Lilith opens the door when Michael arrives and she's wearing a little violet slip sundress that was probably real easy to put on and lounge in, feet bare. Some bandaging peeks out where hem skims the thigh and she's a bit weighted to one side for balance with a hand on the frame, easing what she puts on her tender and healing ankle.

The woman looks marginally better than last seen, at least. While her eyes are still shadowed and her skin still has the drained pale of fatigue and there's tiny nick cuts and bruises everwhere, the gash over her brow is less of a lump and fans to smoother bruising instead. Her hair is damp, as if it's been drying while they've been texting and she smells like lavender instead of smoke and blood and destruction, so that's nice. Her lip has pretty well healed now too and she's bothered to put on a flushed gloss balm of some kind to try and bring some semblance of color and life to her features to suit having company.

When she sees Michael at the other side, expectantly, she smiles and it's easier and more natural than it has been most of the other times, "Hey hero. Come in."

"Hey," Mike replies, and he has a plastic bag with a pair of stacked to go containers in it, and in one hand he's carrying a thermos, though that's likely entirely for him. He's wearing a deep blue long sleeve shirt with buttons at the top, and khaki pants over some sturdy looking leather boots that he probably will wear to work in the next several hours. "So I got both a chicken caesar salad, some baked chicken and wild rice. Sort of a combination of options," he mentions, apparently giving her a choice, he waits for her to give him space to walk in and joins her inside, finding a place to put things down.

He moves smoothly and smiles at her when she smiles at him, and for the most part acts a touch like he has been here before--maybe because he has, or maybe because of his job, or maybe because he's just the sort of person that is comfortable in other people's homes. Even without a tour.

"You really are looking healthier, by the way, all jokes aside," he mentions as he arranges things.

"Good idea. I need protein, carbs, and greens because I'm generally bad at things like eating lately. We'll both eat both on plates like normal human beings and pretend I don't set things on fire." Lilith tells Michael with return planning, explaining as she limps her way to the kitchen and pretends like she's not about to accidentally set something on fire. The way she navigates the apartment, though, it's not just ginger with limp-- she's moving a little bit like abused spouses tend to move, even though there's no one in the apartment. The brunette is giving edges space, stepping quiet and deliberate so as not to disturb who-knows-what, and she's paying more mind than someone generally does just walking to get some plates.

Considering her track record as known over the past few days, it's a little strange, silly, and probably warranted, "So did you keep the raccoon? What'd you name it? Also, do you have rabies now? I have to know that before we make out. I'll chip an alka seltzer to put in my mouth so we can foam together." The tone of Lilith's voice is casual and light and airy, despite the dry humor, getting out silverware and stuff to put on the bar with the plates so they can divvy and sit and eat.

Getting a plate served up, Mike is leaving her more than half of the food, and seems to take a bit of everything."Plates, ooh la la," he intones as he finds a place to sit wherever she seems to be most comfortable eating, he'd normally try to eat at a proper table, but sitting at a kitchen table might be a bit painful for her just now and he seems aware of that. As to her abused walk, he may notice, but he doesn't remark. Though he does hover-hand her once when she looks even a touch unstable on her toes. No words though.

"Keep it? No, I drove it out of town and then parked for a few hours to catch speeders," he explains, "I named it Rocky, because I'm unoriginal, I've always had rabies, and alka seltzer is a well known aphrodisiac, that makes sense."

Unscrewing his thermos, he takes a sip from it. "Do you want me to get you a drink? I can get up," he mentions and gets up, when he doesn't see a drink in her hand.

Lilith opts for the bar because the stools are pretty okay and she wants this to be kind of normal, eating off plates, on a dining surface of deliberate design. It's not fun to get on one, but the stools are curved and have little back supports, so really, once she's propped rung with good foot and gotten up there and settled, she's fine. And she doesn't say a thing about the hover hands that may linger during that moment. Maybe she actually wants them because pride doesn't really stop incoming pain and catastrophes, but those hands can.

Settling, she breaks into sudden helpless laughter by the time Mike has made half the answers to her questions and it bubbles from the throat with a little 'ahhhh' noise of appreciation before she speaks, "Oh, you're good at me talking shit. I like that." Then she realizes she doesn't have a drink now that she's settled and automatically starts to look around herself as if to get up before relenting and just sweetly and graciously saying, "Yes, please. Water bottles in the door of the fridge." While forking in a bite, she wonders, "Did you catch any speeders? I always wondered what cops do while they're waiting to catch 'em. What do you do? Hone your gif skills?"

Walking over to the fridge at her request, Mike pulls out a bottle of water and unscrews it like 90 percent before he hands it over. The last little bit of plastic requiring a touch to open. Sitting down again, he starts eating and sips from his thermos, nodding at her mention of how he handles her talking shit, "You're grade school shit talking. I'm a Marine," he points out with a smile and leaves it at that. He normally comes across as rather by the book, but that's probably at least partially a bit of an act he puts on because of his job and because he tries to be mature. Under it all, there is undoubtedly a guy capable of filthy humor.

"We can always catch a speeder, it's more a question of how much give we allow. I usually give a seven mile an hour buffer before I pull someone over," he is saying as he thinks about it. "And what do we do? I mean, have you seen Super Troopers?" he questions, almost certainly joking.

"You know, we can't all be gifted at life skills, champ. Mine are largely mediocre, but I get by." Lilith tells Michael as she eyes him for a moment, the gaze sparking with some humor and vivacity that breaks through her fatigue while she chews and reaches to take the bottle. Something about him popping the cap for her makes her lips twitch with a hint of smile. After drinking, she settles up again and angles a tiny bit with turn on the stool, a leg sliding in slow cross out of habit before she decides that's not comfortable today and drops it back to rest during the shift, "Nice. I know the buffer now. And of course I have. I just needed you to confirm it wasn't all a beautiful fable."

Then suddenly she wonders with curiosity, "So. Marine, huh." Instead of wondering the natural questions that others might wonder, like whether or not he's been deployed, where, etc, she wonders, "Do you really say 'oo-rah'?"

"No nunchuck skills? Shame," Mike mentions with a light shake of the head. He nods his head when she says she'd seen the movie but doesn't elaborate, just lets her let her mind wander over what that joke all implies. Or maybe he just doesn't feel the need to explain too much. He glances down when she starts to shift her legs around in her little summer dress, and wonders if it's supposed to be seductive, but the way she drops it after a moment makes him think she'd just pulled something and was stretching. "Yes, we really say oo-rah," he confirms. But he doesn't elaborate on that either. "So, how's your dad doing?" he asks, seeing as it has been a day or so since he'd last spoken to her about him.

