2019-07-08 - Cheyne–Stokes

Though security takes much longer looks at people coming into and leaving the building now than they did previously, Carver's probably been around enough that they don't hassle him. Right?

Sutton's propped the door open with a fire extinguisher, kitchen variety, unused. She paces the apartment with a glass of wine in her hand, the whole place smelling of fresh laundry. Apparently, judging by the state of the living room, where things unpacked from boxes are stacked, and the box tower has been reduced a level, she's been cleared to lift and carry stuff again. She's still wearing her uniform from work. So, yep, that tracks. A basket of laundry, unfolded, and a basket of laundry, folded, rest by the couch.

Carver wasn't bothered by security. Fact of the matter is, if Carver didn't want to be stopped at the gate, he just... wouldn't use the gate. Sure, the security cameras would pose something more of a problem, but that can always be thwarted by som-What were we talking about?

He's dressed for the summer. Kind of. No big coat. No waistcoat. There is a light jacket single-buttoned with a deep charcoal tone to match the pants. It's completely obvious this was an off-the-shelf purchase. Even the black shirt doesn't fit quite as well as the rest of his usual attire, and the shoulders of that jacket pinch just a touch. The shoes, at least, are his. They're a pair of oxfords in a shined-up black leather, but have obvious wear creases that he'll never get rid of.

There's also the big-ass brown paper bag clutched in his arms as he walks into the apartment, shifting the fire extinguisher away with his foot to let the door swing shut behind him, beelining towards the counter after a single glance in Sutton's direction. How much he actually took in is pretty hard to gauge.

"Gan-Jang pork bulgogi, some clusterfuck of various barbecued meats, Kimchi bibimbap, and some shrimp yakisoba." He lists as he pulls things from the bag to spread out along the counter. Oddly focused today, this lad. He doesn't even comment on the boxes.

Sutton bends to put down her wine glass on the table when the door opens and Carver walks in. She straightens up from the coffee table and turns toward the man wearing the coat and carrying a large bag of takeaway. She surveys the new look and says, "Sounds good, I'll get some plates." When she says plates, what she means is wide, low bowls, forks, and, "You want something to drink, love?" She seems to be feeling better, or she's masking. Perhaps it's the rather large gift of food improving her mood, or being back at work. Properly back at work.

From the kitchen, she says, "Make yourself at home." And then she's tiptoeing to reach for the bowls, pulling open a drawer for some flatware, and the like. The only part of her uniform she isn't wearing: the steel toed boots by the door. Her long hair is even still pulled up in a braided crown.

"Got any soda?" Carver responds to the question with an arm deep in the bag, pulling out a few more deep plastic bowls in a deep red color, tupperwear caps holding in what can be accurate called an 'abundance of rice.' His thumb comes up to his mouth for a moment while Sutton busies herself with such high-falutin' duties as 'finding cutlery and bowls.' It's a good bet if she had just sat down on the couch the second he entered, he'd be eating bits of pork with his fingers within three-and-a-half minutes.

With everything spread across the counter to be doled out once what surely will be fine chinaware is ready, Carver turns back towards the door, peeling off his suit jacket as he goes. It really does scream 'Came as part of a set in some chain store's menswear section.' "You've actually unpacked, some!" He comments en-route. It sounds jaunty, feels guarded. It's almost like not that long ago the two of them kissed and his immediate reaction was to should 'Jesus fucking Christ' and jump about a foot in the air.

Or something.

Sutton actually pauses in pulling the fridge open when Carver asks for soda. She casts a quick glance his way, pulls the fridge all the way open, and then says, "Yeah, Coke and, uh, IBC rootbeer, and some ginger soda." She mhms, "Yeah, I got tired of looking at the massive stack of boxes, mocking me like I haven't been here for months now."

She slides over the bowls and leaves the fridge open, pulling out a Coke. Most people go for that over the other choices, which some find a bit strange. The rootbeer is sweet and the ginger beer is burny. She has her wine already, so she doesn't pull another drink for herself. She watches Carver wander off, then finally glances down at the spread of food.

