2019-06-01 - Smells Like Bacon & Sass

Somewhere just after four in the afternoon, the Grizzly Den Diner is in its pre-dinner-rush phase of relative quiet. Relative in that it's not packed, but neither is it exactly quiet, particularly given the owner's habit of playing eclectic music during the day.

When the patrol car pulls into the lot, likely at least one car pulls out before any official-type eyes turn to the contents of the vehicle, teenagers being nervous and shifty as they sometimes are. Authority figures, you know? Or perhaps they simply have somewhere to be. At least there are no squealing tires or spitting fins of gravel kicked up as they exit.

Sutton glances over at Mike, hand going to the door's handle. If she saw the teens hightail it, she says nothing about it.

For his part, Michael either doesn't seem to notice the teenagers pulling out or just lets them go without comment. Pulling into one of the available slots, he parks as straight as an arrow and hopping out, he makes sure she is clear of the car before he locks it up tight. Walking into the diner with her, he is rubbing his hands together and checks his watch as he walks. "I guess I could get lunch, you said they had good chicken?" he asks as he moves over to get a seat at a booth, taking a heavy duty maglite and baton out of his belt so that they don't hit the booth before he sits.

"What else is good?" he asks.

"I said I'm sure they have grilled chicken," Sutton says, which is halfway an agreement, but also halfway not. "I do know they make their own chorizo, so there's a fair chance the chicken will be good." She makes her way over to enter the diner, then moves along to select a booth where Michael can put his back to the wall and watch the rest of the diner. Helpfully, she takes the seat with her back to the door. "Breakfast is good. Eggs, potatoes, toast. The usual." She picks up a bear-shaped menu.

"It's a diner, and no self-respecting diner can call themselves a diner without decent pie." She glances up over her menu, "Though you probably don't eat that either." Is there judgment in Sutton's eyes? Maybe a tiny bit.

"I eat a bit of pie now and again, I enjoy a little indulgence occasionally, but it needs to be measured and worth it, you know?" Michael explains and taking off his jacket for the first time in her sight, the evidence of a great deal of exercise can be seen in the shape of his arms and the size of his shoulders, as if that strong jawline weren't evidence enough. "I figure in twenty years I can get fat and soft, maybe a bit sooner, if I find myself a wife who seems okay with me being a bit less trim?" he mentions, being a tiny bit vain.

Sutton looks at Mike for a long moment, this is after she checks his arms when the jacket comes off, and he says the thing about finding a wife later who doesn't mind a 'less trim' physique. "You're a cop." She says this like he didn't get that memo at roll call. "You're a cop with jaw for days who wears a uniform and a badge and a gun." Sutton puts her hand flat on the table. "Almost everyone looks hot in that uniform." Once she's sure he's listening, she asks, "What, are you worried about a little dad bod scaring off the ladies?"

Sutton snorts.

She flicks her menu open and continues, "Furthermore, if you find a woman who minds you gaining thirty pounds rather than the fact that you could literally take a bullet to the throat at any moment in the line of duty, you date the wrong kind of woman, love."

"You know what, stop dating vapid teenagers and start dating nurses. Nurses are nasty and they know how to care-give. That's the best combination in a wife." Sutton flips the page in her menu. "Find a wife who doesn't mind you a little less trim. Honestly."

"I didn't say it like it's unlikely to happen, but I don't just assume. Also!" Mike points out and holds up a finger, "I sorta like the idea of meeting a woman who likes to exercise you know, like, approximately as much as I do, and as long as she is keeping trim, I'd feel compelled to do the same," he points out in his most sage manner, but realizes it sounds a little vain, so sort of just puts it out there for her to comment on or not. "I don't know any nurses in town, do you know any nurses?" he asks, half laughing now, as if hoping she can point him to one of these women already.

Popping open his own menu, he finds the grilled chicken, and then a salad, and sets it back down pretty quickly. He has a good idea what he wants without looking.

"I met a couple cute ones throwing some unfortunates at the ER, but no, not personally or closely enough to know if they even lift, bro." Sutton delivers that in her classic dry tone. "That's like fitness chicken, Mike. When will the insanity end?"

"I've gained at least seven pounds in donuts alone on medical transfer to that chair which my ass has nearly bonded, and I don't even care. When I'm cleared, I'll go back to running, but frankly if a man's going to be put off by my thighs now, he doesn't deserve to find himself -- " Sutton clears her throat and flicks her menu up. "I'm not finishing that sentence in the interests of the fact that we work together and I'm not drinking, and thusly cannot blame the wine."