"They're putting him on crutches and insurance is rallying to kick him out. So they can have fun with that. Not my problem now, he's fine enough. He sucked the helium out of a balloon Byron brought and called the nurses station, apparently, high on morphine, singing a munchkin song from the Wizard of Oz, they didn't think it was cute. Honestly, the only reason I think they've allowed him to be so doped is to keep him from talking or asking for ten million other things. He has a very strong principle about 'feeding the hump' during hospital visits, like watering a camel. Soaks up the food and baths and attention." Lilith rolls her eyes before sighing a little bit and knocking a hand up and back through her hair, looking at Michael sidelong to lean and nab another bite. After chewing and swallowing, she continues.

"I haven't gotten the full story out of him and I doubt I ever will. But it's really stupid how he got beat up that badly. It -happens- here and there, but not like that. At least not for some years now. Usually he has people knocking him around for money or he knocks himself around in the name of trying to profiteer, usually employing very bad ideas soaked with gin and beer. But you can't get blood out of a stone, so people generally always left him walking. This?" She grabs her water bottle to drink before shaking her head. She is also not picking at her food, she's eating and drinking constantly and gradually in the way that says yes, she's pacing herself in the name of care, but she's clearly been neglecting things like nourishment and hydration and is making up for lost time. Things are being normal enough for her to do that for now, and it's damn nice.

"It's sketchy. But he's not going to file a report. I think it was teenagers, of all things, but he calls everyone 'kids' so it's hard to tell. Like those hobo beatings they do maybe? He said he was pissing behind the Pourhouse before walking home when it happened."

Hearing the full report, Michael thinks on it and says, "I mean, it's a small town, the local teenagers who'd be anywhere near the Pourhouse on a late night?" he begins and seems to be thinking about who it might have been. Not that he knows the town that well yet, but he does know that the numbers make it easier than most places to figure out the suspect list.

Seeing how she is eating, he doesn't make a big deal out of it, but gets up to grab the containers and helps to add a bit to both of their plates, filing in the gaps where she has been eating as subtly as possible, like a good babushka.

"I guess in the end, I'm glad he's back on his feet, even if he makes your life a bit miserable," he mentions. "So have you been watching Game of Thrones?"

"Yeah, well. I guess. This is the guy that used to have me answer anyone beating on the trailer door with a bat while he went out the back or a window. I think the first time it happened, I was six. Men -really- don't know what to do when a little girl with angel eyes opens the door and yells go'way at them. It's not what they expect. Hank probably has a lot of karma to catch up with. It's also possible my luck streak is contagious." Lilith knits her brows with that bit, just a smidge, because while she doesn't sound real bothered about what happened to her father, it doesn't mean she wants to be the one responsible. She'd much rather choke him out with her own hands.

The woman looks at her plate being refilled with a noise in her throat of gratitude and continues to eat and drink til gone with a little less careful method in the name of efficiency. Maybe she's getting comfortable with the idea she might not choke or hurl things right back up with Michael sitting here because her somewhat backhanded, ready to jump up posture has gradually eased into lazy lounge of seated rest while refueling.

"Yes. And I'm current. But you do realize that talking about who we like and don't like on this show is pretty intimate, right?"

"I bet you still have the bat, don't you?" Mike speculates with a smile at her description of her upbringing. Not that he's amused that she was put through that, but she obviously didn't turn out too badly, and she doesn't sound like she was outright abused, but perhaps some things are being left untold. Needless to say, he doesn't probe that sort of question much. "I don't think it's going to turn out the way people want it to. The last few episodes were obviously garbage, but I don't think it'll stop there. I think they're trying to bridge a gap between a show that painted everyone except Cersei as 'totally the protagonist/genius' and what George told them the end scenario would be. Which will be the first thing eventually book-accurate in three years," he surmises.

"I do, actually, but it's at the trailer in my old room. Maybe I should bring it here. But I have a shotgun under the counter and a handgun up here, I feel like that works better. And yes, I know how to use them. There's something very satisfying about holding a bat, though. Maybe I should have gotten into sports." Lilith declares to Mike with a wipe of her mouth and push of plate away from herself before drinking the rest of her water too. Clean plate club without dying and food she didn't have to make or get herself... she's taking a moment to kind of revel in it while listening to the guy talk. Then her features turn a bit speculative.

"Here's the thing. I've read that book series twice back over the years and now it's been so long all over again, I can barely remember or wade through what all that fatass actually made pertinent. He rambles. I shouldn't talk shit about rambling, but I am because double standards are sexy, I heard." Leaning back against the chair support, she pitches a hand loosely to the side with gesture, "That said, I have major issues about Cersei being the endgame battle. Because I really want her to burn slowly, for one, and for two, there's what, two episodes left? If they pace the battle as the next episode, I have no clue what the last episode is actually leaving room for, other than cleanup ties, but that seems horrible for a series finale episode, tactically." She pauses, "And I really hate saying this, because I hate seeing some of them die, but some of them should be ten shades of dead twice over." Another pause, "ALSO Brienne. Brienne. Please, please, please take Tormund to bed, stop chasing the one-handed man in your housecoat, you are a WARRIOR queen. Slay, bitch. And get laid the way you're supposed to, not with some incest trained noble poke."

Okay, yeah, she has opinions. She's more animated by the very second, fatigue and pain be damned.

"Good," Mike says when she mentions her guns and knowing how to use them, but doesn't demand that she prove it or try to man-out and try to coach her either. He just accepts her word for it. Very progressive. He listens to her ramble about the show and the books and just slowly nods, not wanting to get to the point that he needs to be censored for fear of hammers falling from the sky, he simply leaves discussion of the show at that. He could discuss other things. While he thinks of other topics, he grabs up their plates and walks to her sink and does the dishes, sort of lost in thought for a moment. Over his shoulder, he asks, "So, I seem to remember that the Winds of Winter is supposed to cover like, five or seven years, right? If it ever comes out."