Yes, having a man kiss her then shriek (in a manly fashion) right after is a memory she's going to cherish for some time.

"Honestly?" Carver throws a little glance over his shoulder, the distraction of doing so meaning he completely whiffs on hanging up his jacket. Twice. He's totally subtle and entirely cool about it, though. Nothing to notice there. Really, it's a minor flailing at best. "I thought you were doing it as an art piece. 'The clutter that blocks our way' or something."

It really is the smallest of small talk, huh? He actually looks a little ashamed by it as he comes on back to the counter, reaching out a hand for the coke as he approaches. She might not have made the right choice, but it was a good one. Carver's a rootbeer fiend. That shit's real hard to find back home. Well, decent stuff is, anyway.

And then he joins in at the glancing of food. The 'quite a bit Jesus Christ how much did I spend again' amount of food. "You uh..." A swig. "Think I got enough?"

Sutton may be watching this, and her lips miiiight just start to curve a little when he misses the second time. She mhms, "I was just waiting to see if it fell over on someone, save me the trouble of unpacking it all."

Does she think he got enough. "What were you planning to eat?" Yes, very funny, Sutton. That serves as both a yes and a subtle you think? on her part. "Thanks for bringing food. I was just sitting here with my various menus and the half a carton of eggs in the fridge thinking the situation is dire. I might have to cry cooking again, which this week... has not gone well." She surveys the food and spears a shrimp from the container without bothering to spoon anything into her bowl, which she just got down, so they could pretend to each like civilized people.

"How's your week going?" It's been ... a while since they caught up in person. God, more small talk.

Peeling one of the container lids away from what seems to be some decently barbecued pork, Carver watches as his host spears a shrimp. There's a little twitch at the edge of his mouth. It's like the damn thing's watching him. "How much'd'you burn?" He asks, bringing his eyes up to her face for a moment, if only to avoid looking at the shrimp. There's some actual curiosity in his voice, which is a little rich coming from the guy who has only ever been seen by anyone in town eating takeout or stall food.

A piece of beef is plucked up with his fingers, and for a second it might actually sound like there's a hint of sizzle still going on in that container. "Friend of mine touched something that I'm pretty sure cursed her. Wrecked her car. Lot of bad shit happening. That kinda thing." Deadpan. As. Fuck. "Pondering throwing it into the sea and being done with it."

Speaking of throwing, that's what happens to the beef. It totally makes up for his missing with the coat. A perfect arc in the air to his waiting mouth. Then, while chewing, he shrugs. "So, y'know. The usual."

"I fucking burn everything," Sutton murmurs, checking to be sure she's peeled off any inedible bits or hunks of chili, which sometimes she accidentally eats. That is a mistake every time. Plus is this real Korean or hipster Korean or fusion Korean. No one knows. Until it's in their mouth. "I have to take the batteries out of the smoke detectors every time I cook."

"I pulled a sweet woman called Lily out of a fucked up SUV snuggling a tree. She head-on'ed that fucker right before I got off shift and we almost didn't get her out before the whole thing went up." Sutton scoops some beef into her bowl, then adds a little from each container, and some rice. She seems to like the rice. It goes on top, not on the bottom to catch sauces like normal people would do.

"Just about everything that could go wrong did go wrong, except she didn't spear an artery." Which would be impossible with tempered glass, right? Sutton seems to have glossed over the fact that she even remembers anything about it being at all weird. "Two points for that." She rates his food toss deadpan, then stands there taking a bite. Before her mouth closes on a piece of beef, she asks, "Ocean's a good place to dispose of things you never want found again." She takes the bite, chews, then says, "Course it also washes stuff right back up sometimes. And that's how four year olds carry partially skeletonized feet to their sunbathing mommies on beautiful, partially overcast Washington summer days."

"Yup, that's the lass. Sounds like it all could have gone a lot worse. Thanks for saving her ass." Carver's got a second piece of pork between his fingers when Sutton mentions the name, taking the news and notification of just how close a call the entire thing was in stride. He actually waggles the food in confirmation, then has to clear up a small bit of sauce that dropped to the counter as a result of his actions. Good job, buddy. "Been crashing on her sofa for a bit. Got a friend watching her right now."