"I think I'm going to have breakfast for almost-dinner." Sutton puts down her menu as well, just in time for a teenager with hot pink hair to trundle over to take their orders with a bubbly greeting. Somewhat taken aback by that much cheer radiating from one person, Sutton orders two eggs over easy, rye toast with light butter, and a diet vanilla Coke, the vanilla syrup sort of obliterating the whole point of ordering a diet.

"Grilled chicken, two breasts, the salad, dressing on the side, and a water with a lemon, please," Mike says to the waitress and smiles up at her in a return of her cheer. He doesn't walk around smiling that much, but he certainly doesn't come across as grumpy basically ever. Handing over the menu, he looks to Sutton and snorts, "I said it was hopeful, the fitness date. I'm not holding my breath.." he mentions, giving her a bit of side-eye when she throws the bro at him.

"Oh no, I like a girl with a bit of extra cushion, it's not about the curves, it's about being a complete antithesis of my lifestyle. I can't hope to eat healthy most meals if my partner lives on sugar and trans-fats and fast food, and it's not fair for me to have to defend being healthy, I'm just sharing my preferences, not condemning others," he goes on, though he is doing a job of defending himself, he doesn't actually seem wounded, just sort of presenting his side of things.

"There are plenty of ladies who like a hike and snog in the woods." Sutton pauses, then adds, "Possibly without the body dump prelude. I'm sure most people wouldn't find that as entertaining as I do." She taps her nails on the tabletop briefly. "Perhaps entertaining was the wrong word."

"I got you. I'm just fucking with you. I dated a chef once, and his relationship with food was so distorted from having to taste all day, I think he lived on crisps and kids cereal the two times a day he actually swallowed anything." Sutton tips back on her side of the booth, hands resting in her lap. "Mum's an endurance athlete. She blessed me with good genes and an ability to push my body to stupid extremes, which is probably what put me on medical in the first place." She leans forward a bit and asks, "You ever compete in Tough Mudders?"

"You have a marathoners build," Mike confirms and watches the teenage waitress walk away before looking back to Sutton. Sitting forward, he crosses his arms on the table-top. "Tough mudders? That's the thing where they pretend they're in boot and hose down dirt so that it's really muddy, right? Run through an obstacle course?" he questions, seeming to remember hearing about something like that, but not intimately familiar, apparently. "No, I haven't. But I suppose I support anything that gets people active and having fun," he decides. "And, I'll try to invite someone to go hiking sometime, then," he decides.

Sutton smirks at the question. "Sort of. It's a sloppy obstacle course. It's usually a ten mile run, but with a lot of water and mud, other things. I'm not going to say they butter the bars, but they butter the bars. Everything's slippery and dangerous and so many people injure themselves, it's stupid." She shrugs. "I love it." There's a little grin at the hiking thing, but she doesn't comment on it. Advice given, perhaps taken. "I used to compete with my old man, but Master Sergeant Sutton pulled a hammy and got a lecture from his wife on stretching first, so now he's always fishing when I ask."

"Top three finishers usually receive a cash prize. Should think about it. Beats chasing dudes with pot in their panties up and over privacy fences." Sutton picks up and tucks her menu behind the condiment stand finally, resting her folded arms on the table.

The waitress arrives with their drinks, a bit slow on the service, but not so slow that it warrants a complaint.

Mike listens attentively and thinks about the explanation. "Sloppy can be fun," he says with a nod. "I suppose if nothing else, it's a good way to meet some new people," he agrees and seems inclined to give it a shot. "I'll give it a shot, if you hear of something or it's a drive away, we can split a ride," he mentions.

"So, Seattle to here, paramedic training. Just wanted someplace small, or is this the only place that was hiring?" he asks.

"It's much less mercenary than other marathons. There's a lot of teamwork. I've been thrown over an obstacle or two in my time." Sutton thanks the waitress with a little salute, reaching for her sweetened diet Coke and tamping the paper down off a straw before jamming it into the cup. "Comes of being short." She nods, giving her drink a good stir before she takes a sip. "Definitely. I'll let you know if there's one nearby soon. I prefer them in summer, so the inevitable spill into the freezing water is a relief."

