2019-06-17 - Answered

21 minutes. It takes Carver 21 minutes to end up in the hallway, just off to one side of the door leading to 503. To be fair to the guy, he's had a rough week. To be fair to everyone else, he looks like shit. He's got a solid shiner around his right eye that looks about half a week in to healing, the curve of his nose has shifted slightly since the last time he stood outside of this door, where there aren't bruises there are bags from a distinct lack of sleep...

Oh, and he's not wearing anything remotely close to his usual clothes. An off the rack waterproof in black and red, a dull grey hoodie that looks about half a size too big, and a pair of jeans that accompany some distinctly generic shoe wholesaler brand trainers.

Lifting his hand to the door, it pauses for a moment so he can turns his head to one side, whispering a quiet little "Mels?"

There's no response. From the door or elsewhere.

So he knocks.

It's not long before the door opens, which would indicate Sutton's been waiting in the living room. The door's pulled open and the forward momentum of the paramedic is stilled after she yanks it open and stops right in the doorway looking at Carver, who looks like absolute shit. She looks like she always looks, lightly made up, lightly bronzed, red-tinged lips, hair in beachy waves. She looks like summer vacation and he looks like the hangover after you've been beaten, rolled for cash, and left to die on the sun-bleached asphalt, with a turkey vulture poised over your smelly almost-corpse.

Okay, maybe it's not that dramatic. Sutton's been drinking, you see.

Her hazel-eyed gaze takes him in top to toe and right back up. She makes clear note of the shiner, the bags under his eyes, the weird choice of clothing... and then she steps forward. It's a toss up, for a moment, whether she's going to lead with an assault or something else.

Turns out it's a tight, tight, hug. A really tight one. Her arms slide around his neck, body to body and squeeze.

She smells like wine, piña colada, and chocolate. Could be there's another pan of brownies in the apartment.

Sutton might have been a little dramatic, but she's not wrong.

When the door opens, Carver's rubbing at the tip of his nose with a thumb, head slightly lowered. It means the first sight of her he gets is a pair of knees. The second sight he gets is her stepping forward. Does he wince? It's pretty close, yeah. There's definitely a sense that he was half expecting a right hook. Well, that he was expecting a right hook, so was actually expecting a left cross. Expect the unexpected. And the hug? That's unexpected.

And gets a wince when she presses up against his shoulder. She can probably feel the gauze. But hey, at least he manages to hold in the slight grunt of pain that really wanted to escape right there. At least the motion is covered by his arm immediately sliding under her arm and around her back, his forearm pressing just below her shoulder blades, giving as good as he's getting and burying the side of his face against hers, despite the pain.

The other hand just hangs low, still holding on to the bag that clinked with the noise of glass on glass when she embraced him.

He smells like licorice. And not a hint of whiskey.

There's a pause of perhaps a whole nine seconds, which is an eternity when you're in pain. If Sutton feels the gauze, she doesn't let up in the slightest with the pressure from that hug. She says something, muffled against his neck, and some hoodie fabric pressed against her mouth. She eases off the pressure after about twelve seconds, but doesn't back up, wavering a little because she's so much shorter than he is, and she has to go up on tiptoe to even get her arms around him. She repeats herself, "Are you sober?" It might be a tiny bit sharp. Shit's real when Carver's sober.

"Are you okay?" That's when she leans back, arms sliding almost free, her hands catching on Carver's shoulders. One slides down to feel the gauze. So she did notice it before. Her gaze slips to his shoulder, though all she can see is hoodie. "Come in and take that off." She backs up, finally, reaching down to take the bag from him. It's easier for him to follow her orders when he's not carrying wine and tacos. Sutton holds the door with her hip, assuming he relinquishes the bag of goodies.

Nine seconds is nothing when you've been in some weird-ass variation of solitary confinement for a little under four months. That'd totally be the only reason Carver doesn't seem to mind it. And he's sure keeping up that pressure with the arm, pain or not. When something's muffled against his neck and hoodie, there's actually a little more pressure on that hug before he too eases up, straightening up just a little from a slight slouch that occurred as soon as the hug hit and somewhat intently watching the top of her head. "As a nun." You can even tell he was about to make a little sign of the cross. Luckily, the bag stops that. "Sorry, lemme correct. As a nun that doesn't have a secret stash somewhere."

Oh god. He is sober.

When she asks the second question in almost as many seconds, the free hand comes up to run along her arm and settle atop her hand atop the gauze. There's the slightest hint of a squeeze to it before she's pulling away, and the bag's offered for her as she moves for it. "Not... really? But I'll live. Especially with a Taco. Thanks." That last bit would probably be about the bag. It even comes with an added trademark easy smile. Well, most of one. He starts the motion and then regrets it when it makes his eye crease.

By the time he's invited in, he's already moving inside, hands free, reaching down to the bottom of his hoodie to start an attempt at pulling the damn thing away without whimpering like a child.

It takes but a moment for Sutton to adjust to Carver without a hint of whiskey lingering about him like some people carry a whiff of ever-present smoke. She actually, vaguely, does have a tinge of smoke to her hair, but it's very faint. Someone's been sneaking cigarettes.

"If you need help, love, just let me put this down." Apparently the injuries have lessened her irritation somewhat. Certainly the tone is different from her initial text response. Assuming one can rely on tone in text. She nudges the door closed, flips the lock, and turns in to put the bag down those few strides along the way to the coffee table. She doesn't even sort through it, instead turning back to Carver. She has that look in her eyes. It's the one that says she's going to help him whether he likes it or not, and it's tinged by a bit of sadness.

Restless Elias is nowhere to be found just now.

Carver does indeed sniff the air for a moment, but whatever thought crosses his mind is lost by the minor fight he has with his hoodie. He even, for a moment, seemed to forget he was wearing a jacket, walking back towards the door to hang the damn thing up there after attempt number three for the hoodie fails. He's on attempt number five or so by the time she turns around, the hem of the top hanging somewhere level with his ribs before he's forced to give it up. Any kind of lifting of that side's arm above chest height seems to cause him some issue, that's for sure.

"I... Yeah. I could." He doesn't look too pathetic, at least. There's actually almost a secord or two where he seems to be trying to stop himself from laughing at the stupidity of it all. But it crashes. Hard. It's the tinge of sadness. He didn't mention noticing the smell of smoke, but noticing that expression is mentioned through his slightly embarrassed reaction alone. His thumb rubs against the underside of his nose again, feet shuffling for a moment. "So... uh. Happy birthday? Belated?"

Sutton's already moving in to help by the time he confirms his need of it. She reaches down to slide her hands up his torso. Her hands are cold. She pulls the hoodie up and helps extricate his arms, one by one, with the least muscle-movement from him possible. It still surely hurts, but hopefully not as much as it might otherwise. She does not ask where he's been. She doesn't ask how he was injured. She also doesn't make eye contact.