So sure, right now the one she's actually aware of would probably be Michael, who he's never met. But if a dyed hair teenager busts in to this apartment through a wall yelling that shit is going down? Well. Look. It's not an outside possibility any more. That's all we're saying.

He was holding food before, so it's only right that he's chewing on another piece of pork and licking off a couple of fingers when Sutton mentions skeletonized feet and four year olds. Really, it couldn't have come at any other time, could it? He stops working on cleaning off his index fingers to contemplate her for a moment with a quick glance. Well, stare. It's a look. At least he blinks. "It's the shoes, right?"

Said like he's reading the weather, not looking away. "Shoes float so when the ankle goes the feet wash up?"

Fucking hell. These two.

"She was banged up a bit, but she should be fine. If they sent her home, seems the head lac was superficial?" Sutton regards Carter for a moment as he implies Lilith needs constant supervision. She smiles slightly at that. "You sound like you really think she's cursed." And isn't that just a silly concept. Cursed. "Saving her ass is my job." She takes another bite.

"Yes. They tend to hold the bones together longer, like saran wrap and cookie dough. I mean it's rare, you know, that it happens. But it happens, and it. is. barfworthy. I mean I don't like smelly feet on a live person. Putrefaction is right fucking out." Sutton takes another bite and says, "Where ever you got this, it's pretty damn good." She shoves a bite of rice into her mouth next.

"I think maybe one of the patrol officers has a little crush on Lily. It's very cute." That would be Michael. Sutton falls quiet for a moment, then has another bite, and apparently changes her mind, because she turns around and goes back to the fridge for a root beer in a chilled glass bottle. She twists the top off with a hiss and kicks the door closed again, taking those few steps over to the counter. One sip down, she thunks the bottle beside the shrimp dish.

"She probably is." Fine? Superficially wounded? Cursed. Who knows. Carver's eating pork, he has very little time for expanding on his words any. He's far, far too busy picking around all the vegetables to get to the good stuff, going as far as to tilt up the bowl for a moment and go on a proper excavation attempt every so often. It's pretty lucky he's working his way through it so quickly, as by the time Sutton's going in to a little more detail about what happens to clothed human remains, he's got the bowl up to his mouth to try the ol' shake-and-tip.

This does mean that when she's done, and moves on to shoving rice in her mouth, Carver has to wipe away a whole bunch of sauce and grease that... well, missed. Luckily, there are napkins.

"May god have mercy on him, then." He'd probably try to put a little more zest into his words, or more of an upbeat lyrical lilt into his tone as he speaks, but alas, there is an elephant in this apartment and it is pressing up against his chest. More pork will solve this. Pig. Solves. Everything. Sutton's turned away when he explains. "She's uh... Soft shell, terrifying center. Like a concrete burrito."

Sutton watches Carver for a moment, but doesn't comment on his methods of devouring his food. Until such time as his actual jaw unhinges, she's cool with it. She spears a piece of shrimp and shoves it into her mouth. "I think that would be perfect for Mike. He needs it in his life." Breaking a tooth on a concrete burrito? She's a goddamn saint, she is. "Good dude. In need of a cage rattle." Where and when she decided this is anyone's guess.

"Good on her. I knew there was something about her that called to me to offer her sweets." Sutton sips from her bottle of root beer, then puts it down on the counter again, but she watches him over it while she's taking that sip. She seems on the verge of saying something, but her gaze lowers and she does her level best to keep it on the inside.

There's another flicker at the corner of Carver's mouth when another piece of shrimp is shown what for, his bowl being pushed aside for a moment so he can focus on downing most, if not all, of his own drink. It's possible that pork was actually pretty fucking spicy, and judging by a minor flushing that slowly spreads across his face, his body has decided now is about as long as he could go without regretting it. "Sthee's" Oh god, burning numb tongue. He takes a second, shifting a little from foot to foot, then goes for another few gulps of his drink, giving the empty container a little disappointed rattle when he's done. "She's definitely someone who could do that." Oh thank god, it worked.