Sutton takes a long pull of her drink before she answers Mike's question. "I wanted out of Seattle. I wasn't really too picky about where, but I did want to stay within a couple hours." She goes silent for a moment, gaze on the table, eyes shadowed by her lashes. "I was into my second bottle of wine when I applied for this job, and a bunch of others, so I'm... pretty surprised I got everything spelled right, let alone them offering a position. This was the first offer, and I took it." She gives her drink another stir with the straw. "How about you?"

"I'd toss you over, if you're keeping up when we get to the obstacles," Mike mentions and gives her a little look that has nothing to do with misogyny though some might assume it does, and more to do with how highly he regards his own fitness. Just a bit of healthy confidence and estimation of his own abilities. He'd just finished a few tours as a Marine, so that makes sense, right? "I suppose any time of year would be okay with me, how much do you usually win for winning?" he asks, curiously.

Hearing her reasoning, he laughs lightly.

"I wanted the job basically as soon as I finished my degree and training," he explains. "I got back three offers. Here, Detroit and somewhere in the middle of nowheresville Nebraska."

"If I'm keeping up," Sutton smiles. "That's cute. I'm small and fast. You're hauling around more bulk than me. We'll see how you perform in six inches of mud." She's also talking shit to an ex-marine, but that doesn't slow her down one bit. "Granted, if it was tomorrow, I'd probably have to stop a few times to hurl, but I'd be fine after that." Sutton is a creature of grace and finesse, she is. She sips through her straw, tucking it into the corner of her mouth.

When she speaks again, it's with the straw still in her mouth. "Detroit. No and thank you. Nebraska." She thinks on that for a moment. "I can't say that I know much about Nebraska, but I do know there's no way it's better looking than Washington. They have, what, corn and football?" She mms and says of the racing, "Depends on the event and location. Also on if you can lure any of your buddies into side bets. I've never won one, but I came close a few years ago."

"Yeah, we'll see how you do when we get out on the course," Michael says with a smile and finally picks the wedge of lemon off his water, squeezes it into the water rather liberally before dropping the slice in. He then takes a sip and sets it aside, just in time for the waitress to walk over.

The pink haired teenaged waitress sets their plates down for them in the right locations and looks between them, "Can I do anything else for you two?" she asks.

Michael shakes his head and says, "Nothing yet, thank you," and examines his food for a moment or two before he starts to chow down. "Yeah, corn and football," he confirms.

"So you're pretty new all around then?" To the cop gig, it sounds like Sutton means. She tips back against the cushioned back of the booth, her cup in hand, nursing her drink slowly as they await their food. Must have been a long shift. Caffeine and sugar going on board at a steady, slow rate. "You've not hit your jaded phase. Still hopeful and duty bound. I like it. It's a good look on you. I hope it lasts longer because of the small town. The city can burn you down pretty quick if you don't keep a lot of outside interest going. Hobbies. Stress relief."

"Oh, yes." Sutton says to the waitress, after checking her phone briefly under the table. "Two double bacon sandwiches to go, one wheat, one rye, egg over medium, cheddar. Thanks, love."

"If nothing else, there's a Classic outside Seattle in late September. Not ideal, what with the freeze your ass off factor, but it could work." Sutton puts her cup down and reaches for her roll of flatware, peeling it out of the napkin before she selects the fork and finesses her egg onto a piece of toast.

"At policing? Yes. Or I'd have taken the job in Detroit. I want to have some general feel for procedure and how people act, not just be fresh off the boat and jump into the deep water. I mean, I have the advantage of the Marines and all, so I wouldn't be totally new, but somewhat new," Michael explains and cuts up his chicken into pieces and sorts it into the salad. Measured in a manner. Then pulling out his phone he enters the quantities, roughly into a calorie tracking app which he leaves open beside his plate as he double checks things and chows.

Looking at her across the table as she orders more food, he wonders what he'd missed. "Hungry?' he asks.

"Seattle, late September? Okay," he confirms. "So what happened that you're on medical leave?"

Sutton takes a bite of her egg-toast, careful not to break the yolk on the first go. She mms and nods when he asks for clarification on if she means policing. She continues to eat in neat bites while he speaks. "I rode Seattle for years. I can only imagine what Detroit must be like. I've heard some stories. Enough to know they couldn't give me a signing bonus big enough to move me there." Her brows go up when he asks if she's hungry, re: the to-go order. "Friend asked me to swoop up some food. I swear there's a diner proximity tracker on my phone."