The paramedic isn't shy about running her hands over his torso to check for injuries she can't see. When he speaks up and wishes her a happy birthday, she swallows audibly. Her expression shifts slightly, lips pressing together briefly, but she doesn't say anything, not for a moment. When she replies, "Thanks," it's rough and more than a little throaty. "Sit."

Carver gets the hoodie off with the minimum of whimpering and pained expressions. The cold hands certainly didn't help with the former, but at least he manages to keep it down to a slightly caught hitch of breath the second cold skin touches his. And really, for the first time tonight? Carver's probably glad he couldn't manage to put a shirt on himself this evening. It would have just been more awkward right now. And more pain. He's got a few nice bruises across his torso, most of them near-done healing by now. All of them circular apart from one standout, a line about the width of a broomstick that stretches for about three inches across the left hand side of his ribs, low. It probably caught the floating rib, but he's breathing fine, and doesn't wince at all when her hand checks it.

And then he sits. As instructed. The change in mood obviously hitting him a little hard. His hands claps together in his lap as he takes up a spot on the couch, gaze focused very intently on his knee. It's quite possible he mumbled something, but it's far too low to hear.

Of course, Sutton knows his mannerisms pretty well at this point. At least, most of them, so she can be pretty sure it was just a quick "Sorry."

Sutton doesn't stop checking him even if he does make a sound. Her hands roam his torso, then slip around to slide up his back checking his ribs and spine. She leaves the hoodie where she tossed it, on the arm of the couch. "Have you taken anything?" This is asked quietly, and her hair brushes across his shoulder, slipping over his upper back she she leans in to check him for any visible injury, be it bruising or otherwise, along his spine.

There's a good chance she thinks he got mugged or used and got mugged and was hospitalized, and this is after drying out in intensive care and/or rehab. And/or the psych ward. Really, it could be any number of things. "I have to deal with it sometime." Not that this is dealing. This is surviving it with wine. Lots of wine. And two more bottles of wine, thanks, Carver.

Sutton's fingers brush over the marks on his back twice, and then she leans over to check them visually again. There's a lengthy silence, then she straightens. Her fingertips brush over the back of his neck, just into his hairline. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" She quietly runs her fingers over his skull, though it's done slowly.

At the feel of hair brushing his shoulder, the eyes that are so intently focused on his own knees actually flutter shut for a moment. Well, it's less of a flutter, more of a rolling shutter slam down. His head doesn't turn to look at her in any way, and those hands run out along his thighs to settle around his own knees in a gentle lean forward as she checks out his back. "I'm still an asshole for bringing it up. And not being here." They... they really don't know each other that well. That's a hell of a leap to make, Carver.

When her fingers examine the very faint Lichtenberg scar that spreads up and out from his spine, he actually arches away for a second, almost seeming like an attempt to escape. It's only for a moment, though, and surely just because of those cold hands. Right? Right. "Apart from the shoulder? And the thigh? Not that I know of." Christ. Not even a half-assed joke about how she'll probably find the hole in his head where his brain fell out.

And his eyes didn't open once.

"You're a little bit of an asshole for not replying, unless you couldn't reply. Then you're not." Sutton's words are quietly spoken, half-distracted by her assessment of his injuries, which are somewhat puzzling. "We don't know each other well enough for me to expect you to be here." That's reasonably said, and it's even true, though there was some kind of weird co-dependent thing happening there.

Sutton rips off the shitty gauze job and peers at the flesh underneath. She almost touches it when she remembers she's not wearing gloves. She brushes near it. "Stay." Her fingers slip free of his shoulder and she takes the gauze with her to the kitchen, where she chucks it, then bends at the knees to pull open a cabinet, and drag out the largest, soft-shell first aid bag, well, probably in any of the apartment in this building. It's damn near professional sized.

Sutton drags the strap over her shoulder, then pauses to find two small plates and two wine glasses in the cabinet above. "Are you allergic to medicines?"

"I..." Carver's eyes slowly open as he looks for a suitable reply. And then they snap open when she rips away the gauze. "Motherf-!" He had hair there. Once. Don't mind his hands, they're only white-knuckling against his knees a little. "I couldn't reply. I was... separated from my phone." He knows it sounds lame. It's the truth. It's as much of the truth as he thinks she could manage, and it sounds lame. At least talking about it helped take his mind off of the prodding, letting him save the slightly shaking exhale for when she's gone to get out that kit bag.

By the time she's over to the kitchen, he's leaning back into the couch, and his eyes have settled back into a half-open gaze that is definitely vaguely in her rough direction. Good job, buddy. Ignore that it feels like you haven't really slept. Ever. In your life.

"No... Not allergic, but nothing that isn't just antiseptic. I..." Want to roll bullshittery so bad. That's what Carver wants to do. "I don't like the dreams most of them give me."

The plates rattle a bit when she puts them down, and the wine glasses are set near the middle of the coffee table. She swings the bag down last, unzipping it, letting the strap drop from her shoulder. Her hands make quick work of the zippers. She pulls out a few things, including a pair of gloves, blue, slipped on easily. She rips open a strongly scented little wipe and cleans around the shoulder, then rips open a fresh gauze bandage. "Fine." A little miffed about the medication situation, Sutton?

She may be annoyed, but she's gentle about cleaning him up, what little she can do for the shoulder. She applies the bandage carefully, sure to seal down the edges of the plastic along the edges. "You can shower with this on, and you probably should, and then you should take some over the counter painkillers, eat, have a glass of wine, and sleep." She pulls off her gloves and sits on the couch next to him, knee touching his, hands in her lap. The gloves and bandage packaging are balled in her fist.

Carver treats the treatment with the dignity and respect having trained medical staff tending to a wound that doesn't really make sense with all the decorum and respect it deserves. That is to say, he shuts the fuck up, letting Sutton do her job. Sure, it's unpaid in this case, but still. "Sorry." comes out once again at her distaste for his apparent aversion to medication. It's almost meek. Almost.

Those lazy eyes watch her work, a few winces despite the gentle touch she's giving, relaxing as best as he can when she applies the gauze so it adheres in his most 'neutral' of poses, and has less chance of wearing and tugging at the adhesive. It might begin to seem like he's been patched up a few times in his life. Just... just a bit. "Are you saying I smell?" Okay, there's a little bit more of the old Carver, jumping to life at the mention of taking a shower first, his head slowly turning in her direction, an eyebrow raising to possibly hide the hurt. Probably because that was the first thing he did when he woke up, about an hour ago.

Don't mind the hand of his that drops down on top of hers, pressing around her glove-ball-bearing fist to give a squeeze. He's totally hurt. Yes.

There's a moment of stillness when he touches her hand. She doesn't react for a moment, then reaches over to rest her other hand atop his hand on hers. She lingers in that touch for a while, and then she moves.

