centers her concentration on her wine. And drinking it. "My mojo's gonna be fine in about a week and a half." Barring complications or re-injury.

Plate down on the table, glass picked up, Carver nods along and watches with some satisfaction as Sutton appreciates the work someone else put in to making a cake. That he then, knowing him, probably stole.

He didn't. You don't steal something when it's gift-wrapped. That's just crass. It does draw a moment's attention to the fact that it was bloody gift-wrapped, though.

Other than that? He sips at his whiskey and listens. Carver usually talks. A lot. So when he listens, it can be a little like the white noise of a refrigerator. You don't notice it after a while. The fact he's often talking, all the time. Or drawing attention to himself in one way or another. Be that by his outfit, accent, the fact he'd be reading a notepad at a table in a bar, or just talking absolute bollocks. But you notice when the hum of that motor stops. It's an absence of noise that creeps in slowly until it finally dawns on you that your ice cream is so, so going to be melted.

His glass is empty when she reaches out for hers, eyes only having left her for a few quick glances as she spoke, snapping back forward to settle somewhere around the bridge of her noise when she spoke, and somewhere around the edge of the couch when she really started appreciating the cake. "Sorry." It doesn't even come with a 'pet.' Or a 'Love.' In fact, nothing he's said today has. "Someone found my needling points last night, and uh..." He lifts up a hand to look at his index finger, turning it around a little before seemingly remembering he's not actually alone. The finger's fine, by the way. Probably cleaner than the rest of him. "I'm not quite sure what I'm doing, anymore. Did you lose your brother?"

That's not how you end a sentence, Carver.

If Sutton suspects the cake could have been ill-gotten, it doesn't show. She could be a person who thinks you never turn away a relative stranger who comes to your door bearing gifts. There's something in Shakespeare about that. (There's something in Shakespeare about everything. And yet it's like pulling teeth from an angry tiger to get an open air troupe to choose a play that hasn't been done to death. Go figure.)

Sutton's not looking at him when Carver begins to speak again. He says sorry, she lifts one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. He says someone's been needling his needly points, and she frowns a bit, glances over, then looks at her wine. "That's not... I don't know how. You're pretty buttoned up. How someone could get to your bubble gum center." Buttoned up literally and figuratively. Smart waistcoat. Gives nothing away of self. She runs her fingers through her hair and is mid-motion when he asks about her brother. She pulls her neatly manicured fingers down through chocolate locks shot through with blonde and caramel streaks. She brushers her tongue over her teeth before she says. "I speed. It comes of the job, knowing the city well, knowing what your vehicle can do."

"No, I didn't lose him." That statement is simple, sure.

"He was done by the time I got there, after violating at least fourteen traffic laws, but I was holding his hand when his heart stopped. They didn't pronounce him until later, at the hospital." Sutton leaves her wine on the table. "You need a doctor for that, technically." She sounds very vaguely annoyed at that. "They kept working on him. I had to let him go in the rig. I remember every second of that. It's sometimes brutal what we do to try to preserve life." Otherwise her gaze is direct, words matter-of-fact. "We came into the world together, four minutes apart. The least I could do was hold his hand while he left." She doesn't so much as flinch when she says that, but a moment later she does adjust her grip on her glass and tip it, draining it in one long drink.

Carver could tell a story. He's so good at stories. That's his first thought. The second thought, as Sutton drains the entirety of her glass, is 'When the hell did I start leaning so far forward?' The third thought is just a stream-of-consciousness train of swearing.

The fourth thought is pure silence as a hand works idly to dig in around the edge of his kneecap. Twisting and shifting as his fingertips press deep enough to pressure the skin white beneath the dull grey blend of material. He met her gaze when she offered it, and offered a gentle nod of his head at her memory of holding his hand. Because really, what do you say to that? Another 'I'm Sorry' flicks through his head, thrown aside and discarded when he shifts to lean a little more against the couch. Cake abandoned, Whiskey worthless.

It's a contemplative silence. That's what he's trying to put forward. Not an awkward one, nor a silence he feels the need to escape from. If he did, she'd so be getting some dumb story right about now.

And it's a silence only broken when he sniffs lightly, brushes the tip of his nose with the back of his hand, glances down to check out how good that cake looks one more time, and mutters, almost casually, that "I'd sort of like to give you a giant bloody hug right now."

Sutton's quiet for only a couple of beats before she returns, simply, "Really?" A long lock of warm-golden hair falls into her eyes as she looks down. When her chin comes up, she levels Carver with that hazel-eyed gaze of hers. Perhaps another two beats pass before she says, "That story usually gets me laid."

"Course I've never told it to an actual full-blooded Brit before. Something lost in the translation maybe." Sutton leans over to put her glass down on the table. Her fingers release the stem carefully, so she doesn't knock it over. She drops back into the cushions, and turns her eyes to the curtains billowing in with the warm spring breeze. Something about it tickles her memory, but the feeling is gone a moment later. She's somewhat distracted by the emotions she's feeling that aren't showing on her face just now. And keeping them off of it.

Carver's thumb comes up, rubbing hard along the bridge of his nose as the slightly pallid expression of... sympathy? maybe? is broken by a laugh caught in his throat, soon followed by a sigh of resignation. "Of course it fucking does." That tone? That's Carver speak for 'Oh, Okay. It's this game. That one, I can handle.' "With yanks it just tells them your brother's not gonna be a problem when they screw you." He pulls himself from the couch a little, throwing her a short grin that might as well be genuine, eyes alighting on hers for just a moment before he's pouring himself a refill. Just himself, mind. She can choose her own dosage. It's what she trained for, after all. "How you choose to read that depends on how far into the southern states we're going, of course. Does it work better on the rural boys?" Oh, rhetorical question.