"Interesting, but it makes sense even if it's not significant to plot speculation as a whole. The show really handwaves things like travel times and distances and so on for the sake of getting on with it. I just remember being relieved that there's no new viewpoints. Remember that boy in the books that wasn't in the show that he brought around just to get dragon blazed? That was quite an arc for a lot of stupid meaningless end, but... I guess it was more about coincidences aligning or making more wonder during the journey." Lilith squints a touch while trying to recall, then makes a noise as Michael beats her to the dishes because she's slow and hobbly, chin tipping down a little, "Thank you. I know it's just two plates, but... I really don't want anywhere near my garbage disposal right now."

That's a little extreme, as long as she doesn't stick her hand down there, what can a garbage disposal blade do? Lilith imagines that the spinning blade is screwed on from a bolting fixture that comes loose. She's afraid if she makes it spin it will shoot up like a circular ninja blade because why wouldn't it? Maybe she should stop thinking about this while Michael is standing near the sink.

After a moment of drifting thought and shake of her head with tiny, sharp snap to focus, "Do you think he'll really get things finished before he croaks?" Dark. But he's a rotund old fellow, okay, that Martin.

"I think it could be a setup for a blessing from the Many Faced god. A girl given a task. In the books, I mean," Mike speculates idly when she mentions dragons burning peasants. It seems like the most obvious sort of foreshadowing, either Arya or some other person without a name. And they could fail, but it'd be a piece of the puzzle as the story played out. "I made as much of a mess as you did, and you're all gimpy," he replies and wipes his hands off and goes over to sit next to her again.

He doesn't seem too scared of her garbage disposal. Such a knight.

"Maybe. I think he has famous writer's Con-itis. Gets famous, stops writing, goes to cons to make enough money to live pretty high on the hog, maybe gets his wick wet with a fangirl now and again," he speculates. "Same as a few others I won't mention by name."

"It could be, actually. And heh, he gets the ladies by tipping that beret instead of a fedora like Jim Butcher, I'll bet." A pause, "I haven't been in company that's really interested in this kind of stuff and willing to talk about it in a long time. When I was little, I pal'd around with a bunch of boys and they had an Adventurer Guild, I think it conditioned me. Byron would convince them to let me in and play pretend when everyone was 'ugh' or blushy about a girl being around. He's secretly kind of a nerd, don't let him fool you with the suits and Rolex. " Lilith says to Michael, her bare feet shifting to flat on the bar counter support with casual rocking tick and lean of her barstool on the legs with recline at the back, using her good foot to leverage.

Lilith realizes suddenly she really should not be absently doing this chair thing and if there was maybe ever a time to want to hover hands, even though she's not getting a lot of pop back air time in the lean...probably now. Stopping, she puts her hands out instead to request and allow for a help down to standing so she can couch swap for comfort, even though she got up there fine. Then suddenly, she remembers she's not with a local, "Where are you from?"

"Butcher and Rothfuss, yeah," Mike says, surprised a touch that she'd had the same name in mind when he'd said it. He does in fact hover-hand just ever so slightly, though his hand barely leaves his lap, just tenses to reach out and keep her from falling. He helps her down as she requests and follows her to the couch, bringing his thermos with him. Sipping at it from time to time, he sets it down and lounges a little, checking his watch after a bit. Apparently it's nowhere near a time of concern, he just keeps relaxing there. "And yeah, I'm a bit of a movie buff, and a sci-fi fan, never played D&D, but I get the idea. I once played a game of Shadowrun, that was fun," he mentions off hand.

"I'm from Boston," he answers. The accent is hidden there beneath a few years away, and the fact that he never had a crazy accent to begin with. "And you're from here. But you moved somewhere for a while?" he questions.

"Do you know a Wahlburg? Also am I right in assuming that's a special fitness buff blend in that thermos? I need to know if it's green or not before I grab it one day and decide we're sharing." Lilith wonders as she settles into the arm of the sofa and angles her hip to curl legs alongside herself, watching Michael check his watch. Guy has a shift, probably, she's not going to get all weird girl paranoid about it, even after talking about some kind of nerdy stuff.

Settled, the brunette takes a moment to fiddle with the outer bandage edging on her thigh where that glass that shouldn't have stuck gouged a hole in her. Maybe she's taking a moment with her lashes drop to count, too.

"I have lived... twelve places over the past ten years or so. I left right after high school. But the last five were spent in Miami until I came back in spring." Lilith replies to Mike as her eyes come back up, "It's humid. There's lizards that get in your apartment and stick to the walls and door frames." Exciting tidbit, "How long have you been around here?"

"I think everyone knows a Wahlburg," Mike answers and slowly nods his head as if this were some solemn fact of being a Bostonian. "It's my protein drink," he answers. "It's chocolate flavored. I usually like to use chocolate milk, but as everyone knows, you don't put milk in an enclosed container with grooves, or it'll be horrible very shortly," he explains. "But since I had to come here, I couldn't finish my post workout." No guilting intended. He's just over-explaining a touch.

When she starts to rearrange her bandage, he glances down, then glances back up. Gentlemanly.

"Twelve over ten. Any favorites? I'd have guessed Miami, based on duration, but I'm guessing it wasn't Miami," he speculates. "I've lived here for .. two months," he does the math. "Just about."

"I had the most money in Miami to stay put. I don't think I ever really fit. But I did learn to salsa dance a little. Use to take dance and ballet next town over until the teen years struck, so it wasn't too hard to pick up. Looks like a lot, but it's about the moment, mostly." When Michael answers about what's in the thermos, Lilith actually looks a little relieved that it's A: Chocolate anything and B: He's into chocolate milk. She was a little worried it was green and that kind of bothered her on principle. Generally, guys that drink raw powerformulas like that are 'ugh' in some fashion.

There's a bit of a surprised bat of her lashes when he says he's only been around town a couple of months, though, "Oh, you must have moved here shortly after I came back. Clearly fate. I might have exploded into flames without you around." There's a slant of her lips as she says it because she's playing flatterer with that wry and dry tone commentary. Her dark head tilts a little curiously afterwards, seeming genuinely curious, "How're you finding it here after somewhere like Boston? Kind of quaint, I guess. Like it?"

Yes, quaint.

"I'll have to see you dance some time then, when you aren't," Mike just sort of gestures at her. As if her status was obvious enough that he doesn't need to say, 'fucked up.' He does sort of look at her a bit longer though when he gestures, as if allowing himself to drink her in just a /touch/ longer than he had previously. Aware that she is watching him. Not over doing it.

"Clearly fate," he agrees deadpan. After a pause, he smiles at her a little and shakes his head, "They'd have gotten you out through the backseat, I just think you might have had a bit rougher time recovering because of it. The backseat opened alright," he explains.