Sutton leans forward to drop the gauze and gloves on the table. She shoves the first aid bag aside, then drops it onto the floor beside the table, reaches for the wine and sundry, dragging that bag over. She digs around in it, though she's holding a lot of tension high between her shoulder blades. This may go unnoticed, as it's hard to spot casually, particularly without touching her. "When you're injured, which you clearly are, and you look like hell, you should stay clean, relax as much as possible. This is a safe place, I'll be here. You don't have to worry about who might come through the door." She seems to either have leapt to some fairly steep conclusions, or she knows what it's like to live alone and always have that thought in the back of your head. "If that's not something you feel you need right now, we can eat and — " Sutton just stops talking. Just stops.

Over on the kitchen counter, her phone rings. The volume's turned way down, it's an unobtrusive little ascending chime. She ignores the hell out of it.

Carver's head has turned away to look in the direction of the door by the time her hand comes over to join his. He's not really zoning out, it's more an obvious showing of 'This is what I'm gonna do.' and then an attempt at as little pressure as possible. He did give her face a little once-over at the initial touch, which would explain his understanding when she breaks the touch to make herself busy. Well, that and wine. And tacos. All three are pretty important, after all. His hand drops back to his own lap, clasping his fingers together before twiddling his thumbs for a moment or two.

And then, naturally, there's an experimental little press at the newly-applied gauze. If he somehow noticed the tension in her shoulders, he's sure as shit not bringing it up. "Oh, I look like hell? Thanks." Just because it's true, doesn't mean it can't get a burst of a laugh out of the guy, turning his head to look at her face for a brief moment. Or two. "And... I know." He nods. "Thank you. I'll hang around as long as you like." Okay, that's not what she said. Little bit of a liberty there, Carver.

And then, after a moment or two of her devout ignoring...

"You should probably get that. I didn't answer my phone and uh..." Shrug.

"Some fuckwit," Sutton says, setting out the tacos and reaching for a wine bottle, "Listed my number on a Craigslist server for a set of expensive golf clubs." She takes a short, sharp breath. "My phone has been ringing for two days with other fuckwits asking me about shaft cores and babbling shit about ball penetration at four am. If you want to answer that, be my guest."

Mhm. Ball. Penetration.

"I fucking keep answering that shit at four in the fucking morning, and I feel like it was one of three people, and when I find out who fucking did it, I'm going to do something drastic." All of this is spoken in a mostly level tone, with the barest hint of acid on each and every f-bomb she drops there.

"In short, fuck everyone. If it's work, the klaxon ringtone will sound."

Carver, wordlessly, pulls himself up from the couch at the explanation, at one point using Sutton's knee as a perch to rest his hand against to haul himself up. Halfway up, she's given a pat on said knee. He doesn't actually do it, but one could almost imagine the guy cracking his knuckles as he heads on over to the counter, pulling his own phone from his pocket as he goes. There's some idle browsing on his own screen as he checks the number that's flashing up on the unfamiliar phone, and then he coughs.

And picks it up.

And sounds absolutely terrified.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ Man thank fuck you called. I... I di- I did it but she fought, man. She fought and now there's blood and I think the neighbors are waking up and-... Clubs? Man this isn't time for clubs I did this shit for you!" His accent is gone. Just... gone. Nowhere to be found as he rummages through his own phone mid-call. "C'mooon man you know we said no codes. If we were gonna be in this together we'd stick plain and clear or we're gonna fuck up and make mistakes and... and man... oh man I fucked up and made a mistake-" His eyes light up for a second at something that appears on his phone, taking a lean against the counter. "David, quiet the fuck down man! Look... look, I know it's a problem, but if you bring the truck around, NOT YOUR LANDSCAPING TRUCK, we can totally get this cleared up, right? Your boss doesn't even need to kno-"

He pulls the phone away from his ear, looks at it for a moment, and then looks at Sutton with slightly pursed lips. The accent's right back where it belongs when he shrugs. "Huh. David hung up. And put his mobile number on linkedin. And didn't withhold it."

Sutton glances up as Carver moves to touch her knee, pats, it then heads off phone-wards. She pulls a bottle of wine over and doesn't even bother glancing at the label before she turns slightly, shoves a hand between the couch cushions, and starts digging around. Somewhere around 'i did this shit for you,' her hand comes back up with the corkscrew. Which, apparently, she keeps in her couch?

Sutton pauses after screwing the apparatus down into the cork, just watching Carver work, a phone in each hand, absolute bullshit rolling smoothly out of his mouth in an entirely different accent. Her lips part, and she sits there, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth slightly open. She sits there, absolutely sure of one inescapable conclusion: Carver is a professional con artist and he's good at it.

And that performance lifted her mood considerably. She's probably curving a smile by the time he looks at her, though he might catch some hint of the other expression first. Really, the last thing is the most important one — her mood's improved. "Thank you, love." She was approximately two calls from chucking her phone off the balcony toward the ocean.

"I like you better with the accent."

Carver winks. Which is a dumb fucking idea because he does it with the blackened eye. Good job, buddy. The phone's placed back down on the counter, and after the slight wince of regret, and, yes, a look of 'I know I'm an idiot please don't call me out on it' thrown Sutton's way, he starts to come on back to the couch. Watching him move, it does actually seem like he's lost a bit of weight since the last time they met. Not too much, mind you, but he's a little thinner in places, his general silhouette showing less than it used to, and a few bone ridges a little more prominent than they were before. "You know what? So do I." His leg brushes hers as he passes back to his seat, carefully placing himself down considering the important wine work she's doing that must not be shook.

"And you're very welcome." A smile's flashed her way, the man leaning and sinking into the couch like it's the softest damn cloud ever to exist, hands settling comfortably in his lap. "I hoped it would help."

Sutton glances down, long lashes shading her eyes for a moment. She jams the bottle between her knees, and pull-twists the cork out with a slight lean forward. It pops free with the practice motion, and she doesn't even slosh it. She's been opening a lot of wine bottles lately. Without asking if he wants some, she reaches over to splash wine into both glasses, filling them only halfway. She doesn't even decant this bottle. Serious. Business.

Sutton sets the bottle on the table, thumps the cork-and-corkscrew down beside it, and asks, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Watching the practiced motion with a slight raise of his brow that vanishes the second Sutton's gaze comes anywhere near him, Carver begins to lean forward once more when she starts pouring. Which mean's he's watching the liquid of his own glass slosh around with his elbows planted firmly on his thighs when she asks the most open-ended question asked in the history of... okay that's a little overstating. it's a pretty open question though.

And it's a question to which Carver's only response is to look at her for a moment. It's almost like he's thinking. It's almost like he's hesitating. It's almost like he's weighing up answers, and what they could pay. Or what they could cost.

But it's all only for a moment before his arms leave his legs, reaching out to pull her close into a hug. One high, around her shoulders, one low, across the ribs. The "Yes" is almost inaudible.

Sutton turns slightly toward him when she's finished pouring. She doesn't even reach for a taco or glass first. Other days, she probably would have had a taco down before she even remembered to ask that kind of thing. Not tonight. Despite his being gone for so long, she doesn't ask where he's been, or why he can't tell her, or what he's keeping secret, because it finally occurred to her that maybe she doesn't want to know.