And then, Carver, relieved of the burning sensation and master of great ideas... goes for more pork. A second container is opened, with a single piece of the barbecued and spiced meat plucked away in his fingers before it's tilted towards Sutton in a minor offering. He was opening it when she seemed about to say something. He totally didn't notice.

"Thanks, by the way." Of course he's talking while eating, settling back in to that easy smile as he chews. "For saving her life." How. How does he make that sound like small talk.

That's the second time he's thanked her for saving Lily. "There is never a time when I'll pass someone in need and not do everything I can to help them." Sutton finally glances up, apparently having missed the offer of meat. Shame, really. In some cultures, that's considered a serious proposition. "Though I have been tempted to withhold pain medication a time or 49, I rarely, if ever, do it." She's done it three times and every single one of them deserved it.

She waits. She waits until he's just throwing a hunk of meat into his mouth to say, "If we just fucked would you stop acting so goddamn hinkey?"

Carver would probably be about to thank her a third time. Deep down, he knows Lilith's cursed. Deeper down, he knows there's not a single thing he can do about it.

And somewhere in there, deeper than anything else, he's certain he's to blame.

But why would someone as easygoing and relaxed as Carver worry about something like that? Especially here and now. He's got company, food, a place to stay the night, and at least for the moment, there's no ghostly watcher commenting on anything he says or does. Which makes it a nice and easy evening. One in which he can relax, settle in, probably watch some weird documentary with Sutton as she winds down after a long day, and throw a piece of pork into his mouth right as she's asking a question to throw him completely off of his game.

If missing the coat hook was an air-ball, this fucker was a half-court shot that found his windpipe with the unerring accuracy of a hellfire missile. There's a beat after he's thrown the food into his mouth that Sutton gets a glance. And an expression of uncertainty. It's a face that totally says 'Wait. Did I actually just do that?'

The follow up attempt to breathe that sounds like someone blowing air through a straw filled completely with water suggests that yes, yes he did. The eyes widen. The next attempt at a breath sounds worse.

Sutton could not have timed that better, and there's a good chance, somewhere not so deep down, she did it on purpose. She set the wheels in motion on purpose, that is. She definitely wanted to shake him up, see if he'd say something substantive. Maybe the actual choking was an accident. Probably it was.

Maybe.

It's not long before it's clear Carver is in distress. She tips the lids onto the containers, moves around the counter, her fingertips tracing the edge, and slips around. "Don't panic. You're fine." Says the woman who can breathe. "Try to cough, love." She slides a hand up his back and moves partially behind him. If he can't clear the nugget of pork himself, well. She is a trained professional.

See, Carver knows he's choking. Carver knows his windpipe is pretty damn well blocked right now.

Carver's monkey brain, a relic from a time long passed? That's in full blown panic mode. Unfortunately for BOTH parts of him, Carver's usual method of calming down from a panic attack is to take slow, deep breaths and center himself. Slow, deep breaths that right now would sound like a wheezing balloon. He doubles over, hands pressing deep into his thighs as Sutton's words finally reach his ears. After she made sure to place the lids back on the food containers. Don't think he didn't notice that. The first cough, ironically, chokes. The panic seized up his diaphragm. The second's a pretty good attempt, even with his face rapidly reddening.

The forth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth all come as one long chain, one hand leaving his thigh to make an attempt at catching the now-dislodged piece.

But he doesn't straighten. Or stop coughing. Of course that pork had chili on it.

Sutton is a practical sort of woman, and there's plenty of food there that could be ruined by cooling too much. One never knows how long these chokings will take. Also spit-out food bits, not good garnish. She's just about to start pounding his back between his shoulder blades as a second escalation in the 'let's not pass out and die today' ritual. Carver has it under control, and she rubs his back while he's coughing himself to death. She will feel a little bit responsible if any of the little blood vessels in his eyes have blown. She continues to murmur reassuring things to him like, "You're fine, keep it up, good job." Things that in a panic probably make most people want to stab the person saying them.

"There you are. Nicely done." Sutton runs her hand up to the back of his neck. "Bit spicy, isn't it?"