"It's quaint, yeah. Slow. Though strangely active for such a small town. Like, I have no idea how some businesses are as busy as they are, given the size of the town," he mentions.

"When I don't look and feel like shit with the universe trying to kill me? Mm. It does make cutting a rug easier." Did Lilith just say cutting a rug like a ninety year old woman? Sure did, and she doesn't even slow down after saying it. Her hand reaches up perhaps unwittingly to touch at her brow where there's the impact split knitting and healing, and the fanned out bruising that spreads with shadow under her blue eyes. She doesn't seem vain or self-conscious, precisely, but she's a little hyperaware visibly that she knows what she looks like and it's not pleasant.

After Michael has explained the how's of getting her out of the vehicle like anyone could have done it, humble public servant he is, she makes a tiny shush noise at him that isn't really a shush, "Take the flattery."

"Were you a cop in Boston too? I imagine that'd be night and day."

"You look fine, I boxed, I know what people look like under bruises, I'd be more worried about you tipping over if you tried," Michael admits, and watches her touch at her bruising. Not like he has a fetish for bruises, but he doesn't really seem to mind them. Sipping at his drink, he finally finishes it off and tips it all the way back to get the rest out, "Mind if I wash this out?" he asks and gets up to use the sink again and wash the thermos out.

The question about Boston earns her a glance and he shakes his head, "So, I finished my service, then college, then here, a few odd jobs like everyone else, but it was a fairly straight shot," he mentions.

"Go for it." Lilith tells Mike after dropping her hand back to rest at a curled and bent leg, away from her battered face with a draw of breath and a vague lift of her brows, "Boxing? I've never punched anyone, really, but I always wanted to. I just had a hunch each time the urge occurred that it'd look terribly girly, silly, and it'd go and make my hand hurt, besides. That really would kill the effect of throwing a punch." This is perhaps a strange thing to want to do and do properly but inclinations are what they are.

Lilith's eyes and posture turns some to follow Michael to the sink, fingertips scratching against the padding of the bandage where her hand rests at thigh, as if it's bothering her a little unconsciously. After nodding a little at his general timeline, she grazes her bottom lip with her teeth and tarries a moment before saying, in regards to college, "I used to want to go to MIT and be some kind of engineer. Didn't happen, obviously. Hence this mecca of loan-profiteering splendor and collectibles. But really, it's not terrible now that I'm settled. It's not -ideal-. But I guess it's fine, I'm my own operations boss to compensate for the headaches of being boss. Sometimes the things that come in are neat. I like refurbishing and fixing things to increase the profit margins on the sales. I get my fair share of sitting around web-browsing because I can. Things like that. But..."

The woman trails off here with a tiny hint of a shrug as if to say any job has its other issues. It's kind of the understatement shrug of the year given a couple different circumstances. She doesn't linger much on that, lashes dropping in brief to the arm of the couch to trace the pattern with a fingertip, "If you're a movie buff, what's the best movie? And are you sick of me asking you questions yet?"

"Yeah, boxing, I could give you some pointers. For punching," Mike offers, since she'd expressed that touch of interest. "I have a heavy bag at my place, when you're mobile," he adds, since he hasn't found a boxing gym or really even a regular gym in town yet. "But yes, punching hard, wrong, without a bit of practice is a good way to bust up your wrist," he mentions but doesn't get all preachy about punching form, because he doesn't want to be that guy.

Looking over at her from the sink, he listens to her explaining her aspirations or lack of them and nods his head a touch. "I went to Boston U., it's too bad you didn't go to MIT, we'd have met sooner," he declares. Because fate, obviously. As he talks to her the sounds of the sink can be heard intermixed as he gets the thermos cleaned out and leaves it to dry by the sink. As he sets it there he checks his watch and walks back over to sit with her again.

"What's the best movie? I don't know. I'm more of a trivia guy than a critic. I suppose the most enjoyable would be like.. Urban's Dredd or John Wick? Probably? Killer sound tracks anyway.."

"And no, I think asking questions is an essential part of the date/pre-date experience."

"I'm glad I didn't try to punch anyone, then, that sounds terrible. And true. We would have met sooner. But I'd also probably be all tangled up with a Wahlburg. No one really wants to toe step in on all that, they're breeders and they don't come swinging alone. It's easier this way." Lilith breathes through a quiet laugh in partial to Michael, watching him come sit back down before she uncurls her legs a little to shift and move herself there against the arm of the couch-- she's either trying to find comfort or moving as if making to get up and get something. Then she makes a noise that sounds a lot like 'nevermind' to herself after a brief dart of eyes around the room. The paranoia creeps up again, like something in the room itself is going to bite her, not the boogeyman, then abates.

Resettling and digging her painted toes with absent wiggle at the edge and gap between cushions while her legs are curled up anew, she looks back at Michael reseated and wonders, "I think my favorite, oddly, or at least the movie I've seen the most over and over is Stranger Than Fiction. Will Farrell is pretty serious in it. Also it has Maggie Gyllenhaal." Pause, "Is a car lot a date?"

"Ah, Wahlburgs are like fungus, that's true," Mike admits, as if he knows them personally. Because like he said, he knew them back in Boston. When s he starts to get antsy all of a sudden, he looks pointedly at her and stands up, holding his hands out to her to help her up. "I can also just get whatever you need," he mentions, and gestures to her pad in a general sort of way.

"I liked that movie, though I only saw it once," he admits. "Anything can be a date, if you want it to be a date. It's about intention, I think."

"Fair. I wasn't sure if fun was a requirement. I haven't been on a lot of actual dates. I just realized I'm bandage itchy which is probably because I want to peel it off, not because it's infected to hell. But it made me realize I didn't take an antibiotic yet from the stash they sent home with me. And I'm safer when I sit still, honestly, so I was weighing the effort and risk versus reward." Lilith starts to automatically reach to be assisted with stand, then pauses with her hands in his to reconsider, "... would you mind? They're--" The woman has to stop and think about where she actually put them for a beat, looking over her shoulder toward the bed, "Oh. Nightstand."

There's two different recent prescription bottles there with a bottle of partially drained water handy on the right nightstand surface, easy peasy, really. It's not like she has bedroom walls separating the room or anything, so she keeps talking, hands pulsing with squeeze of gratitude before they slide away after the subtle, weighted gesture, "I think, though, if you were willing to go to a car lot, simply because it's not fun... that's a good indicator of intention. What do I -look- like I should be driving?"

"Why does it feel like half the people I meet nowadays have 'never been on many actual dates'? Tinder culture?" Mike questions and walks over to the nightstand, and grabs the bottle and water for her. Handing them off when he comes back, he doesn't even seem to think of it as a hassle, which really, it isn't. As he walks, he looks at the bottle of antibiotics out of curiosity. This might give him a few personal details he shouldn't know, but not really.

Settling in next to her again, he thinks about her question, "Own a pawn shop, drive to other towns to carry stuff, so nothing too compact. Apparently a bit of a klutz," he reasons out, "Cute, brunette, skinny.." he just sort of enumerates and looks her over as if weighing these things like they are part of some great algebra for figuring out what sort of vehicle a person should be driving.

"Jeep Cherokee in white."

"No. Not for me, anyway. Makes sense otherwhere. It's probably a combination of me attracting things I shouldn't attract, not getting asked a lot or asked the wrong way, and when I was asked, most of the time I said no. I'm... not always this receptive with others. I made a point of being alone for a while. Then when I gave that up, eh." Lilith grows a little more reflective and serious, reaching to take the bottle, which is boring, he's a cop, he's already ran her license. It's got the standard birthday, full name, etc. The other bottle on the nightstand is hydrocodone the hospital sent.

"I don't know. Tried to put myself out there and what I got made me reel back a few times. It wasn't all bad reasons, I guess, just some of them wanted things I didn't want or I felt... nothing around them. It was a bit as if I'd shut myself down too long and had to have time to re-acclimate. So I told myself, when I came back, I wasn't doing things that way. And..."

Lilith poses a bit for the vehicle deciding after getting a pill out and uncapping her water bottle to hold like a chalice there for those fleeting moments, leg briefly stretching out as she preens for his consideration, "That's how you ended up with all this mess." Then she pauses with leg drawing back in to take her pill, "White. Jeep. Cherokee. I think I can actually see it. You're good at that. Logicked right through. But you see a lot of cars."

How the hell does a simple antibiotic pill stick so hard in someone's throat? Maybe she swallowed wrong or airbubbled or too much watered, but a strangled cough shoots water out of her mouth suddenly.

"Okay, so what were the things they wanted that you didn't? If we can be serious for a moment," Mike inquires, since she'd mentioned it as one of the things that'd made it hard for her to date in the past. Or try to date anyway. He listens to her tale either way and what seems to be the story of a person who gets in their own way as far as dating goes. "I guess I never had the same experiences, myself, I was in the military, so there were either local girls wherever I went, or girls in the service--but I never really did a lot of serious dating in either case."

A pause as he thinks about it and is probably putting everything in a favorable light.

"Then I came back, went to college. Co-eds, dated one woman seriously, a professor," he explains.

He watches her with the water and her preening and he nods at her agreement, he is good at figuring out cars for people, if they can afford them.

When she starts to choke, he immediately leans in and is in the process of getting her up to give her the Heimlich maneuver when she manages to sort of drool it out. Sexy.

Lilith isn't totally choking, she might have gotten it out of there with more coughing, but who the hell is taking chances with her at this point? Not this guy with the quick, brisk and practiced efficient. The water remaining dribbles out with the melting antibiotic, which is a horse pill as far as pills go, but still a pill. When Michael gets it out with his Heimlich hold and pressure on her, she just kind of miserably slumps against him while coughing a little more and muttering a miserable, "Ow."

Then she's able to talk a little more, wiping hand with lifting swipe at her mouth while breathing, "And that was all going so well... but we can still be serious when I get my breath back. Ugh."

When she manages to get it out, Michael gently sets her back down and gets up to grab her a paper towel. He doesn't even seem to be the least bit reacting to the spitting up, and in fact, just sits there making sure she's fine, resting a hand on her back. In the process he ends up glancing at his watch, and subtly pulls out his phone and sends a text. No words said about what it was, but it probably had to do with being at work.

"You're fine, you're too pre-occupied with being perfect, I expect you fart just like the rest of us," he adds, and continues to rub her back until she feels better and gives him a look that he might read as meaning that she's doing well.

Lilith isn't in sheer genius mode or anything while recovering, and she didn't see that particular watch check, but she may have gotten the idea he's close due to expected to work or otherwise at some point. She's settled back down and rubs at her diaphragm with one hand in more 'ow' fashion because she's already battered, he's a big guy, and Heimlich's aren't hugs, but it just seems like a residual reflex. Alas, phone screens light up, so while she may not see him texting really, she's gotten the idea and put all the context clues together based on when he said his shift started the day before as a hint with the watch checking prior.

As Michael rubs at her back, she very subtly keens into it, like she's in need of the contact after the weight and trauma of the week that goes far beyond what he's seen. And she doesn't immediately comment about the phone because if she does that, he might confirm he needs to go and stop the back rubbing. She soaks it up a little longer instead, hoarsely breathing out a quiet laugh, "Perfect? No. But high functioning would be ideal. Mm. You are ah. Strong." That phone might not have been the only thing she noticed-- she was senses more than thought and smashed and then held against him there for a moment.

Drawing in a long breath for composure, she finally answers the question, "I think, since few conversations led to kids and things since I never got particularly serious, the main issue was that..." Her lashes cut with thought, "Boxes. They wanted to put me in boxes, they never asked what I wanted, they offered what they wanted. Sometimes I was a trophy to earn and maintain, sometimes I was the suburb dream under that same principle of provision and ownership, sometimes it was... Okay, one guy wanted a goat farm, I didn't know what to do with all that. And I'm not opposed to kids. I just know if I tried to become a soccer mom, I might end up hustling like Nancy Botwin out of boredom." She pauses, "Y'know, the show Weeds. But the trying to 'buy' me was the largest issue. It's not that I don't like pretty things. I just don't like it when it feels tit for tat."

Then the eventual question, "... I'm not keeping you from anything, am I? Do you have to go to work?"

"You just got in a serious wreck, as far as I'm concerned, you are high functioning given how you should be," Michael points out and seems oblivious to any pain he might have caused her, not because he isn't careful usually, but because he just automatically assumes it's because of the wreck. Up until she points out how strong he is at which point he realizes what he'd done and rubs a bit more gently, still watching her and trying to provide some relief.