So when he leans in and his elbows come off his thighs, when he slides his arms around her, she leans into it, and follows suit, her arms slipping around him. One arm goes high, one low to rest on his lower back. "You're safe here, okay?" That's audible, but only just. She's already said it, earlier, but she says it again.

Sutton tips her head down, cheek resting against his collar bone. She doesn't say anything for a while, just breathes. Eventually, though, she says something, because she always does. "Are you okay or getting there? Either is good. If you're not that's okay too."

Carver basically buries his face against the top of Sutton's head, those wrapping arms holding on to her like she's an anchoring pin to the world. Which, technically? That's exactly it. The words "I know I am." Leave his mouth, muffled against her head and gaining him half a mouthful of hair for the trouble, but it's far easier to let those words out than figure out how to explain pissing off an entire royal court to the point you're ninety-nine percent sure you're now kill on sight. And that you were saved by a seventeen year old ghost. That is actually 37. And you used to know when you were kids.

It takes him a while, but the sound of her voice asking another question snaps the guy out of a minor fugue, the arm around her shoulders moving down to place his hand gently along her side as a soft kiss buries against her head. "I'm... okay. And getting there. It's just been-" The pause for an exhale sends some hair skittering. "This week felt like months."

The arms squeeze. Lightly. "You can talk to me, too. You know that, right?"

Sutton would have some serious questions about Carver if he told her what happened, using any of those words in a sentence. Pretty much any of them in any combination, really. She doesn't make a move to extricate herself from the hug, even when he tries to talk through a wad of her hair. You inhale it, you deal with it, sir.

"I'm trying very hard to stop being rude to everyone. Literally every time someone tries to start a conversation at work this week, I'm an asshole." Sutton sighs out a breath and says, "It's been almost two weeks since last I saw you." It's right there on the tip of her tongue to ask where he's been, and there's a breath taken and a very audible, weighted pause before she swallows the question.

"I can't talk about it. I should go home and get a tattoo instead."

"Forgive me for saying so..." Heaven help us all, Carver's gone a little prim and proper. It must be whatever her hair is scented like. He's sure inhaling enough of it. The hand on her ribs moves back towards her... well, back. It's a reassuring stroke he's going for, as opposed to a condescending one. Which is probably the first time he's actively tried to avoid anything seeming the latter since he arrived in town. "-But I figure this time of year isn't exactly easy. I'm an asshole around Christmas." All of this, of course, is said into a mouthful of hair.

That includes the sigh. "I wish I could tell you what the fuck happened." That hand just to one side of her spine, almost imperceptibly, slows right the fuck down. There's a little extra pressure from it, but it's almost like having to think is throwing him off his rhythm. "But I can say without a hint of a lie, if I even began to tell you, you'd think I was insane. And wouldn't believe me anyway. I... was locked up by people who aren't very nice, and I didn't have my phone. I'm sorry it was two weeks, but I promise you that to me it felt like a lot longer. And they're not a problem here, so don't you worry."

Did that sound sincere? It was really the best he could do without knowingly lying. He's trying. He really is. After a few moments silence, consideration, and a soft sigh, his face presses a little deeper against the top of her head. "What tattoo are you gonna get?"

"You do know that any sentence that begins with that much English in it makes me nervous from the first." Sutton murmurs her words against his shoulder, but his ear's close enough. He can probably hear it just fine. "This is the first one. I didn't even think it would... I mean I didn't remember until Mum called me to say I love you, and then had to hand the phone off right away. Then I had to say I love you to my pop and hang up to go back to work. Then I made Moretti repeat himself like sixteen times even when I did understand what the fuck he was mumbling about." She probably hasn't mentioned it the mumbler at work, but that would be him.

"I thought I might carry my tattoo over and get a little cluster of Myosotis." Sutton's sleeve is capped in flowers, after all. "There's a little shop I like in Seattle, owned by a woman who does really fantastic black and grey work. She usually fits me in when I ask. Maybe she has some time next month." She falls silent again for a while.

"I'm sorry you were... where you were. I think it's obvious you didn't want to be there." It's easier to say this without having to make eye contact, but after a moment, she pulls back enough to do just that. "Are you hungry?" She winces faintly as she again takes stock of the black eye. "That definitely looks painful."

"You know what?" Carver murmurs for a moment, pulling his face away from her head for just a moment, and drawing his hand up her back to remove a few strands of hair with the utmost grace and the minimum of 'Pfftfpfpft' noises. "It made me nervous too. I'm not entirely sure where that came from."

Of course, all of those actions and words are followed by Sutton's retelling of quite possibly the second-worst day of her life. Or does that count as the first, continued? Hard to tell. Just in case you were worried Carver was growing any sense of timing or tact. His hand drops to her back at some point during this, at least, so he's at least doing something useful during the retelling. "So... shitty day caught you by surprise. I'm sorry it was rough, pet." His face is back in her hair by this point, undoing all of his hard work. And okay, the words might seem a little... lackluster. But don't pin that on Carver. He's said sorry about her whole situation before, and he's aware of how well that goes over. Or rather, how unnecessary it is. Empathizing for the shitty day as a whole rather than the events within? It's his plan B.

"If she does good black work, you'll have to introduce me sometime, I could use some re-touching." Would be all his comment on the tattoo. Is it because he's not entirely sure what a Myosotis is? Yes. Yes it is. And last but not least, with his hand soft scratching a small circle against her back, it's dragged up to her shoulder when she pulls back to check his eye. It does look painful, and slightly more closed than the other. "I'm sorry I wasn't here." He offers, smile soft, the hint of a wink ruined by said eye. "And yes, I'm hungry. And yes, it stings like a bastard if I look in the wrong direction."

And then Carver leans in, dropping a soft little kiss on the woman's forehead before whispering the words everybody wants to hear at this time of night. "We have six tacos."

"She does, and I will. You could come if you want. I don't know if you're allowed to cross state lines." Sutton and her jokes about ankle monitors. Not that Carver has one that she noticed. Still, it's recently become clear that his profession is most assuredly on the nope side of legal. She shakes her head. "No, it's ... don't be. It's a day. June will be over soon. Maybe as the years go, it'll be less of a problem." Unlikely, but perhaps she'll be better about not taking it out on other people. Her expression says she's unsure.

"Stop apologizing. When you apologize all British it makes me feel guilty." She pauses when he leans in, and goes quiet when he presses a kiss to her forehead. There's a beat after he says the thing about tacos, and she smiles. "Oh yeah?" Her gaze flicks to the bag. "Six, huh?" There's a beat more before she says, "Six will do."

"I say we eat some tacos, drink some wine, and then go to bed."