"Brits? Just wanna hug you, go 'There, there, dear, that sounds like a bother' and make you a cup of tea."

Which would totally be the British way of doing what she's doing right now. It's easier to hide what you're feeling behind a mug, after all. Carver's eyes glance to the curtains when hers do the same, and then they settle into watching the softly swirling liquid of his glass.

"Huh. I was bluffing. I never tell that story. You think it would work? I should definitely try it on a really uptight macho dude, or a country boy. With the country boys, though, I think tears would be key." Sutton did say once she can cry on command. Seems like she's also pretty good at holding them back. "I like how you manage to hit so many American stereotypes in one response, though. Nice."

Sutton gives it some thought before she says, "I like the British way. It's civilized, and tea is soothing. I have a huge selection." Of course she does. Her mother's influence, no doubt. "Of the two of us, though? I'm the crazy one, definitely. The one you do not want to cross. Honestly, though, you crossed one, you got both. I miss that the most. Very few people will do what you ask of them without a billion questions. No backup will ever be better."

Sutton reaches up and rubs her face. "I'm gonna go shower and head to bed. If... you want to stay, I have a guest room. And this couch. It's late, you have a lot of the bottle left. Your choice. If you go," she moves to rise, unfolding from the couch and standing next to it. "just turn the lock before you pull it shut. It'll lock itself behind you."

"If you do stay and want a shower, I'll be done in twenty. Linens and extra towels in the closet in there. Any food you want is yours." Sutton lingers for a moment, pulling her long hair back over her shoulders. She twists it and drops the length of it down her back. "It's a quiet place."

"You really have to ask?" Carver's eyebrow is back in action, be that for good or ill. Probably ill. "Of course it would work, pet. Get that touch of sympathy going, the vulnerability? Oh, they'd eat it up." It's a more comfortable set of sips he's taking now, some comfort, weirdly, found in the topic. Or maybe it's just that he did get to hit so, so many stereotypes.

"I know what that's like." He says after the little insight into the familial bond. Maybe also about the having a huge selection of tea. Or both. Let's just say it's a night of 'Both's.' "Having that sense of knowing there's always someone behind you, willing to jump in even when you're the one that screwed up? Priceless." Some fluff is brushed from his leg. Convenient. It means he can look away. "Hurts like a right bastard when something rips that away."

"Do you want to take the cake with you?" He offers at the mention of bed, pointing out what remains of so, so much chocolate. Jesus Christ, just looking at it again made his blood pressure rise. One day, he might actually remember to ask just how they managed to do it. "I mean, it might end up a little messy, but if you have another nightmare, you can cry into it in the morning." And then he's shifting his little bit of pretzel seating, reaching out to pat her on the arm as she moves away from the couch. He even looks at her. God, such progress when you crack jokes about the dead. "I'll probably grab one when you're done and then sprawl out starkers on your couch." He might be serious. It's hard to tell. "I can tell just by sitting on it that this is comfier than my motel bed."

Holy shit. The Mystery revealed.

"And, uh. Thanks. Again."

"Yeah, I think I'll probably just stick to being a relatively hot paramedic and let the sex chips fall where they may." Sutton says this somewhat flatly, but she does reach up to brush her fingers over her lips, checking for chocolate at the corners of her mouth. She glances over at the open door, but Carver can close that if he's too cold in the night.

"Yeah." She says that after he mentions having someone behind you to back you up even when you're the fuck up. And how it hurts when that's gone. "Yeah, it does. I have to get myself out of all my own troubles now. Bloody exhausting if you ask me." And then she laughs.

"No. I'm not taking the take to shower and bed. I'll have some for breakfast, though. She turns her hand to catch his wrist as he pats her arm. "Thanks for coming over tonight and bringing the cake and the conversation. You feel free to sleep however you sleep, just don't get any chocolate on the couch." She mhms and then adds, "Motel, huh? Well, sorry, we don't have a snack machine or an ice machine, but the water pressure is good and I haven't been able to run the hot water out yet." That said, Sutton finally releases his wrist. She makes her way to the short hall that leads to both bedrooms, a hallway hung with dozens of framed photographs. (Which she has been hanging at night and probably all the banging has disturbed at least one of her neighbors.)

"Sleep tight."

"The sex chips falling where they may got me where I am today." Carver beams in response to her flat tone. It's... it's a little up in the air as to whether that's approval, or a tacit warning. Probably both. Again.

His thumb lifts up to brush away a spot of nothing at his own cheek before pointed quickly at the same spot on hers, then diverts to catch an actual smear of chocolate that was caught at the corner of his own mouth, stretching out his legs a little and softly resting his feet down on the floor to place his glass back on the table once she's released his wrist. The initial grab didn't actually cause much reaction from the guy, all said. He looked confused for a second, sure, but that's Carver's general state of being, sometimes. And now, having shared a cake and a drink with someone in her apartment after meeting her roughly a week ago? That'd be one of those times. The guy in his mid-twenties, lingering in the background with some distinct similarities to the paramedic that he keeps catching out of the corner of his eye? That's not helping.

"I'll take the water pressure. I'll so take the water pressure." He laughs, one hand touching where his wrist was grabbed in a way that could even be considered subtle. It totally counts as subtle because she's heading off to that hallway, and so doesn't see it. Carver subscribes to 'It counts as being stealthy if they're not looking at you when you do it' school of thought. "And you're welcome for the cake. It was a flimsy excuse for me to get to hang out somewhere that wasn't... Hang out somewhere."

Smooth. Man.

"Sleep tight, pet." He calls down the hallway as she goes.

"And what the fuck is your name then, mate?" He says quietly, when she's gone.