Carver doesn't mind the back rubbing. He does mind the sensation of his nerves catching alight somewhere deeper in his throat than anyone should ever feel it. There sure is plenty more coughing, and while he may not have blown any blood vessels, by the time the coughing finally starts to recede and is replaced with long, ragged breaths, the edges of said eyes are exceedingly red and remarkably watery.

Her hand is on his neck when there's a few raspy noises. Not really an attempt at speech, more just... noise for the sake of being able to make noise. There's only a few of them, though, because it only takes a couple for Carver to realize that moving his vocal chords at all right now hurts. Hurts. Like. A. Mother.

When he straightens, it's as she's commenting on the level of spice. The polite reply is a middle finger in her direction and a grab for his drink, only to find it empty. His plan B is to find a spot of the counter not currently occupied, and rest his upper chest against it, the side of his face appreciating the cool surface as his back slowly rises and falls with his breathing.

"Not really." He eventually utters. "That's nothing to do with you." He winces as he says it. Twice, in fact. But at least she got an answer.

Hm. Well then. "Well... then." At least she has a habit of usually saying exactly what she's thinking, leading to a distinct lack of any sessions of what is Sutton thinking. A silence falls between them as she thinks over those words, and that they come with little elaboration. She slides her fingers into his hair, then runs her hand down his back one more time.

After, Sutton moves to carry on around the counter again, ostensibly to return to her food. "I'm... sorry about the pork chunk. That was ill timed." Never mind that she covered the food before she came to his aid.

"It was worth an ask."

It's not too easy to spot, but Carver's eyes dipped shut at the feel of fingers up in his hair. Honestly, they're generally so red at this point it's hard to tell exactly what they're up to at any given moment. He also notices the silence, an arm that hangs loose from the counter reaching out in an attempt to brush her side that comes far, far too late. She's already moving for food.

Carver has two modes, it seems. Reckless and impatient, and over-contemplating to the point of inaction.

So, uh. Good luck with that, Sutton!

"No you're not." His laugh comes with an additional cough, the crook of his other elbow coming up to cover his mouth as he lifts up from the counter. Eyes are rubbed, and he takes a moment to turn around and check out the rest of the apartment. Obviously just to check out how his vision is doing after such a minor ordeal, right? There's no other reason to be looking about the place. He actually even starts to wander a little, passing around the counter to grab a glass and pour some water. He'll grab another coke in a minute, but for now, he fears any kind of carbonation. "I'd never say no." He adds over the sound of the tap. "I'm just saying it wouldn't fix-..." The tap shuts off, and he turns to face her once more, rubbing at an eye with the back of his hand.

"I'm not entirely sure what I'm saying."

There's a long moment in which Sutton watches Carver, while she's standing there finishing off her bowl of food, which is nearly done already. Just a few bites left there. When he says no you're not, she thinks on it a moment, then shrugs one shoulder while she chews. Fair. As to the other thing, the other thing about never saying no...

The brunette finishes the last bite, puts her fork down. She doesn't reply to that first thing, or the second thing. What she responds to is the last thing that he says, about not being entirely sure what he's saying. "That definitely makes two of us."

Her hazel eyes are shadowed by long black lashes, and she reaches up to brush her fingers through her hair. She leans against the counter watching Carver watch her. There's a lot left unspoken: glimmer, Veil, restless spirits, her brother, actual curses...

Leaning back against the counter, Carver looks down to his glass and runs a thumb around the rim as unbroken silence encompasses the room. It's awkward. Holy shit is it awkward.

It's not made any less awkward by him taking plenty of time to down at least half the content of the glass, only pausing for a second as the fear of a surprise cough creeps from a soft tickle at the back of his throat, eventually passing without disruption. Only when he's figured that's enough to be getting on with does he place the glass back down beside the sink, but not before pouring out the rest of the water down the drain. A pretty solid sign that he's done with it if ever there was one.