"I've got a really understanding parole officer." Carver retorts, not missing a beat. It's almost like he's used to people making those kinds of assumptions about him, despite his blatant and obvious attempts to dissaude such opinions through techniques such as: doing absolutely nothing about it and actually kind of enjoying it. Her comments on the month and the troubles and her hopes? They get a nod. A wordless little sign of some form of understanding, with a brief tightening of the hug he's got going on right now. His expression? Unreadable. Thanks, hair, for being all up in his face.

"I will never stop apologizing. Unless it's about tacos." Her gaze flicks to the bag, and he starts pulling back, freeing up some arms and space between the two of them so there can actually be attempts at eating food. Carver's sure Sutton has skills, but trying to eat when someone is doing a pretty good impression of a clingy octopus would put anyone's talents to the test. "I bloody hope six will do." He starts, his expression actually breaking into a small grin as he watches her come to a conclusion for the night's plan. "Four of them are yours."

"I think three of them are mine," Sutton says, her hand sliding down his back to come to rest at the lower left, just over his hip. She turns, leans to reach for the bag, digging around for a wrapped taco. She hands one to Carver and goes back for another for herself. "Thank you for coming over." She may have said this before. She may even say this again, but when she says it, she looks at the man beside her and means it. "I was having a self-destructive run of it there, and your taco delivery has saved me."

See? Sutton can deflect as well, just ... not as Britishly as Carver does. "I still have most of a bottle of whiskey, if you need it. Turns out, I think it tastes like lacquer thinner to me." So she hates it and keeps buying it anyway. She unwraps a taco and takes a huge bite.

"No, pet, four of them are yours." Carver replies, accepting and then unwrapping his taco with both hands to take a little peek at the innards and seeming pretty impressed with whatever the result may be. For some reason. "Four of them are shrimp and veg. And I'm not a huge shrimp fan." Oh, that would explain it. Good job, Carver. "Love prawns. And crab. But shrimp makes me feel weird. Like... weird." Is this an attempt to keep the conversation casual when there's still a little chance of it suddenly turning heavy?

All signs of his expression going very neutral and focused on his taco point to yes.

"Coming over?" He asks, picking out a suspicious looking vegetable with a curious eye. It's not that the vegetable seems suspicious, it's just that it's a vegetable, period. How. Dare. They. "Didn't you get the memo? You invited me in once." His expression is a mix of slight mischief and casual nonchalance. Look, ignore that that's probably pretty hard to pull off simultaneously, because Carver's doing it. And pondering flicking -whatever this... is it lettuce? it might be lettuce- towards her neck as she talks about self-destruction. "That means I now show up when you least and most want me to. Including when you've decided that smoking and drinking are just what a growing lass needs to shake off what ails her."

Carver's a smug bastard, and he'll probably never let anyone forget that. Tacos and a conversational opening are great coping mechanisms for a really rough week. Two weeks. Four months. "I'll probably try a bit, sure. It can't taste worse that the last lacquer thinner I drank."

"Prawns are huge shrimp. I don't see the difference." Sutton wouldn't, though. She says that after she's swallowed her first bite (you're welcome). "Okay, four of them are mine. I can do four." Challenge accepted. "Crab is good. There's a place in Seattle that does sushi burritos. You can basically get anything and rice wrapped in seaweed with sauce. It's the best thing ever invented. They have excellent tempura crab in those." Yet another thing on the 'stuff in Seattle I miss when I've been drinking' list. The list is extensive and varied. At least 80% of it's food-related.

"Look, the cigarettes were a moment of weakness." Sutton glances over, though she doesn't quite make eye contact. That probably means she has more around here somewhere. Carver's English. He doesn't even have to stretch to be both mischievous and nonchalant. Basically it's nonchalant-English. Same thing as mischief. Somebody was drunk when they rolled out those personality traits, but it works for most of the country, except the really posh.

There's a soft smile from Sutton, and before she goes back to devouring her shrimp taco, she says, "Carver, there's something deeply fucked up about you." It's said with such fondness.

"And an alligator is a giant gecko. Doesn't mean I'm going to keep one in a tank in my bedroom." Carver obviously does see a difference, although it's not likely that a shrimp is going to attack the guy and drag him in to a death roll any time soon.

Again.

He also doesn't say these words after he's swallowed his first bite, for that would be too much like following Sutton's lead. Instead, they come during the bite, the back of his hand coming up to his mouth to cover any wayward escaping crumbs of food while he speaks, and staying there as he turns to watch her espouse the virtues of Seattle seafood, chewing thoughtfully as he does so. Well, mostly thoughtfully. Contemplative would make up the rest of it, trying to see if her expression changes at all during her bout of post-drinking reminiscence.

"Mine are over there. It happens." A taco-holding hand indicates his discarded hoodie, his face doing a pretty good job concealing any unfavorable opinion regarding her 'moment of weakness.' He's probably more put off by the phrase, really. Whichever it is, he's got another mouth-full of shredded beef and vegetables when she gives the best compliment he's heard in exactly 47 days. His smile has a piece of lettuce clinging to a tooth. "You have no idea. But thanks!"

Sutton kills her first taco dead and says, "Shrimp tacos." It's a happy pairing of words. She reaches over to top up her glass of wine, puts the bottle down, then returns with it to the couch cushions, where she leans with her feet drawn up to rest on the edge of it. "Okay, alligators are not to geckos as shrimp are to prawns. I find that comparison flawed." She watches Carver finish his taco, and shakes her head a bit when he grins a lettuce grin. "I have some idea. I don't need the specifics." She doesn't say she's seen the scars, but she has. She still doesn't believe in Glimmery things, which future her is going to get fucked over by, but blissfully, she remains yet unaware of this.

Her moment of weakness appears to be ongoing, because she glances over at his hoodie, but says nothing about it, just takes another, larger sip of her wine. And by sip, half a glass down is what we mean here.

Okay, maybe the whole glass. The whole glass is fine too, right? Sutton finishes that, then leans over to put it down, long-stemmed glassware out of her hand. No refills, just yet. She looks at Carver for a time, watching him like she's wondering what secrets he's keeping, assured already he has several. Stacks, even. Perhaps archives full of them. There's a good chance she's wondering if it matters to her to know them, if she should ask. She glances over toward the sliding glass door and the dark sky beyond. When she looks back to Carver, the backs of her fingers are pressed lightly against her mouth.

Carver's eating his own portion like it's the best food he's had in months. Which, well, you know. Well, Sutton doesn't. His head shakes as he tries to hide a small chuckle that just about escapes him in response to both her two-word pairing of satisfaction and her judgement of his comparison, the latter getting a hand waved to shoo off the idea that he could ever be wrong. It even comes with a 'Pfft.' that by some miracle doesn't send food scattering over the seat. "Tha's probably for the befsht." He agrees through mouthful of shredded beef before realizing that it's be polite to swallow that down before finishing his thought.

His thought that's immediately lost when Sutton downs that entire glass. His eyes widen slightly by the third gulp, all memory of holding a now-empty taco wrapper in his hand forgotten until he shifts slightly once she's finished, the crinkling sound that results from his movement causing his head to glance down to his hand a flashing a look of 'Oh, right, that thing' that almost catches him by surprise. It's placed on the table, eyebrows furrowing just a touch as he leans in sync with her, never fully looking away from her face as he does so, but finding somewhere over her left shoulder to look when her gaze drifts to the glass door.