"Oh, something stupid. We were in a hurry and the assist failed on the stretcher. I caught it and a couple hundred pounds of patient, not in an idea position. Long story short, bad move, Sutton. Six week recovery, scans in about a week and a half. If it clears me, I'm back in the ambulance." If not... if not, she doesn't say. Best not to court that outcome. She takes a huge bite of her toast.

Michael nods his head at that and says, "I imagine some of it is just bad rep. but yeah, as much as I know it wouldn't be as bad as the Talliban, I won't have the advantage of uparmor and aerial support," he reckons with a bit of a shrug as he eats. Mindful. "Are they coming to get it from you?" he asks, curious about her plans with this person who'd had her order for them in a conversational capacity.

"Ah, well, you'll still get paid as a paramedic, and can claim comp. if it comes down to it. Don't let them guilt you out of anything," he suggests quietly and shrugs slightly.

Sutton finishes off her first egg one toast, and flops the other one onto a second piece. "I don't mind dispatch. You get to be the person who knows what's going down pretty much start to finish. But it's exhausting. I'd rather be in the field. Nine times out of ten." The one time out of ten is reserved for special hells she doesn't bring up over his lunch and her dinner. It's the kind of thing you need several drinks down to talk about. Maybe not even then, unless you saw it together.

"Besides." She reaches for her drink. "Someone has to back you up when you take a round to the vest, get a tiny, tiny bruise from it, and they make me ferry you to the hospital for scans to be safe."

"I don't know. We didn't really get that far -- just asked for an order in." Sutton picks up her phone from the seat and sends off a short text, probably asking that question. Her phone's on silent.

Eating his chicken and salad, Mike is occasionally adding a touch of the ranch dressing on the side, but only a touch of it. Just a little for a little extra taste, not enough to really change the numbers on his calorie tracking app. "Yeah, you should check with them, because I'm not a food delivery service, and you don't have a car," Michael points out, not like he'd absolutely refuse to take someone to someone else with food, but he'd need a lot of persuasion, and he probably wouldn't want to be doing it as soon as the food shows up. "How are the eggs by the way? It's hard to mess them up, but sometimes I feel like they buy eggs from a truck that fell off the back of another truck."

Sutton seems amused by Mike's suggestion that she check with her friend, because he's not UberEats. "Taste like eggs. Not too slimy. I prefer one egg and egg whites, but you ask them for that in a diner and it's side-eye all day long." She puts her cup down, diet Coke finished off handily. "How's your boneless, skinless grilled chicken? I thought it could use a few more grill marks, but didn't look half bad." She finishes off her second piece of toast with egg, then reaches for her napkin to wipe her hands, and dab the corners of her mouth.

"For the record, Mike, I wasn't going to ask you to drive me across town. The ride here was generous enough." She glances out the window. "I think we've had six clear days since I moved here. Can't exactly take the motorcycle to work in the rain." Well, she could but nobody with any brain in their head rides in the rain, particularly the storms they've been having lately. "I'd rather pay for Lyfts than buy a car."

"It's actually grilled, I can tell, not repackaged, but the salad seems a bit store bought," Michael answers after thinking about it, then sips at his water in a thoughtful manner. Nodding after a bit. "Yeah, good chicken though. They might have a local connection," he decides.

"There are enough Lyft drivers to make that viable? Small towns are notoriously bad for ride-shares and taxis. Like, you need to call ahead to the taxi company, its one employee and wait forty five minutes," he mentions his usual experiences with a shrug.

"You're kind of a foodie about your exceptionally lean protein." Sutton's observation is quiet, and she regards Michael for a moment. "Good. There's nothing that makes me roll my eyes harder than the guys who work out a bunch then go to the store for jars of white sauce and a tray of chicken." Yes, yes, she does judge people by the contents of their carts when she's doing late night shop runs.

"You'd be surprised. Although, I have to say the quality is questionable out here. I was riding home from the bar a couple weeks back, and my driver was so busy looking at me, he ran off the road. Yes, I was in a tight dress, but nobody looks good enough in a tight dress to warrant that kind of thing. It took like twenty minutes to get a replacement, but that was after midnight. Prime time hours, though? Not bad at all." She folds her napkin over her plate. "I'm a pretty patient person."