Hearing her explanation about 'boxes' he explains, "You know my job. Don't get in serious trouble, don't take up a heroine addiction, and start acting like I imagine your dad does, and I think you'll be fine with me," he mentions, and goes right for a bit of a touchy attack perhaps, because it'll most clearly convey his only real concern at this point.

"As to opening a head shop and dispensary? That's a good idea, they're a money maker and it's legal, so I'm all for it," he points out and gives her a thumbs up. "No, I just called in to work. Sent an email to my supervisor telling him I was taking a personal day.."

"I can pretty well maintain that line, I think. Hard drugs have been a rare occasion back when and heroin is scary. This is, of course, assuming whatever is going on with me lately stops the shit. It keeps up, I'm going to need some kind of outlet." A pause, "What if I set things on fire in the non-arson way, does that become an issue at any point?" Surely Lilith isn't serious with this question, she's good at deadpanning and dry-witting her way through things. Her head nods a little bit, especially at the Hank and heroin bit, less so at the trouble bit because she has to think about what serious trouble actually means in the grand scheme of things, law aside.

She blinks a few times at the email and personal day bit though, the brunette lifting a hand to rake back through her hair with hold and release, "Oh. Okay." What's she going to do, argue and tell him no, take it back? Her first instinct, though, after that is to immediately say, "I'm fine, you know. But..." She pauses again, lips slanting upward, "That's a nice option here and there." Then she downright grins and asks, "Was the professor while you were in her class? Did you roleplay?"

"I'll try to help you find a productive outlet for whatever it is, when you're ready to share," Mike suggests, not dictating, just letting her know that he'd help her when the time came that she needed it. He was certain he could find any number of ways to keep her mind off of the anxiety and depression or whatever it was. "You mean taking stuff you own to a good place for burning things and burning them? Have at it," he answers.

"Government job, yeah, it's nice. As long as I don't abuse it. I was hired to create excess guys, in case guys needed time off, nobody should complain," he mentions. "It was between classes I had with her. I had one before, and one after. I temporarily had a work study at a desk in her department, and she made it very clear what she wanted without being over the top. No, we never got to roleplaying."

"I'm going to have to brush up on my smarts to compete, professor-banger. I'm pretty good at Jeopardy sometimes, though. Just so you know. I can also tie constrictor knots, quote a lot of Sylvia Plath, hold my breath in the tub for about a minute, cook carbonara, and I'm pretty sure I can still do all manner of ballet jumps when not beat to hell." Lilith shrugs a little 'okay we'll go with that' at the fire bit because unless it's an accidental flare up, which is possible, most of her setting things on fire is contained to... places. Not here. Or maybe here. Somewhere. Doesn't matter. Cross that bridge when it happens. Then the woman draws in a breath to speak and starts with her oh so impressive list of things other than creepily powerful abilities that slip out of her sometimes.

After pause, she looks at Michael in full and leans back a little bit while doing so, as if taking the whole of him in, then decides, "Distractions and outlets. Mhm." Her lips twitch a little bit before she adds on, "Maybe I should punch the bag or something. But honestly..." Air puffs over her lips in huff, speaking with genuine sentiment, "You're easy. And you're firm at the same time." A pause, "It helps. Like a balance or anchor or..." Another pause, "It's hard to explain. But it's nice."

"You think she was banging me for my big brain?" Mike says and laughs, he isn't trying to imply anything, just making it clear that he'd not been under the impression she was with him for his professor-like attributes. "Sylvia Plath and knots, this is not a recipe for mental health," he mentions, but doesn't get all dark about it. "I enjoy talking to you too," he agrees. "I don't know what it means to you, exactly, but I think I might feel the same way." Getting up, he goes over to her kitchen and starts to dry out the inside of his thermos, which he sets top-down again.

Pointing at the small walled off bathroom, he says, "One sec," and goes to take care of his business.

"Well, not really, but you might surprise me. I was more implying you might be impressed by one. If someone's too smart, I find them irritating, generally. And fear not. The Plath is residual from younger, darker times. Not all her stuff comes with a label that says I-stuck-my-head-in-an-oven..." Lilith tells Michael with a little shake of her head and partial laugh that is just tinged with self-deprecation, though the actual comment and her demeanor stays light. She apparently has no problem being morbid for kicks, you do what you can to cope at a certain point, "If the Plath were still heavy in me lately, though, after this week? Call me Maytag when they do the tag and bag." Appliance oven names. Cute.

"It's also nice when someone can just... verbally keep up. I don't think some people know what to do with me sometimes when I get started. And ah, yeah, sure." When Michael gets up to swap to the bathroom for a moment, she makes a noise in her throat, takes a moment to dig in the pill bottle, then tries that swallow pill thing again very deliberate and careful. It works.

The sound of him washing his hands proceeds Michael's exit a few moments later, he was in there only a half minute or so. "I'm okay with dating moody girls, I don't know if I could ever do something really long term with one who never outgrows it, but there is always the appeal of the big tiddy goth girlfriend," he notes. Probably oversharing a touch, but he's that sort of guy sometimes when he opens up. "I'll make sure to do that," he says, though he doesn't laugh so much at the joke about finding her after a suicide. That would be rough.

"I'm glad you feel like I'm keeping up, and I'm sure eventually I'll also find some good ways to change your pace when you get all talkative," he decides. "How are you feeling? Feeling up for walking around a little? Show me all your wall art?" he asks, and gestures around. "You should stretch a little."

"I went goth-hidey when I was a teenager. Grew out of it, though. And... my tits only look a little larger than moderate because of how I'm built, I can't rightfully claim that title, you're going to have to outsource. Also forewarning for theatres-- telling me to 'shut up and watch the damn movie' when I go developing 'questions' is your line when the time comes. I'm giving you full permission so long as you look at me like I'm adorably irritating, not -just- irritating." Lilith tells Michael after a huff of almost snorted laugh air through the nose, putting the water bottle remains down before he goes suggesting she walk around the room.

At that point, you'd think there's a ghost in here to disturb or something for a split second the way her eyes widen at the very idea of it. But he's right, of course, and it's fine, someone else is here to... witness her crash and burn. After wetting her lips, she decides, "My wall art is boring. But I should stretch. And I can find something more interesting to show you. Do you like The Doors?" After shifting in preparation like 'here goes' she gets up, hops a little bit in place with bounce when she gets up with all her weight on the wrong foot with leading, even though it's largely better.

"They look fine," Michael says and glances down just once, but doesn't get to insisting on that point. He leaves that to the voices in his head. "Shut up and watch the damn movie, got it. Adorable. Always," he confirms and acts like he's taking notes. Walking over to her, he holds out his hands to help her to her feet. Once she's on her feet, he offers her an arm to cup her, or will just hover-hand her around the room as necessary.

"Is it? I haven't been looking that much, honestly," he admits and actually looks away from her for the first time in a while to look at her art. In hindsight, he basically maintains eye contact--a lot.

"The Doors are all right, I'm the least musically inclined person you'll ever meet. Like, I can do a lot of trivia, but not music trivia, at all, I usually have to borrow other people's music tastes."

Taking the offered help, Lilith curls her fingers around Mike's hands initially, then turns to walk toward the utility closet first, so she can slide back the doors revealing the washer and dryer and the trap door to some attic crawl space ahead, like a detour. When she opens those doors, though, she kind of does it like something might fall or jump out with step back into the arm cupping support as offered, then gestures upward after a puff of hard breath when nothing happens, "I used to read a lot of his poetry and I like the music. Or some of it anyway. The man was also high as a kite the whole of the while. But detour? That's how the raccoon got in, if you were curious. How he got up in there, I don't know. You really should have named him Shenanigans, because it's pretty impressive that he pushed the door trap down to get through."

Following, unless she drops like a sack of potatoes, straight down--she won't find herself on the floor for anything. It's like walking surrounded by a cage. Ringed in on all sides whenever she gets a bit shaky on her feet, but otherwise he just tries to keep his hands with hers. For his part, Mike glances up when she indicates upwards and nods his head. "I was a little curious, yeah," he confirms. "I had sort of suspected someone you knew had put it in here, as a prank, but that makes sense too," he says.

"I thought that too and was about to plan revenge, but when I got a towel before my bath, I realized it was ajar and poked it closed again with the broom handle instead of climbing and reaching." The tour isn't very exciting, it's a loft apartment, and while spacious, it's still just an apartment. But Lilith takes the long and circular way around things to get to the bedroom storage area after sliding those doors closed. The woman doesn't have pictures of her or other people in the apartment at all, even though personal pictures are such a girl-trended thing. Maybe unsurprising with what he's been told.

Eventually they're past the bed and her at her clothes closet while she's conversationally explaining, "Anyway. Some things have come into the shop that are pretty neat and valuable, or I find them online to swap out for other things I have of value and don't want or want to bundle profit from. And last month I played tradesies for a partial torn poem of his, handwritten. It's..."

Lilith got some false security there, she doesn't look as nervous opening this door, the last one was fine, she hasn't fallen, Mike's just right there, it's fair to calm down and she is so -tired- of being wired for alert paranoia as a result of all this. The door opens. She stretches up to reach a shelf because we're stretching, right? She can think of better ways to do that, but probably not relevant or even preferable or possible, considering. And -that- is what she is thinking when she pulls the edge of a framed piece down and drags... a single white vintage looking ice skate down with it to fall right at her. Ice skate blades are sharp, done right, angled right.

When the skate comes tumbling from the closet, Mike just casually scoops it out of the air and pushes it back up all non-chalant. Not like he's trying to act, he's just used to things falling when dealing with closets, and thinks literally nothing of it. Just pushes it back up and helps her fish whatever she is pulling on, out. Maybe his steady hand will be enough to keep her steady.

"Just to be clear, you mean the lead singer of the Doors, right? You keep saying 'his' and 'him' and I've been thinking you meant, that uh, guy whose name I don't know, but I wasn't like," he pauses, "Entirely sure."

Looking at her stuff, he leans in to look at the paper she is holding and will read it, if she isn't too distracted.

"That would have been a really stupid reason to die or go to the hospital..." Why does Lilith even have ice skates circa 1970 up in the closet? It's weird, but she has a pawn shop and probably likes ice skating or at least watching it, maybe they're signed or valuable or something. Or she just likes to be prepared to skate in fancy vintage white pretty skates like a hipster so she can brag. But at least the thing isn't a casualty thanks to her protective man cage. She blinks and goes 'uh' with stare when he pops it back up there, but he was so smooth and quick about it, it doesn't really set those come and go vestiges of paranoia off this time.

She does back up, though, to show him the framed and handwritten piece of poem, "Jim Morrison, the Lizard King, mhm." It reads:

"Inside the dream, button sleep around your body like a glove. Free now of space and time, free to dissolve into the streaming summer."

She looks up and aside over her shoulder at Michael while he's leaning and wonders softly, "Do you have bad dreams?"

"No worries, you know, if your house has all sorts of loose stuff, my house is single story, everything is buttoned down," Michael points out, starting to think that her luck with things is strange. So if being in a place filled with loose stuff and random old-house problems is an issue, it fits to offer her an alternative. But that's the only time he'll offer it, for a while, he isn't about to make it a thing he insists on.

Staring at the poem all the while, he reads and nods at her words. Morrison. Lizard King. He'd remember that.

"It's pretty, sort of short for a poem, but pretty," he decides. "No Plath. Bad dreams? Some, as much as anyone, I suppose."

"I think it's a partial stanza, it's only about a third of a sheet of paper behind the frame. Full handwritten poems of his like were found in the Fascination Box at his Paris house on Rue Beautrellis are upwards of sixty thousand dollars sometimes. This one was a good few thousand less, let's just say that. Probably because it's just a torn jotting." Pawn appraisers tend to be a bit historian here and there when they know their stuff. Junky pawns don't make money and all of Lilith's shop downstairs is in almost fascinating good repair and taste to attract curious eyes and interests, other more common goods aside.

"Other than it being a Doors poem to keep... I have awful dreams sometimes. I even thought about getting a tattoo of a dreamcatcher from a friend in the hopes it'd trick my mind, like a filter, if it isn't mystically going to do the job. I guess this is kind of the same principle, stashing something pretty about dreams when I know so many of them to be pretty awful." Her mouth slants up with vague, slightly softened smile instead of anything dry or humored or otherwise, "I tried to make the Lizard King my dreamcatcher. It might be working. I've had less." It's Summer in Gray Harbor, she is having less, but for now, she's thanking Jim.

Passing the framed picture to him for -him- to put away, she wonders, "Are you inviting me to hide from my house in your house? I'm admittedly... tempted. Mine might be trying to eat me. And I like looking at other people's houses."

"Like the guy from Pawn Stars, if you don't know something, you know a guy who does," Mike says with a laugh, thinking of the obnoxious reality show on the History Channel. He even changes his voice slightly to do a touch of an impression, even if it isn't a very good one. When she leaves it to him to put it back up, he does so gingerly and carefully arranges things as best he can to prevent stuff from falling out on her in the future. "A partial stanza though, that makes a bit of sense, though the imagery is complete. If I were a song writer, I think I might jot down the beginnings of song ideas, even if I never have a chance to finish."

Listening to her tale about her dreams, he nods his head slowly. "Have you ever learned to lucid dream? I feel like if I had bad dreams too often, I might try to learn to lucid dream. Exert some control. Fly away?" he reasons trying to help, because he's a guy. But he also does his best to just empathize. "But I understand, I hope your good dream streak continues."

"I am, yes, I have a few reasons. The fact that yours seems rigged with issues, and that you have a stalker being the two most obvious ones."

Lilith cracks up suddenly at Michael's impression and reaches back with an elbow to knock against his midsection with ribbing, wandering absently out of the way when he rearranges the closet a little to be less trap-happy. He's taller, it's easier, damnit. "It's true. I generally know a guy that knows if I don't. At least on the internet. I'm going to start shaving my head to shine."

Her demeanor shifts, though as she watches company for a moment, her eyes a little far away when he starts talking about lucid dreaming and control, "No. But... I've talked about that with someone. Changing a dream's reality by interference or will of some kind to escape it. Sometimes I think they'll kill me. Out is good, however it comes." Lilith is actually very serious about this and she thinks for a moment with reflective nature on her fine features underneath the battering marks.

After pause, she tells Michael, "If we leave, you have to carry me on the stairs. Deal?"

The elbow to his midsection is essentially like hitting a bag of cement, all solid coiled muscles under the skin and shirt, but he plays it off like she really got him and buckles a little. "Oof-da!" he says with a laugh. "The internet, full of people who know things," he confirms. "Chrome dome? Sexy." Hearing her thoughts on lucid dreaming, he pays attention and nods slowly, she's clearly being a bit allegorical and feeling a bit unhappy with her dreams, and exaggerating, but he understands. Shitty dreams are shitty. "So, dream catcher, lucid dreaming. Do you squirm or make noises when you have bad dreams?" he asks. "Could it help if someone tried to wake you up?" he asks, not being suggestive with that, just curious.

Carrying her. "Easy peazy, get some stuff," he suggests, and will walk with her to get a bag packed. Still 'caging' her a little here and there.

Should you warn a person that you occasionally break or potentially move items when you sleep, and not with flailing? Nah. Lilith sure doesn't. She's already walking the line of being quirky in a cute way for someone without context while being a walking disaster, let's not push things into the realm where he starts being a good rational person and suggesting a shrink. Or pamphlets. He offered her pamphlets in the hospital while talking about Hank. For a moment, the woman bounces back out of that serious, almost dire sober state with her voice softened, adapting more natural tone when she breaks into helpless laugh at the memory of it. His play buckle-shot helps too.

"I don't know what I do. Covers get twisted, though. And yes, I guess someone could wake me, if they saw the signs or felt like I was sleep distressed, I think, for the bedtime dreams. I don't think I'd get up flailing and hit them or anything. I think." The woman goes to slip her feet into some flip flops so she doesn't have to bend for shoes then gathers some things into a bag, her prescriptions, phone, etc. She takes time to make sure a plant cutting in mason jar is okay and watered fresh, which puts water on the floor with splashover while walking with it like a hazard on the tile. But Mike is there, it's cool, slips don't happen while she's arm caged. Then she's ready to head out, "If I punch you while coming straight out of sleep, will you cry?"

"So, yes, you clearly are having a bad dream," Mike confirms, hearing her evidence, and when she asks if he'd cry, he smiles. "I'll totally cry," he claims. "Though honestly, the thing I'd fear is a mean elbow. People throw mean elbows sometimes with no practice."

Following her around, he takes the bag from her gingerly and hangs it over his shoulder so that she doesn't need to carry it, and then follows, a bit like a loyal dog. He doesn't mean to be a loyal puppy, but he sort of acts like it at the moment. Ready to protect her from her seemingly poorly built house and her terrible luck.

As they leave, he stands with her when she locks the door, then scoops her up--carefully so as to not aggravate any of her injuries, and carries her down the stairs.

Lilith grazes her bottom lip with her teeth as she's hefted, and for someone that's so very quick to insist she's 'fine enough' or leap to do things herself, she seems to be getting just plain accustomed to Michael hovering in defense on her behalf and carrying and all manner of things. She can take doting and help in the protective fashion just fine once the walls are chipped back some and it'd remind her of someone else if she were paying mind, so relenting and non-stubborn about it. At least until she decides she's not, but... she's just plain done getting hurt. And preventing that takes some clinging to others, much as it might peeve her if she got to thinking too rationally about it, on principle.

When she's swept up, she eyes the stairs with a brief bout of paranoia, and it's clear that these things are her bane, "... I've fallen down a few times this week. But mostly I just wanted to feel your muscles." She's trying to play it off with less convincing than natural.

Whether it was truly her plan or not, she can feel his muscles there. He's clearly as muscular as he looks like, and it's not just a padded shirt and a good cut or something. He doesn't know her thoughts, so thankfully, he's spared trying to ask questions. "Well, I haven't fallen down stairs since I was a kid, so I think we'll be okay," he mentions and is taking them slowly. Both feet on each step. Almost entirely so that she doesn't get anxiety about the pace he takes, but it's also considerably safer. "And you're welcome to feel me as much as you'd like," he says with a laugh.

"I'll wait til we're down the stairs to do that." When they make it down without incident as a team (okay it was all him) Lilith playfully does just that wherever and whenever she's put back down onto her feet. She reaches like she's going to tickle him and flips his shirt hem up instead to exclaim, "Goddamn." Then she does a petting little drift drop of the hem, shy about it non-percent, "How -often- do you work out?"

"Most days, how often do you work out?" Mike asks and keeps a hand near her in case she wobbles. The real question of course, would have been how much time he spends every day. He follows her through the shop once she finishes with her handsy touching, which he endures like someone who has been felt up like this before. Striding through the shop, they get to that car of his pretty quickly, and he opens the door for her, then circles around, bound for distant shores.