Which means her new position when he looks back towards her is met with a look of slight confusion. And curiosity. But only for a second, before he's throwing on a soft little smile. Yeah, that one. The one that may as well be neutral for the guy. "So..." The word lingers for a moment. "Belch, barf, or trying to hold in a question or a thought, which is sometimes worse than both?"

The absent-minded brushing of non-existent crumbs from his pant legs mean nothing, don't look.

Sutton shakes her head and drops her hand, fingers curling against her collarbone. She watches Carver for a moment before she absolutely lies with, "No." So definitely the question thing, then. "Nope." She shakes her head. Not going to ask. Not going to ask any questions about where he's been or his past. If she does, he might. "Life's a lot easier when you're so busy working doubles you shouldn't be working that you don't have time for a lot of thinking. Lots of problems to solve, none of the rest matters.

The brunette rolls off of the touch , sweeps up the wine, wine glass, corkscrew, and another taco, carrying the lot to the kitchen to distribute properly to sink, fridge, drawer, and face. She actually stands in the kitchen and finishes an entire second taco before she asks, "Did you get struck by lightning?" Goddamn it. Questions just slip right out. Like she doesn't have control over her own mouth.

Free of the wrapper, Carver's hand comes up to rub lightly at the edge of his nose, watching the moment of her hand, looking for any change in expression or body language as she lies the best lie she can lie. Twice, even. That means it's super-true. Sure, the smile widens a little, but that's totally because he believes her completely. He's the liar here, after all, and she'd never stoop low to his level in a conversation. "Well, that's okay, then."

He's pondering this as he takes up his second taco while she heads towards the kitchen, leaning back into the seat when his prize is obtained and unwrapping it with all the delicate skill of someone wearing oven mitts over broken fingers. They finish them at about the same time, his gaze slowly drifting over towards that balcony door when her voice pipes up from the opposite direction. "Yeah." He says, not turning around. It's a little higher pitched than it really should be for such a simple answer. "Playing golf. With businessmen. On a golf course. With clubs. Damnedest thing."

"You're so full of shit." Sutton doesn't even have to look at him to know that's a load of crap. "Please don't mention fucking golf clubs." That irritation is still fresh. The second she has proof of who did that... someone is going to pay. She's already decided how. The woman merely needs a whiff of a guilt. A look will do. She knows just who to start with at work.

No matter how well he lays that out, it's bullshit. Sutton's face says so, as do her words. Carver on a golf course. With golf clubs. With businessmen. Never even mind the rest.

"I wonder, if you told me the truth, would I even recognize it." The words themselves would probably come off as exceptionally salty if anyone else uttered them, but Sutton's delivery is soft. "I mean, it's endearing. You're funny. You keep it light. You have that been around the block so many times it's old hat kind of ease to you in most situations. You're charming, love." She shakes her head. "But bullshit."

Swiveling a little on the couch, Carver moves at the first bundle of words to look back towards the kitchen, face bright, arms spreading wide in the most least-casual 'Me? Never!' gesture ever offered by a mortal human. Deciding those words are enough of an impetus, he pushes himself up to stand, grunting a little at first from the jab in his shoulder, and then second from wincing from the jab in his shoulder which made the black eye sting like a mother. The guy's just a domino run of accidental wound-prodding for a second there.

"If I told you the truth-" He starts, unconsciously moving a hand to the pad of gauze so expertly applied to his collarbone-ish as he meanders towards the counter, lest anything else in his body complain about haste, "You'd definitely not let me hang around as much, Probably try and get me sectioned, and most assuredly make me put a shirt back on." His tongue clicks and his face beams. "So-" Arm. Counter. Leaaaaan. Surprisingly, with no complaint from the rest of his body. "No. You wouldn't. Which is why I so very rarely try to tell it."

And just for a second, for maybe one or two words of that final sentence, his intonation changes slightly. There's nothing really discernible about it, or what the change could mean, but it's a slip. Small, seemingly meaningless, but most definitely there. "And to be as honest as I can? Sometimes I don't know what it is either."

With a little hindsight, the change in his tone probably came when his brain pointed out she called him charming.

"I don't really know what to say to that," Sutton says, finally, after a good minute of just staring at Carver. When he says the thing about making him put a shirt back on, her gaze wanders, predictably, to his shoulders, and right on down. Mind of their own, those hazel eyes.

She flicks her fingers through her hair and uses an elastic to secure it into a neater knot than usual. Probably because she's taking some time with it now while she thinks about what to say to that. There's some part of her that knows weird shit is afoot, and that part knows she isn't ready to deal with it. That part is screaming for her not to push it. The smarter part of her brain wins out this time.

Right, Carver has eyes. One of them's even blackened. She focuses up there on his face. Finally. Several things occur to her in rapid succession, and whatever the last one is, it has her gaze sliding toward the shoulder with the scars.

Carver's decided to occupy the minute by tracing idle little patterns with his fingertip on the counter top, starting with little spirals and ending in various polygon shapes, the last of which is interrupted by Sutton finally deciding to speak up. Which means he looks up. Just in time to watch her gaze go on a little adventure. His lips purse up for a moment, not really doing anything of anything to discourage her, nor opening up his mouth to throw out nonsense sentences that'd throw her slow compartmentalization off track. It's almost like he's had conversations about this topic many, many times or something. Who would have thought?

And then she's looking at his face. "Hi." Tracing hand comes up to become a quick little waving hand, any sign of his earlier faltering or confusion completely absent from the gesture, even when she glances down to the oldest scars he has.

"My Dad'd put out cigarettes there." It's so goddamned matter of fact it could almost be shocking. "But I'm pretty sure you figured that out, or something close, the first night I stayed." Did you want a topic change? Have a topic change. You're welcome.

Sutton finishes with her hair, dropping her hands to her side of the counter. She leans in on her side, her hands falling a few inches short of Carver's. She mhms. "Yes, I know what old cigarette burns look like." She glances down at her hands and the ridiculous shade of polish she's wearing. She flexes her fingers and basically looks at them to stop looking at his scars, which she's usually better about. One hand is halfway to her mouth before she flattens her palms on the smooth granite, lest she do something like chew on a nail, something she stopped doing years ago. "I didn't know who."

Obviously she didn't know who. He didn't tell her until just now. "Sorry, didn't mean to ask." She didn't ask, at least out loud, but she kind of did with her eyes. "I have a great dad, but his mother was the devil. Not in a fun way." They sort of touched on this once, but she didn't elaborate. "Hi." Belateeeeed.

"I like the tattoo." Instead, she comments on one of the scars he gave himself.