And the his lips purse. His tongue clicks. He brushes an errant strand of hair away from his forehead, the strand having been tickling his eyebrow as he glanced up at the ceiling for just a second. And then he seems to reach a conclusion. There's a little straightening of his posture, which considering the guy lives his life in a permanent slouch, the sight of it might be a little strange. "So, uh..." Where did the smugness go. Where did the self-certainty go. Bring it back, Carver, your tone is so very unsettling without it.

His thumb jabs towards the door. "I'm... gonna go. Before this somehow gets worse."

Sutton watches him drink his water, consider his glass, the long moment before he pours what's left. When it becomes apparent that he's not going to elaborate, and this had just become the most awkward staring match that they've had to date, she glances down at her feet. "Okay." That's said softly. She presses her hand into the edge of the counter, then shoves off of it to step closer. "So."

The paramedic reaches up to take hold of Carver's collar on either side of his neck. "When you decide that you're ready to tell me what the fuck is going on, you come back." Yeah, it's about to get more awkward, because after she says, "And tell me," she leans in, pulling him toward her by his collar. "Ok?"

"If you genuinely think it's best that I don't know..." Sutton swallows audibly. "I don't know. I don't know. But if you need a place to stay, a shower, some medical attention. I can do that. I like answers. I'm an answers person. This is going to take some adjusting to." Kind of like standing there with someone holding you tight by your collar.

Would it surprise anyone to hear that Carver is actually rather used to being grabbed by the collar? It's why he doesn't usually wear tee-shirts. Without a collar, people kept going for the throat. "Oka-" He's part way through repeating the word just to take whatever breaks in the silence he can get when there are fingers grabbing his collar. He gives a good attempts at trying to look down at the hands holding him in place, but... you know. They're right under his chin. It's pretty difficult. And he looks like a jackass in the attempt. Which is just what anybody wants when they're trying to make the best of a bad situation while offering support and what understanding they can summon in a situation as odd as this.

Twice, he looks about to say something. Once when he's pulled forward, his eyes widening as if he's expecting a knee to land somewhere he can't currently see.
Once when Sutton takes a pause to swallow and find her words.

"Okay." He finally gets out, and it looks for a second as though he's about to place a hand on one of hers before it stops short, never reaching higher than his ribs before dropping loose to hang by his side. He nods. It comes with a slow blink that lingers for just a moment too long to be meaningless. "I..." His mouth closes. Opens. Closes. His eyes roll up and his head tilts back to look for another few seconds at the ceiling, not quite able to look at her directly for now. "Deal. All of it. I'll come back when it's..."

He doesn't have a conclusion to that sentence. At least he looks down again. A touch too high to meet her eyes.

Sutton probably wants to shake him until he spits it out. She might even be wondering if she has the strength to dangle him from the balcony. Or if it would just fuck up her back again. It's... it's really hard to tell. There is that sense of potential in her hands, which spend most of the day doing triage. Her hands slip free of his collar, and she smoothes it. That only kind of helps. Now it' s a bit wrinkly. She's definitely stronger than she looks. "I don't know what you want." She could be talking to him or to herself.

"Thanks for dinner, love." At last, she says this.

Carver doesn't exactly weight much, so it's possible. He starts trying to glance down at his collar once more when she starts smoothing it out, but catches himself early this time and it's far, far less stupid looking. His action, that is. Not the collar. That looks dumb as hell now.

When she talks about not knowing what's wanted, his face creases for a second. A second longer. And then there's the bark of a laugh he has to cover with a forearm, the surprised expression of mirth most certainly reaching up to his eyes. "Hah!" Considering the way the conversation's been going, it's kind of like a gunshot in a quiet room. His ears may or may not be ringing. "Now there's a universal truth." He's pretty sure she was talking about him. His hands shift from hanging limp at his side to tucking a thumb into his pockets. They don't really move all that much, but at least it looks purposeful. It also means he doesn't reach out to touch as he steps around her, eyes taking a moment to look at the floor as he goes. "When I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

All of this. Every single piece of it all because Carver knows he couldn't handle her response to 'Your brother is a ghost, there's weird shit in town, and I wasn't kidding about a cursed gem.' He's no idea why the idea of her looking at him like he's insane worries him so much, but it does. Enough to make headway to leave. Again: Good job, Buddy.

Sutton sighs and drops her chin slightly. She brushes her hands briefly over his shirt. "I miss the waistcoat if I'm honest." She gives his shirt one last tug and steps back, her hand reaching out behind her to find the counter, so she can step back to it without smacking into it. She leans into that, stands there for a moment tipped back.

"Look, you... don't have to go. If you're just going because this got weird. I need to have a shower and I have the guest bed and the couch. It's up to you." She shoves off the counter, reaching down to undo her belt, studded leather unfastened with the drag of leather on leather and the rattle of a metal buckle against clasp. "I think I've lost all ability to adult my way through this situation, so I'm taking that glass of wine into my bathroom shower. Please don't judge me." Or judge all you want. She won't know. She'll be disrobing and drinking.

Carver was heading for his coat. Sure, he hadn't even left the kitchen area yet, so that was pretty hard to tell, but he was totally brushing down his shirt after that final tug, doing his best to avoid eye contact as he made his way to his coat. Totally going to his coat. Deliberately avoiding any eye contact, running a hand through his head now that his face is starting to resume a more normal color, and heading for his coat. Hell, even the waistcoat comment just got a "Yeah. me too." with about as much conviction behind it as a 4 year old owning up to a crime.

Which means of course Sutton had to say 'You don't have to go.' He's got his back to her by then, but the flinch is so, so obvious. Doesn't matter how good his bullshit is, that flinch was felt by people in Renton, for crying out loud. He's stopped moving by the time there's the sound of a belt being removed. That gets another flinch for entirely different reasons. He'll probably shake that little personal mental issue one day. Some day. Probably.

"I'll..." He starts. Stops. Shifts a little, weight going from one foot to the other. She can't really see his expression, but he's totally running through the pros and cons of what he's about to do. Which would be to sit softly on the couch, watch Sutton start to move with a slightly sad smile...

...And lie.

"I'll be here when you're done."

Sutton gives her belt a yank free of the loops and then tosses it onto the couch where it snakes into a coil, then bounced off. She sweeps up her wine glass on the way by the table, and is one-hand peeling her tee off as she makes her way down the hall, all while Carver's speaking. And then he pauses, and when he pauses, down the corridor, surrounded by pictures of the people she loves most in the world, she stops walking. And he finishes his sentence. And she knows. She knows he's lying.

She asked him not to do that, didn't she? To do anything but lie.

She works her arm up and pulls her tee over her head, sliding one arm free before she swaps her glass to the other hand. She wrangles out of it and moves again, the sound of her bare feet resuming the soft padding down the corridor. She swallows, closes her eyes, and stops in the doorway to tip back her wine, finishing the whole glass in one big ass gulp. Not how she planned to do that.

"Fuck you." Sutton drops her clothes where they fall, and shuts her door. Kind of hard, but not hard enough to be considered a slam. Sorry, neighbors. Not sorry, neighbors.

It's weird how the human mind works. No matter how slight the chance of a positive outcome, as long as it is there, part of the psyche clings to it. The smallest thread of hope can serve as a lifeline. A tether. It can make difficult solutions heartwrenching to pull off.

Sutton's 'Fuck You' slices that thread like a honed straight razor.

Carver's reaction to the words takes a couple of seconds to reach the surface, but it eventually breaks through as a slowly growing fidget. His foot taps anxiously against the floor. His hand starts patting nervously against his thigh. Energy built, stored, contained, but desperately needing somewhere to go. The door slamming allows him that release. Both hands slap against his knees as he stands from the couch, throwing a glance in the direction of the hallway as the rest of his body makes for the balcony door. Elias is there, that's obvious enough. But Sutton can't see him. Hear him. Right? Her words were for the living, not the dead.

"You're still an asshole, Elias." He calls back as his hand touches the handle of the door, the man concentrating for a moment during the pause in his words. When he pulls it open, the door opens. It doesn't open. It does both. A door opens. "But fuck knows I ain't one to talk."

If a man steps in to a Dream and nobody but the dead are around to see it, does the veil really care?