"Oh, no, if I'm only going to eat a very select amount of stuff, I'm going to eat the best I can get," Michael points out with a grin and continues to eat his salad with the chicken mingled into it. Forking it up slowly. "I suppose I would be. I mean, I might run off the road if I were particularly distracted, and not you know, a responsible driver," he laughs and shrugs a little. "Of course, in just a month of work, I've been flashed three times, and no accidents, so don't misunderstand me."

"Only three times?" Sutton huhs, and says, "I think you can do better." She smirks, reaching up to brush her fingertips over her lips, perhaps checking, one last time, for any stray crumbs. "Wait till you get stuck on a traffic post and the little old ladies try to pat your butt." She definitely smirks at that. "That's my favorite people watching on parade routes. Find the cop with the shiniest gun belt and settle in to watch the show."

"Only the three, I can do better? Am I supposed to mention it slyly?" Mike asks and laughs a little bit as he watches her checking her lips. "I'll park my ass against a wall then," he mentions, like it's some sort of butt-touching judo he plans to pull off in preparation, now that he has been warned. "And is 'shiniest gun belt' paramedic code for something?" he asks.

Sutton laughs, but it could be at the parking against a wall or the gun belt thing. "No, love. Your gun belt is new. It's shiny and looks new, your cuff snaps are tight. Look at any Sergeant's and it's definitely scuffed. You find yourself a twenty year vet and it's probably frayed on the edges with wear marks, and the snaps are all so loose they basically fall open. The shinier your belt, the more liberties the public's gonna take with you."

She seems utterly amused at his assertion about the wall. "Hope you don't get crosswalk duty. No walls to save you. Just drunks against traffic and inappropriate touching." Mike can book on the guarantee that if Sutton hears he pulls any kind of assignment like that, and she's off at the time, she's going to settle in to watch his torment. Though, if he's lucky, she'll bring him some snacks on post.

"What'd you think shiniest gun belt was code for?"

"Shiniest belt, got it. Yeah, I'll probably stiil have a shiny belt in twenty years, because I'll replace it if it gets frayed," Mike confirms with a laugh and a bit of amusement at the slang he'd never heard. "I thought you might have been saying 'the one with the shiniest butt' or something like that," he mentions with a laugh. Apparently in a good mood. Eating his salad and chicken at a decent pace until only the crumbs remain. "I'll be mindful of that," he says, a haunted look in his eyes.

Sutton laughs again, this time softer. "Yeah, no doubt you will. Squared away. There's some of those on the force already, but you'll find 'em soon enough." She lifts her shoulder in a shrug. "I knew a lot of cops back in Seattle, and for some it was a badge of honor to wear the same belt from Academy to retirement. Everybody's a little different. Some don't mind the extra static that comes with the mirror shine."

"Yeah, no. We have different code for that."

Mike thinks about it and says, "I just think that people tend to respect someone who looks more put together than someone who looks like they loafed it in from the local bakery. I might not get as much respect from the 'old timers' who think they don't need to listen to me, but I'm not sure a well worn belt is going to make any difference to them, that's an age thing."

"And what's the code for that?"

Speaking of the local bakery and loafing, and don't think she didn't notice the pun, Sutton does still have some sprinklings of powdered sugar on her skin. She seems to have forgotten about it, or she'll worry about it later rather than smear it sticky. She clears her throat regarding the code, and shrugs. "Hot response. Though it depends on the agency. In some houses, that's a non-emergency and they'll look at you a little funny if you use it." It's a little dark. Cold response is a DoA. EMS workers, honestly.

Michael laughs at the term and banks it away for later, not that he expects he'll be using it anytime soon, but he likes to remember slang. "Give that to me in context? The officer was there with a hot response?" he proposes, trying to get a handle on it as it grows on him.

Sutton shakes her head in the negative. "Naw, look, ok, the waitress over there?" She glances over to pink hair, who has her back to them. "So I might give you a little whistle to get your attention, significant eye contact, and say 'Hot Response, your 10' as in 10 o'clock. You don't even have to stop working to scope it that way, and no patient or family listening to you know what you're talking about. Nobody looks like a callous asshole for enjoying the view."

"As in ten o'clock, oh, thank you for clarifying Everly," Michael says with a laugh and nods his head at the explanation. "When I was in high school, we would do a um,.. you know, I'm not sure I want to share this, but hell, I was a kid. We'd do the Captain Morgan knee up, and point it in the direction of girls we thought our buddies should get an eye on.." he shares.

Sutton narrows her eyes slightly at the utterance of her given name. That's all. Just that.

"Is that a euphemism, or do you literally mean the pose from the bottle?" Her brows go up a bit and then she mhms. "Did the girls ever notice this, or... think you were doing some kind of interpretive dance?"

Clearing his throat at the question, Michael looks around and subtly rises to his feet and shows the pose for about half a second. Knee pointed right at Sutton, for illustrative purposes, hand on hip and all that and then stretches a bit so that it looks like he was just loosening up. Then he sits again and makes a gesture as if to say, 'Like that.'

Sutton watches this whole maneuver and then she presses her lips together, though her shoulders shake enough to give away the silent laughter. She coughs, then clears her throat. "My questions stand."

"I have no idea if they noticed, nobody ever said anything to us though, but we did try to make it somewhat subtle. Like, just enough that the other guy would see, but not enough that others would notice," Michael explains with a smile and shrugs minutely. Dragging his hands along the top of his legs, he checks his face with a napkin. "Need a ride?" he asks. Having gotten no calls in all that time.

Sutton shakes her head at that. "I find it hard to believe no one noticed that." She smirks a bit then tips forward and shakes her head again. "Kids, right?" She reaches up to pull the pencil from her hair finally, running her fingers through it to loosen the twist. She flicks it out over her back. "Sure, if you're offering. I'll impose one more time. Do you know Bayside?" The posh apartments.

"Small town radio." Sutton moves to rise, tucking the pencil behind her ear. "In Seattle, no way would we have probably gotten our food before you were headed out for a domestic." She digs into her back pocket, pulling a few bills to un-crinkle just as pink hair arrives with the to-go order. "Perfect timing, thanks." The bill goes onto the table. Sutton leans over briefly, then peels off most of the stack in her pocket to drop it atop the paper.

"I live on Bayside, in a house though," Michael answers when she asks, though he pauses then and adds, "And yes, it's my job to know where all the streets are," this said with a smirk. It'd be like asking her if /she/ knows where all the streets are in town. He expects she does. "But yeah, I'll make sure to ask some of the cute ones in .. eight years at my twenty-year reunion, if I go. Wait, sometimes they do a 15 year, right? I .. could also ask on Facebook," he mentions as he runs through his options, he'd never thought to ask.

"I'm not sure you want to out yourself as that guy when you go to your reunion. Just let the guns speak for themselves." Sutton's amusement lingers. She hmms. "You should talk one of your buddies into asking. Then you're just the bystander in the situation when it does come up at reunions. So that would make you thirty." She reaches up to re-roll one of her sleeves that's loosened, tucking the fabric up tight. "I thought about renting a house. It'd probably be cheaper, but ultimately the ocean view, private parking, and pool won my heart."

"Nah, I'll be upfront about it. They'll either be flattered and understand that we were dumb kids, or they'll take it poorly, in which case, I don't care. It's not like I'll ever be friends with any of those people again, I live in Gray Harbor now," Michael replies as he rises to his feet and after setting money for the check on the table, he nods to her and leads the way out to the cruiser. Looking at the food in her hand while they walk. "You're gonna need to keep that in your lap and the window down, I'm not having my car smell like bacon for the rest of the day," he adds. "And yeah, I have an ocean view, it's a touch smaller than I'd have liked."

Sutton's brows go up as Mike makes his demands about the car and the bacon smell. Then she starts to laugh. She tries really hard to keep it on the inside, but it's off hours and the comedy writes itself. She clears her throat and somehow, somehow manages to say: "I'm pretty sure it smells like bacon regardless, Mike."

"I'm not making it easy for them, Everly," Mike points out and shakes his head at her and unlocking the door for her, climbs in and watches her very attentively to make sure she follows his directions with her order. Putting the car in reverse, he pushes the car quickly out into the continuously mild Gray Harbor traffic and quickly towards Bayside.

Sutton does indeed eventually wind the window down, though not all the way. So the scent of bacon might linger after she's gone, which will surely prompt the first perp to settle into the chariot to say something like, 'Smells like fuckin' bacon in here.' At which point they will then crack up at the cosmic alignment of their utterance, and Mike will surely be spared a litany of hateful profanity for all the backseat juvenile giggles.

Never let it be said that Sutton doesn't support the blue in small ways. "Keep tellin' yourself that, O'Malley." She smiles, and then says, "Thanks for the ride."