When she places her hands down a second time, Carver's immediately slide on top, moving forward a little so his elbows can rest on the edge of the counter for support. It's almost like the guy that almost compulsively fidgets and brushes away dirt and crumbs that aren't there knows something about coping habits or something.

Okay, that's not entirely true. His hands don't rest atop hers. One does. The other actually slips under to lift it off the counter, his head dropping so he can examine the painted nails up close. At least for a moment. Sure, it starts off under the prelude of nail polish judgement, but it's not long before it's obvious this is just an excuse to not look her in the eye. Or touch her. Maybe both.

"If people only asked the questions they meant to, life would be so much simpler." He muses after a few moments of this, voice a little quiet, tone half-filled with empty cheer. His thumb taps the center of her palm, then places that hand back down on the counter so he can look up at her with the usual smile, expression totally that of someone who was about to wink and then remembered the whole eye thing. "But it'd also be really, really boring. And I'd not learn things about your Grams. And you'd not have learned about me being electrocuted trying to escape captivity."

Oh look, the truth. Will she recognize it?

The tattoo comment, belatedly? Actually gets a laugh. It's short, just a quick bark before his eyes duck down to look at the one on his arm. "That symbol in the middle is supposed to be some kind of protection from the elements thing, so..." It obviously works really well. "Artwork done by a guy who, I shit you not, went by the name of 'Tangible Dan.'"

Sutton takes a short breath when his hands slip overtop of hers. She doesn't say anything, but she stops fidgeting immediately. Her hands remain there, flat under his, until he lifts one of her hands to have a look at the fuchsia polish that is a truly vibrant pigment. "People rarely manage what they mean." She splays her fingers under his inspection, then just curls them 'round his hand. When he says the thing about captivity, there's a pause, and looks at him, and she says simply, "Electrocuted trying to escape captivity, hm? That's definitely a tactic worthy of a flamethrower up the ass." Lookit her, grumping at some unknown captors. She's really probably be pissed if she knew the story. Does she believe what he's said? Maybe, maybe not. Still.

"You got a protective tattoo from a dude who had to put tangible in his name so, what, he would remember? Or you'd feel assured?" Sutton hesitates, then asks, "Is there a guy called Conceptual Dan?"

"I liked him." Carver breaks into a far more genuine smile at her opinion of artist names, patting the top of her hand for a moment before he straightens up. There's something unsettling to him about being a little shorter than she is, and he feels a burning need to rectify that. "I appreciated the irony, because he sure as fuck wasn't all there." To be fair to Dan, judging by the work, he was there where it counted.

"And no flames. If my protection from elements doesn't work on lightning, I'm pretty sure I'm flammable. Or inflammable? Both? Both." Oh, she's totally be pissed if she knew the whole story. And Carver would pay good money to see Sutton dress-down something that goes by the title of The Noose Queen, that's for sure. As long as he could view it from afar. Like, say, a different county. He looks to the ceiling for a second, musing. "I should have got it done by Ineffable Dave."

"Swore like a fuckin' sailor."

"Now you're just making that up," Sutton replies, shaking her head. "Everyone knows the best tattooers swear, so you're at least right about the one thing." She snorts. "Ineffable Dave." Then again, thinking on that a bit longer, Inefffable Dave does go quite a long way toward explaining Tangible Dave. All of this goes on in her head, but it's quite easily visible on her face. The shifts in her expression follow a logical patter of: shut up, well, wait, weeeeell, fuck, probs, yeah. "Jesus, the conversations we have."

Sutton moves around the counter to say, "I think you should demand a refund. Isn't that the alchemical symbol for fire?" Honestly, it's like you can't trust a tangible tattooer these days.

The brunette, still with Carver's hand in hers or her hand in his, says, "I'm going to eat one more taco, and then we're going to bed. You can bring the whiskey." She nods to the fridge. "Somehow it ended up on top of there. I don't remember doing it, but it's possible I threw it there. I was drunk texting and it didn't ... go well."

Carver watches the middle-aged-couple-flicking-through-a-paint-swatch transition of expressions that pass across Sutton's face with a certain level of amusement on his own, glancing down to the ink on his arm with a softening little smile. And then she mentions the symbol for fire. "Oh!" She meant the one on his back. Sorry, Ineffable Dave, your work has been rejected. Begone with you!

"You didn't me- Oh. Right, yeah, that one." His thumb comes up to point over his shoulder. Which, yeah. That hurts. There's a wince. Which also hurts. Please stop making him point at things. "Eh." He recovers smoothly, at least. "Could mean a lot of things. A lot of shit is represented by three points. Past, Present, Future. Creation, Preservation, Destruction. Lazy version of the holy trinity. Greeks saw it as representations of doorways, apparently."

He smiles, pats her hand, then leans in now that she's moved around the counter to whisper in her ear, voice... well, you don't need alertness checks to know he's trying to sound as dumb as possible. "Or I was a kid who thought a nice easy geometric shape would be a good first piece of ink. Go grab your food, love. I'll grab my drink."

"Yeah, because every dumb kid loves perfect triangles." Sutton gives Carver's hand a squeeze. "I talk a lot because my mouth runs away with me and I find it difficult to keep most of my opinions to myself." She moves into the living room, "Do you talk a lot because you don't want anyone to know which opinion is actually yours?" She does let go of his hand so he can choose to retrieve the whiskey up top. It's nothing special, just a little bottle of Crown Royal. Why she chose Canadian whiskey is anyone's guess (probably because she doesn't actually drink it.)

Once she reaches the table in the living room and scoops up a taco, she says, "Fuck what people think. You wanna get a triangle because the Greeks are into geometry, cool." That isn't the first thing she was going to say Greeks were into, but she skips right along to geometry easily enough. She unwraps the taco and takes a bite, turning to head over to close the balcony door as she takes a bite. Then she eats it as she crosses the living room again, standing in the middle to wait for Carver, eating her taco standing like a heathen. Or someone who has learned you eat while you can, because life happens.

"I just think triangles are neat. In some cases." It really is hard to tell if Carver knows what his own truth is, sometimes. One truth is that he squeezes that hand right back, throwing out a little laugh as she releases him to go get the whiskey. "I talk a lot because silence is deafening, love. It's easy to tell my opinion when you really think about it. Just gotta..." He waves his hand, looking for the right turn of phrase. Which, y'know, he hides pretty well considering she's walking for the tacos. Has he got the Whiskey bottle in his hand by the time she's taking a bite? Sure. That was pretty quick, so the guy must be limber. And stealthy. Good job, Carver. "Ignore what I say, pay attention to what I do, I guess?"

The latter part of that sentence is said with him moving around the counter, not even bothering to bring a glass. Or two. What? it's not like she's going to drink it. He totally idly gets distracted by one of the photographs he can see in the hallway while she's closing up the door, and then snaps to something resembling attention when there's the soft noise of someone standing in the middle of a room and taking a bite out of a taco. It's a very distinctive sound. You learn to recognize it when you hear it. And he does what anyone would do when he does hear it. That'd be slowly approaching her, no sign of mischief at all, and slowly raising his hand up to the other side of her taco to gentle urge it towards her face. "If you can fit all of what's left in your mouth, I'll..." His words pause, the slow goading does not. "Figure some reward out. I'm not waking up to a godfather-esque shrimp head next to me."

Sutton says something that sounds like mffy moo ust ry noff move moo fass. Which is mouth-full-speak for mostly you just try not to move too fast, which seems to be kind of what he does when she's around. At the taco mouth challenge, she narrows her eyes slightly. Several things occur to her to say, but if she says any of them, she'll be laughing too hard to win what amounts to a dare. Her eyebrows rise. Yes, challenge accepted. Hopefully he doesn't say any of the things she just thought while she's in the middle of speed eating a street taco. Hold on a second... and go!

For an alarming moment, it seems like she might actually do it, chomping through enough taco to get most of it into her mouth. Why she's cramming a taco in her face for an undisclosed prize? She came up largely in a firehouse. You do this shit all the time for fun. Just when it seems she isn't going to get the taco into her mouth? Bam. She does. She may not be able to swallow said taco without choking, but success! Barely.

Sutton lifts her shoulders in a shrug, one hand coming up in a now what gesture. She holds her other hand not far from her mouth in case something untoward should happen, and tries, at least, to keep chewing. Now there's no way Carver would understand anything she was trying to say in the event she actually tried to speak. Which she won't. Because choking hazard.

Carver's face goes from amused, to concerned, to impressed, to concerned, to really concerned...

And then to absolutely amazed.

There's a second where he actually starts clapping, but has to cut short thanks to the ache in his shoulder, so what really happens, against all his planning, is Sutton is effectively golf-clap applauded in her own living room for potentially cutting off her airway with shrimp. Which, really, what else are friends for. It's probably for the best that few words left his mouth during the challenge, and all of them were encouraging. Sure, they cut off pretty soon, the timing suspiciously synced up with the first bout of concern, but not once did he mention deep throating, which... well, that was his challenge.

One of them, anyway. The second challenge was not to laugh at her now what shrug gesture. Which he fails. The second is not to pat her on the ass with his good hand as he passes to go get her a glass of water. Which he also fails. "I'll get you some water." At least he explains where he's going. "Aaaaaand a waste bin. Or you could always use the balcony."

Sutton didn't have to choke the taco down, and though it's totally a waste of shrimp, rarely does a challenge go unaccepted around here. However, that he's willing to fetch her the bin while she's stood around trying to remember to breathe through her nose is more than most of the guys at the fire house would do. Most of them, anyway. They like to take bets on who can make you choke first when you're compromised in such a way. Thankfully Carver keeps his thoughts to himself.

She's headed to the kitchen while he's headed to the kitchen, so at least she can use the bin while he's filling a glass, and he doesn't have to watch her spit gifted shrimp into it. Not all of the gifted shrimp, mind. Just enough to clear up some proper chewing room. She's swallowing most of that, thank you. It's a fucking shrimp taco.

She gives a thumbs up and finishes off what she can, tucking the bin back in its place under the counter. At length, when she's basically got her digestive system under control, she coughs a bit and says, "You should have seen what happened the day we did a taquito challenge." She clears her throat and says, "I hope my prize is more than just a golf clap. I almost choked for that." She makes a gimme motion with her hand. Water.

The lesson to take home here is that despite being a miscreant, vagabond, rascal, scoundrel, crook, blackguard reprobate, Alistair Carver is also a goddamned gentleman. Reaching the kitchen, he reaches down to slide out the bin for her, then immediately heads for the sink and cupboards to sort her out a glass of water. The tap fortunately covers the sound of partially chewed food hitting bin-liner, although if you think that's a noise Carver's never heard before, or is put off by, you need to get to know him better.

He's got the glass held out when she asks for water, an eyebrow up. The one above his good eye. "Okay so..." His hand, relieved of water, raises up into a ceiling-pointing finger. "One: I kinda both desperately want to know what happened the day you guys did a taquito challenge while at the same time absolutely never wanting to know." Another finger is added to the point. "Two, I kinda had a plan for a prize, but I'm just now realizing I filled you with tacos, so it might be a terrible prize."

Will Carver be straightforward one day? Probably not.

Sutton drains about half the glass of water before she replies, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Look. So, the taquito challenge ends in gastrointestinal pyrotechnics. Not for me, just... others." She sips the water again. "Mm, and I'm mostly full of tacos, but now tippy top full of tacos, so really the only bad prize would be fireman carrying me somewhere or suggesting I ride a mechanical bull, asking me to perform CPR for more than about a minute and a half. I might barf then. Really."

She lifts her glass to finish off the water, mostly, anyway. "Still, kinda ominous for a prize."

"To be completely honest, I hadn't really thought the prize part through." Carver's thumb flicks at the tip of his nose for a second, eyes glancing over to the bottle of whiskey on the counter, placed there when he went to give the glorious gift of water. "That and this night didn't exactly kick off how I expected it to, so I've been winging it ever since you hugged me instead of throwing hooks."

Is he ignoring the mention of pyrotechnics, gastrointestinal or otherwise? Damn right he is. Completely. Is he daydreaming about Sutton on a mechanical bull for a few seconds? Damn right he is. Completely.

Is he stepping forward with the word 'Ominous' looming over his head like some kind of pendulum blade trap, the sense of it slowly lowering above him driving the guy forward to wordlessly slide his hand around Sutton's side, letting it come to a rest at the small of her back? And then leaning forward to press a gentle but definitely imaginary-swinging-blade-motivated kiss against her lips, even if it initially lands a little high and needs to be dropped down on a second attempt?

Damn right he is. Completely.

Sutton considers this for a moment, then says, "If you'd like me to reset your internal clock, I could treat you to the left hook my brother taught me, but it'll fuck up your face. And the last time I used it, I almost broke my hand." Because her wrist was in the wrong position and she was very drunk. But that, my friend, is a story for a different day. "Almost broke my hand and still fucked up someone's face." Ha. Win. Even with a fail attached.

Sutton's busy glancing down when Carver reaches for her, like he's about to go for her -- nope, passing up her pocket eeeentirely. The hand on the small of her back gives her a little warning about what he's going to do, and her chin comes up, perhaps to say something, but there's a whole blade metaphor happening and does he seem terrified? Like she's going to rip his arms off?

Wait, who's drunk here? His first kiss gets her upper lip sort of, and the second one comes in while she's opening her mouth to say something. "..." Nope, no words come out for that. "Hm." A sound is all that greets that kiss, at least for a moment. She starts to take a breath, but stops when his mouth is on hers. He still tastes like tacos, as does she. Sutton just starts to respond, her hand coming up to his shoulder, woops, sorry, before she remembers to breathe again. The kiss goes from 'what's going on' to 'oh, okay, right, yes, this is nice' fairly quickly. It's soft, but her hand creeps up Carver's shoulder, sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair.