2019-07-12 - Beach, Bonfire, Brit

It's a good time to be sat out on the beach. The dying sun is throwing out a vermilion streak from the west in one desperate final effort against the deepening blues of darkness that clash in a spot that could best be described as 'Directly above Carver's head.' It's a losing battle. It has been for about half an hour, with long but not particularly dark shadows stretching out across the ground like scars from the fight above.

Speaking of Carver, he's found himself a sandy strip of beach that breaks through the usual rock and stone surface like a single crooked finger from the ocean, a towel beneath him, a small bonfire beside him, and a bottle of whisky with the label torn stuck into a small divot beside him. It's not a towel he's laying flat on, but instead looks more like a fitted bedsheet in a dull grey that he's stolen from somewhere. Maybe a motel. Maybe someone's laundry. Either would be likely for the guy, let's be honest.

He's easy enough to spot from the access road. Hell, he's easy enough to spot from the boardwalk. Not only is there the bonfire, which with a little closer inspection is also illuminating what appears to be a cooler off to one side, but there's also the burning ember a cigarette from his mouth that he's contendedly puffing on, smoke drifting up and inland as he rests a head in the crook of his elbow, admiring the evening's sky.

...Of course he's in his usual suit.

A tall, slim figure picks her way down the rocky beach at dusk, her gaze straying to the light playing on the water as she goes, the whishhhh whiiiiishhhh of the waves rolling in a hypnotic whisper of white noise that helps to round out all other sounds. When Love spots a bonfire up ahead, of course she turns for it, making her way toward the light. Her chucks are perhaps not the best of beach-going footwear, but they do ok on this mixed terrain.

The grey-eyed woman wears a plain grey tee, v-neck, the fabric softened by age and wear, tied at her belly, knot to one side. Her fair skin is inked, mostly along her sides, arms, chest, and throat. A pair of black skinny jeans is worn even on this warm night, leaving any ink on her legs a mystery — she probably has a lot though. She wears her long gunmetal grey hair up in a knot atop her head, with a pair of mirror-lensed aviators tucked into her hair.

"Mind come company?" Surely he saw her, but the tall woman nonetheless warns him on her approach. Maybe it's the bonfire, maybe it's the suit, maybe it's the cooler, maaaybe it's the smoke. One of many of these things have prompted her to ask after having a sit down. It could be a mistake, sure, but bonfires on the beach are traditionally social affairs and she's new(ly returned) to town. Who wants to sit on the beach utterly alone? Love moves in to stand by the fire while she awaits an answer, rubbing her arms as the heat up the front of her body immediately sends chill bumps sailing down her skin.

On closer approach, it becomes obvious that Carver has ditched both his shoes and socks. They're in a pile off to one side. With the slight bend in his knees, he's dug his toes into the sand, and is actually scooping up little piles with it as his feet wiggle, appreciating the sensation. There's a moment where the cherry of his cigarette burns bright just before Love speaks, which means any reaction, or reply, is delayed by his sending another stream of smoke to be caught by the coastal breeze and sent spiraling towards the boardwalk.

There's some adjustment of his incredibly loose tie as he sits up, head turning in completely the wrong direction at first. Not his fault! His ear was totally covered by the arm he was using as a pillow. Doesn't make him look any less... confused for a second, though. Good first impression, pal. The second impression is certainly a different one, looking at Love like she appeared from thin air. Which for anyone else would probably be a look of surprise. Shock, even. Bewilderment.

For Carver, it's an uptilt of the head and his hand offering out a space to sit. It's a pretty big sheet if she chooses to avoid the sand. "Not at all, love." Oh, that's not gonna get confusing. Hopefully the accent quells any shock at the mention of her name/not name. "There's drinks and snacks in the box. More wood to your left, there. Get that fire goin' proper if you're chilled."

That's... That's the most normal introduction Carver has had since arriving in town. The fuck.

"If you didn't have the accent, that would be fucking spooky," the woman replies after a beat of hesitation. Love smiles, though, and even chuckles as she makes her way over to join Carver on the sheet, ill-gotten though it may be. She doesn't ask. It's better to enjoy without asking for the details that are unimportant, details she might need to deny later.

Plausible deniability, thy name is Love. (Particularly where larceny is/may be involved.)

She pauses, then moves to add a little wood to the fire, but just a couple of small pieces to stoke it up a little. She's an old hand at beach bonfires. When the woman leans over, a long rosary swings from the soft folds of her tee, onyx beads glittering in the firelight. It's composed of silver metal bars, silver chain, a silver cross, and those dark, hand-carved black beads. "Good thought. Will do. And snacks too. Niiiice." She turns her back to the fire just long enough to bake some heat into her other side, warming her clothes all the way up. Probably it would help if she didn't have her tee tied up to bare her mid-drift, but, yanno. It's fine. "Can I get you something from the cooler before I sit?"

"What?" Carver's head leans back a little at her first response, actually looking confused confused now. But, hey, it only lasts a second, brushed off as quickly as some sand from between his toes, cigarette glow bobbing around as he does so. Dexterous fingers and little to no fear of burning himself. Good things to know.

It's not like he expected someone approaching him on the beach, alone, in this town to be completely understandable and transparent from the get go.

When Love begins to busy herself, Carver takes note of a couple of things. Not chucking a giant dried piece of tree into the bonfire's a good start, the rosary and onyx beads gets a touch of eyebrow and admiration for the style of it, and the silver chain get a wince and a muttered "Oh, shit, right." under his breath. Collecting his own from someone else isn't going to be awkward at all. "Jerky, crisps, root beer, normal beer..." he starts listing off from the contents he can remember that are in the cooler. It's not a huge one, by any standards. Two or three bottles would probably take up the majority of the space. "Gimme beefsnacks." That doesn't sound weird in the accent at all.

"You calling me Love," says Love. "Because." She flashes a toothy little grin, black-painted lips framing that smile. "Name's Love. Actually and truly." She turns back to the fire to toast her front a bit before she takes those long legs over to the cooler in a couple of strides, popping the lid to peer inside and then fish around with some inked fingers. Her nails, painted black, of course, tick against a few things until she pulls out a root beer, jerky, and a packet of crisps. "Salty and sweet." She drops the cooler lid closed and makes her way back around to where she started the adventure, then takes a couple long-legged paces to the blanket.

Love drops onto the sheet cross-legged, tucking the root beer into her lap, followed by a falling bag of crisps. She rubs a hand down her upper thigh, hard, a couple of times, reaching over with her other hand to offer Carver the jerky. She doesn't sit in his lap, but neither is she on the farthest edge either. "Beefsnacks for the gentleman."

Carver takes a lot of things at face value. He also takes a lot of things at anything but that. Love's name actually being Love? He takes that at face value, giving her little more than a flash of a smirk that dances at one corner of his mouth before whatever comment he had is swallowed back down to whatever part of his gut feeling it came from. It actually looks like it's going to re-surface when the next words from her are 'salty and sweet', but he covers that pretty well by tucking up his knees. They don't quite reach his chest, but they're near enough that he can rest his arms atop them, half-folded as he runs a hands over his bare forearms. Of course his sleeves are rolled up.

The singular spot of ink that dances with the roll of his cuff on his left arm feels pretty pathetic right now.

"Aly." A hand reaches out to take the offered snacks, dropping them into his lap before reaching back out in something of a greeting-handshake offering of it's own, eyes only glancing at the ministrations she gives to her upper thigh for a split second. "Nice to meet you, Love."

"Aly?" Love glances over, her gaze slipping from the waves long enough to regard Carver. Face turned to the fire, it's easier to see some of her ink, if he's inclined to look. Her pale, pale silvery eyes fix on his gaze for a moment. She looks him over, in that casual sort of inspection some strangers take liberties with. "You held in some commentary on my name, didn't you? Out of respect for that self restraint, I'm going to shake your hand and say pleasure." She leans over, reaching across her body to offer him her right hand. Her grip is firm, hand warm. "Pleasure." See? Does exactly what she says she's gonna do.

"Thanks for the snacks, Aly." She gives his hand a light squeeze. "I like your suit. Works for you."

"To be completely honest with you?" Dangerous words whenever Carver says them. Doubly so when he's giving as good as he's getting, eyes tracing the lines and work of Love's ink that the small fire is deigning suitable to reveal. It makes averting his gaze from her eyes that much more natural, at least. "I was going to say 'Nice to meet you, Love', and then my brain got incredibly confused for about half a second." This... This might be a problem somewhere down the line.

"You're welcome." He replies as they shake hands. Despite not warming them on the fire at all since she's been nearby, his hands match hers for temperature, although the grip is a little softer, pulling away after the squeeze and the compliment on his attire and reaching down to open up the delicious, delicious beef snacks. "Some stereotypes exist for a reason. Brit in a suit just goes, y'know?"

He pointedly does not comment on her outfit. Nor is his usual coat anywhere to be seen. "So-" Jerky. Goes. In. Mouth. "Local?"

With the faintest of smirks on her lips, she says, "Love is never a problem." That is a lie, in the broader context, when many, many murders and wars have started in the name of it. Love.

Resist the Earth, Wind, & Fire that's trying to claw its way into your brain. You know what? Don't resist. Five minute mental dance party, go! If you must have a dance party to U2, that's fine as well. If you must.

"The accent and the suit together up your credibility significantly. Look, I've sat down next to you, and now I'm enjoying your chips." She rips open the packet of crisps once her hand's been released, and fishes out a salty specimen to pop it into her mouth without even checking the flavor. "Not really. Once." That's her response to the local question. It's mixed, and potentially confusing!

This is going well.

Someone mentioned Carver and Credibility? "Oh, that's a mistake." A little more at ease, he stretches his legs back out across the sheet and on to the sand, propping up the pack of jerky to sit between them and rest up against his thigh. He leans away, just for a moment, so he can stub the cigarette out into the sand at the edge of their little area.

And then tucks the crumbled end into an empty cigarette packet that he pulls from his pocket. Carver's an ass, a liar, and a Brit, but he's not a beach litterer.

With Love settling in (There's a song title for you, right there), He begins to lean back once more, propping himself up on his elbows and idly picking at his packet of beefsnacks as he casually shifts between looking at the ocean and looking at the woman who decided to join him. Both, it has to be said, are appreciated for the company right now. "So, what..." He pipes up about her answer. "You got out, but got pulled back in? Crimelord or detective who tried to retire?" Those are the ONLY two things she could be.

"I didn't say it was smart, but it's how it is. Americans love to trust a Brit. Does not matter what comes out of your mouth. It sounds smarter because of the accent." Love crunches through another crisp. "Mm, no. Yes." Make up your mind, woman! "My old man's from this town, so I lived here... age I dunno, five-ish to 11-ish, made a bunch of friends, and when my parents split, I went with the one least likely to forget me in a parking lot or disappear for two weeks leaving no food in the house."

"Crime lord? Nice. If I was a crime lord, I definitely would have my car back from the shop by now. Detective? With all this ink?" She laughs. "No. I'm ... no." She continues to laugh for a moment, and waves a crisp. "Artist on sabbatical. Here for family stuff. Mainly to see if my old man's fallen off the sanity train and is living in a dumpster, or if he's quit town and flown to Boca to marry a competitive water skier or something."

"Though he could be dead. I was going to go and check, but I feel like walking on the beach and checking into the motel behind the boardwalk was a far wiser choice." She crinkles the packet of crisps. "Which, as it turns out, came with snacks, so. Good choice, me."

"How about you? Insurance salesman? Grifter? Travel writer?"

Carver listens to her talk. That's the best way to describe it. Leaning back, looking up at the dying light as his elbows work the sheet a little further into the sand. Occasionally, his hand rummages for jerky, giving Love's backstory the occasional background noise of a rustling packet. He's taking it all in, that's certain. There are even turns of the head and glances her way to nod at certain points. Like the mentions of friends, and her general opinion of the old man.

He's had a bad experience with finding the right words to say, lately. Lies just creep on out like he's not completely sure what the truth is. Having a chance to listen? That's something he seems to really, really appreciate right now.

Which means the listening is ruined when she mentions competitive water skiers. "Those are a thing?" He laughs. Of course they are, Carver. Don't look so flabbergasted. And then she mentions the motel. Which has him glancing down at the sheet they're sitting on. Now, not saying it's very similar to the ones that sit on the bed in every room of that motel, buuuut... It is. It totally is. He's going to have to remake his bed before sleeping tonight. He doesn't look guilty.

"Well." He says when she's done, swallowing down a piece of jerky and rolling to face her, the elbow propping his entire body up now shifting to hold up his head. All things considered, it looks pretty comfortable. "Nothing'll bring you back to town like family. Be that for good or ill. Hope you find him." That... sounds uncertain. Like he's not sure if she actually wants to or not. "And yes." She gave him a multiple choice question. That's the only correct answer.

Love talks. It's one of her gifts, at least when she's not hung-over, exhausted from a long drive, or surrounded by strangers and undercaffeinated. "Yeah, people totally get paid to jump on ramps and crap. Do tricks and, you know, just like snow skiers. It's almost as ridiculous as surfing." She pops another salty chip in her mouth, smirking at the waves. "It's beautiful out here. I missed this beach. I don't get to see it often, not since I was a kid."

"I'm not sure I want to find him, but he saddled me with legal paperwork, so I don't really have a choice." Equally hopeful and resentful, Love. Which tracks, doesn't it?

"Tricksy," she says, regarding his yes response. "I'll pick for you and keep the answer locked in the vault." She taps her temple, the one tattooed with a crescent moon. "Crisp for dehydrated meat?" She tips her crinkly bag in his direction, offering over salty goodness in trade for, well, salty goodness. "Have you ever impersonated a lawyer?"

"That's..." Put Carver in front of a man made out of worms named Larry, and he'd ask the guy how the family is. Tell him about competitive water skiers, and he'll shake his head and wonder just what the fuck is going on.

Which is what he's doing when she comments on the sea, and her old man, reaching over to dip his fingers into her packet of crisps and popping it straight into his mouth at the offer, wiping the salt-and-slightly-oil-coated fingers on his waistcoat before picking up his jerky packet between middle and forefinger to offer her the fair trade. "If it's anything but Grifter you locked away in there, I'm going to be severely disappointed." He offers in addition to the jerky, voice slightly thrown askew from the crisp he wishes he'd actually crunched down on before speaking. The fact she asks about impersonating lawyers hits just after, and he smiles as he crunches down. "Yesf."

He doesn't expand on that. At all. But his eyes shine more than they did a second ago.

Love's hand slides into his packet of meat without hesitation, grabbing a hunk before she retreats back to her section of stolen-motel-sheet and takes a bite. She hms. Not bad, seems. She shoves the rest of the piece of jerky into her mouth and side-eyes. "Of course it's grifter, shit. Do I look stupid to you?" She tips forward in another laugh. She puts the crisp packet down and reaches up to unwind her very long hair from the knot up top. She takes a moment to comb her fingers through the gunmetal-grey-dyed length. It falls in loose waves past her waist, and would probably be dragging the sand if not for the sheet.

"You look like you've impersonated a lawyer." She seems proud to have spotted that one. "Interested in doing it again if there's a need? And cash?" Love fishes out another crisp and chases the jerky with yet more salt. Finally, she reaches down to pick up the root beer, crack it open, and take a sip. "I know we just met, but you seem like that wouldn't offend you." Ie, shifty, but, you know, said in a nice way.

"I'll have you know I do legitimate academic research." Carver's got a finger raised in the air, looking somewhere just past Love's right ear because it's so much easier than looking someone directly in the face when you're trying not to laugh at yourself. He might even have been willing to extrapolate on that a little bit more, citing sources and everything, but whatever mental tracks the steam-engine that is his brain trundles along is torn up and thrown aside by the sight of Love's hair. And the amount of it. His eyes are immediately drawn to it, the sound of the sheet moving on the sand as he shifts his weight on the one elbow propping him up, gaze following the hair as it unwinds. Seemingly forever. "Jesus Christ."

A mix of awe and bewilderment. It's good to see what simple things can knock that man out of either smug satisfaction or depressed melancholia.

Does it take him too long to realize she kept talking? And asked him a question? Fucking right it does. He even misses the pride she flashes, only recovering any sense of wherewithal when she's opening up her bottle of drink. Other than the whiskey, Carver doesn't have one of his own nearby, and that torn-labelled bottle is very noticeably unopened and full. "You should have asked if I'd ever successfully impersonated a lawyer." Okay, good. He's back, and scratching at his slightly stubble-covered chin with a couple of fingers. "Far more important a question. This to do with that legal paperwork?"

Love glances over at Carver with a chip going into her mouth, black-lipstick utterly professional. "I do legitimate academic research." She says it like what's your point? She looks like she rolled out of a pile of bikers and put on some skater shoes. She pulls her hair over her shoulder and glances over at the exclamation. That brings another of those little laughs. Good god, she might be... a happy person.

What.

"Oh, god, you're so right." Love nods. "So right. Okay, so have you ever successfully impersonated a lawyer?" She shakes her head. "No, I mean, yes, but no. Sometimes it helps to have a white dude in a suit on hand."

Hand hovering in front of his slightly open mouth, with jerky held between two fingers, Carver takes a couple of seconds to think about this. Like, really think about it. He might be making a second impression of this inked, seemingly cheerful, incredibly behaired woman that came and sat down beside him. "Uuuuh-" That's always an awkward question. 'Have you ever succeeded at chicanery, befuddlement, fleecing, swindling, scamming or flimflam?'

One beat. His eyes look up and to the left.

Two beats. Up and to the right. The jerky is consumed.

Three beats. He smiles.

"Sort of." For fuck's sake. "Do you actually need a lawyer, or a white guy in a suit with a British accent? Because one of those I'm really good at."

If he's a grifter at all, and as he may recall, everyone currently sat around the fire at present decided he is, he most certainly has succeeded in one of all of those at some time or another. Love watches the dark-haired gent think on the subject, as if he's cogitating on a complex mathematical equation. She fishes a crisp from the packet. She waits. Crinkles the bag. Reaches up to lift it to her mouth, and stops. Sort of? "Sort of?"

Sort of. "Sort of." For fucks sake indeed.

"I need, at very least, a man in a suit, white usually helps, seeing as this is America, officious and British would be best, but you do what you can do. And lawyer, no, but it lends credibility if the suit and the accent don't do it because of your..." Because of your what? "Because of your, um, eyes." The eyes are the thing. "Which are kind of," She clears her throat. "A little bit shiftyasfuck." If you say it quickly, it's not as rude. Right?

Right.

"I mean I got away with it!" Sort of. "Sort of." See? Carver's completely transparent. Watching her watch him, he places the jerky bag back down on the sheet, chewing away at a particularly stubborn piece of meat and picking himself up from the ground. There's no hint of him getting up to leave, but he does at least pull himself upright, wiggling those toes to get rid of some of the sand that clings, even as he's pulling his feet up to sit, cross-legged and facing the woman who is not-so-subtly judging his trustworthiness.

And then he decides that's a stupid idea, because he's just eaten far too much jerky to count as a 'snack', and the breeze coming in off the coast is starting to... well, not bite, but without the sun warming the air, you can be caught unawares by a surprise slash of cool air when you're not expecting it. He starts to scoot-shuffle his way to the cooler, thinks better of it right as she starts explaining what she needs, and picks himself up so he can go and wander cooler-wards, stoking the flames for a moment with a bundle of gathered branches that are unceremoniously added right as she mentions the word 'shiftyasfuck.'

He doesn't even turn to look at her with that, expression relaxing into an easy smile as he lets the term linger in the air while his own bottle of rootbeer is scooped from the cooler. "You're..." He starts, pausing for a second to resume his old seated position. "...I mean. I thought I had nice eyes. If they're shifty as fuck, why'd you come sit down?"

Weirdly, that's not an outright 'no' to anything she's said.

Love finishes the last of the crisps in the packet, then folds up the crinkly bag neatly, into a tiny, tiny square, which she then reaches back and shoves into her back pocket. She holds the root beer by the bottle neck, loosely, then reaches up to take a sip from it, firelight shining amber off the glass itself. Her pale eyes turn to Carver as he sits up.

"You do have nice eyes, Aly." The tattooed woman looks over as she shuffles. "No one's disputing that. I also wouldn't leave you unsupervised in my motel room." She lifts the bottle and adds, "That's not a come on or an invitation." She glances over at the fire, then reaches over to bury her bottle in the sand halfway so it doesn't tip, and rises to fetch more wood to slowly stoke up the fire. It is getting colder out here, and it's always colder on the waterfront than anywhere else.

Cracking open his own bottle, Carver watches as she goes to add more wood to the fire. He might almost look a little hurt that apparently he didn't add enough, but that'd soon be mitigated by the acceptance that she's showing off a lot more skin than him. Also, the waistcoat? Lovely and cozy in there.

"Well thanks, Love." A slight wince follows the words, as well as the raising of his bottle in faux-toast. It's going to take him more than twenty minutes to get used to her name, that's for sure. "I got them for my birthday."

And then he's quiet for a moment. Well, longer than a moment. Enough time for Love to figure out her plan once she's done stoking up that fire, sipping from his drink while she does so. "First, Unsupervised in motel rooms, my main goal is to take up at much of the bed as possible. I'm a sprawler if there's no-one else around." Another truth. Another sip. "And steal soap." Well, that's just natural.

"You sure paperwork and pa's are the only reason you came back?" And that's just rude.

Love smiles when he winces. She likes it, that his slang and her name clash a little. "You're very sweet, and very welcome." She moves around the fire adding small logs here and there, careful not to collapse the whole thing, which would just lead to a shower of embers and potential fire-in-my-lap dancing. "What a thoughtful gift you were given. Your mom or dad?"

She returns to her spot a few moments later, though she spends a little more time standing. Judging by the way she knuckles along her thigh again when she sits, she might have gotten up to stoke the flames for another reason, one that isn't his lesser skill with the bonfire. "That's the first thing I do too. Running leap. Which is really great until the bed you get is broken and the leg snaps and the whole thing tips over and dumps you out the other side on your head."

"I steal the soap if it's that fancy peach smelling kind. I love that stuff. Everything not nailed down is complimentary." She picks up her root beer. "Everyone knows that."

"Do you have any interest in sitting for a portrait?" At the question of any other reason she came back to town. "I have some real estate to unload if my crazy papa won't see reason. He's never been really all there, but recently — let's say I'm hoping he doesn't need a facility. No one can afford that."

"Why else do you think I might have come back?"

"I'm bitter and unwanted." Carver replies, the combination of impetuous instinct and sheer habit roiling out of his mouth before he can choke it back down. Even the root beer doesn't help. There's another wince for you to appreciate, Love.

He shifts a little in his seat on the sheet, working a groove into the sand beneath that if not comfortable, is at least supportive where it needs to be, the base of his bottle resting on a knee as he holds it by the neck between two fingers, watching the the woman work the fire like a seasoned pro. "Mum. Definitely. Dad's were even lighter than yours." That'd be about his eyes, then, which barely lit in the light of the fire may as well be black for all they're illuminated. There's another sip as Love sits back down, said eyes watching her minister to her thigh as she does so, then covering it with a soft smile and even a rumbled chuckle from his chest at the idea of testing motel beds with a flying leap. "And how many times have you had the legs snap, then? Once? Twice? Enough to actually be a concern now?"

That'd be Carver for 'How many shitty motels have you stayed in, exactly?' It's his version of a bonding question.

"Gotta say, Love, not a huge fan of paintings. Especially not ones of myself. I always feel like there's gonna be some Dorian Gray shit going on." Casual, still with that easy smile, but there's a flicker of something at the corner of his eye as he replies, following it up with a nod at the mention of real estate and care facilities. Another raise of the bottle, possibly with a touch more sympathy than is really required on that part. "Always told my dad the best thing he could do for his kid was die with all his faculties intact. Fucker let me down on that one, too."

Hi, Random information. How are you today? Glad to hear it.

"No real reason. Seems to be going around, is all. People coming back home."

Love looks over as what sounds like another dose of truth rolls right out of Carver's mouth. "I've been bitter. It's how I ended up with some much sweet ink." She doesn't say anything about being unwanted, save, "Bad break up?" She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a pull, sweet, sweet carbonated deliciousness.

"They're beautiful eyes. I've always likes things that swallow the light."

She coughs, covering her mouth at his question, perhaps to stifle a laugh. "Just twice. Once I was alone, and once I tried to climb a mountain. Still, you hit a mattress, then tip off like the whole world is drunk, you start having that second thought right as you leap, you know? Maybe I shouldn't have — too late. I've done a lot of travel, nearly nonstop ages eighteen to twenty two." How much travel could a person do in a short few years? A lot.

There's that throaty laugh again at the Dorian Gray reference. The more she thinks about it, the funnier it gets. Man, lookit her go.

Carver shrugs as easily as most creatures with lungs breathe. Without input from any other part of his brain. "More a life lesson that's taking a while to really set in." One hand holds the bottle. The other comes up to scratch at something around his shoulder, concealed and suddenly itching beneath the fabric of his shirt. While Love drinks, he swirls his glass around, then ducks his head down at her voice of approval at the eye color he was born with, and never really considered changing. So hey, at least he's got that going for him, right?

And then the easy smile is back as she starts regaling about travel, lifting up his bottle to offer a slight clink against her own, watching her nearly laugh, and then watching her actually laugh. Apparently, at least part of that is contagious, with his eyes creasing slightly as he observes her amusement. "If we got that sense of 'Maybe I shouldn't have-' before we leap, life would be a lot more boring." He offers, bringing his drink back to take in a sip, then worrying the neck of the bottle between the tips of his fingers. "What's a life without a few broken beds?"

"Or your perspective is shit and you need to change it." Love finishes her root beer and tucks the bottle into the sand again. The amusement from the Dorian Gray comment lingers. She really liked that one. "I don't think there's ever any one answer to a situation, unless it's, you know, math physics and trajectory. People-wise, I mean. People are messy and tangled."

"You're right. Always leap. What's the point otherwise? You can always do what you need to do on the floor. Or prop up the bed with the bible in the drawer and have yourself a moderately slanted nap." She demonstrates with a tip of her hand. "I have to admit I've never let anyone else paint me, and I have that thought every time. I'd toast to that, but I'm all out."

"My perspective is accepting I'll fuck up sooner or later, so I might as well do my best to make it as entertaining as possible for whatever ghosts happen to be watching at the time." Carver places the bottle down beside him, reaching into his waistcoat for a reasonably full packet of cigarettes. Unlike the one that rests on the sheet and is just used to contain the discards. "Speaking of messy and tangled-" He talks and lights up at the same time. "-How in the hell is that hair managable? I've got this-" He's got a pretty solid mop of hair going, it's true. It's also about as contained as the sea they're sitting near. "-and it's driving me nuts. Thinking I need a trim."

Her agreement to his sentiment is met with a nod. "That's what the bibles are there for. That and jamming under the door to stop people getting in while you're bailing out of the window. Grab yourself another drink out if you want it, Pet."

"Isn't that a kick in the balls." Love says. She's quiet for a while before she says, "Don't forget yourself and the living." She pauses, then reaches over to give his shoulder a shove. She did see him open the cooler, and he did clink bottles with her, but in that moment she doesn't.. quite seem to remember, so she checks. "Sorry. Just checking."

"I keep it up most of the time." Love gestures to her hair. "It's outrageously unmanageable, but it's pretty when I have people to help me tame it. I never take a lover who isn't willing to comb it out for me. Lots of conditioners. It's murder on shower drains." The truth comes out about why she frequents motels. Not her shower, not her problem. "I'd offer you a trim, but it's a little dark out here and you might end up looking like a startled yorkie."

"Damn, I haven't bailed out a window since I was twenty one. I think I'm doing life wrong."

Carver hovers here for a second after the push to his shoulder. Not literally, but he's obviously taking a little dalliance around something he should say. It just takes a few moments to get to that point, watching the woman with a slightly raised brow and slowly creeping smile. "Love. Did you just make sure I wasn't a ghost?"

Casual conversation topic that, right? Right.

"And lover part aside-" He says, composure recovered, sip of his drink taken, bottle shaken to check how much of the contents remain. "I need to braid it someday. You'd be fucking deadly, and I am all for that." Bottle: Raised. His own hair: Fingers run through at the comment about how he'd end up looking. There's actually a moment of surprise. "I don't already? The fuck."

And he puts on his best 'Startled Yorkie' expression. "How 'bout now?"

Quite belatedly, she says, "Ah, you solved the love conundrum with pet. Well done."

There's a slight side-eye from the silver-eyed woman. "Nope, don't be stupid." Yep. She totally did.

Love moves to rise to go over and plunder the cooler for another root beer. That sugary delight is addictive. Pretty good brand too. She twists the top and tucks it into her pocket, this time standing for a while, though she does move around to return to what is ostensibly her spot now. She glances over when he asks after his expression. Her brows draw down. "That's... terrifying. You look exactly like a startled Yorkie." She snorts a laugh and looks away, then back. "Stop." She looks away, then back. "Oh god, put the face away." She can't keep the laugh in then. "That's a deadly weapon."

"I'm not looking at you again until you promise you've stopped."

Carver considers the demand, which... it'd be pretty hard to tell if he was considering anything, even if Love was looking. 'A startled Yorkie deep in contemplation' isn't a card ANYONE would like to see in charades, but by God is Alistair Carver pulling that off with aplomb.

For a long enough pause that Love might be starting to get the idea that he's never, ever going to stop, and is just waiting for her to turn around and catch sight of his dumb face once more.

It's probably just enough time for that thought to start creeping in like fingers over someone's neck when his voice pipes up once more. "Fine. I'm done. Promise." And yes, he is. He's taking another swig of his drink, cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth when she decides to look back, a hint of teeth showing in a grin that's failing to be concealed. "But you were totally checking I wasn't a ghost. You just missed her, in fact." What? Nothing.

You can bet your sweet ass she waits a beat before actually turning around to look at him, because she fully expects he's going to be making the face. And when he's not, that's apparently funny too. Love cuts off a laugh and raises her bottle to take a sip of the newly opened root beer. "Story of my life, just missing things. I don't mind, usually. Sometimes those things try to eat you. At least then do when I don't miss them. Super not fun."

She pats down her pockets, front, back, and then reaches up to slip a hand down her V-neck tee, and comes up with a single cigarette. "Do you mind the scent of cloves?" Sweet, a little spicy. "Can I borrow your light?" She crouches, but doesn't sit, next to him, her shoes probably kicking a little sand up onto the blanket.

"You have a ghost?" Not that she's admitting they exist. Ofc.

"I dunno, being eaten can be fun." Carver says around the neck of a bottle. Casual as you like, watching her pat herself down with a curiosity that threatens to become more than idle as she dips a hand down her tee, bottom lip coming up to drag what remnants of his drink linger around his mouth when she reveals the prized cigarette.

"Not at all, pet, knock yourself out." His lighter is a Zippo that almost matches Love's hair for color, the metal burnished with a slightly coarse texture, and what probably used to be a bright red card-style diamond that just edges on to the lid at the top now worn away to a smooth gray finish. It's held out for her to take, not going so far as to offer lighting it for her.

And his casual smile doesn't shift at all when she asks that final question, although his toes grip at the sheet for a moment. "No. But people assume she is, and telling them otherwise seems... counterproductive."

"If it's only going to fuck you, don't tell them. You have no obligation to give away what's under the candy coating." Love reaches over to take the Zippo as it's offered. "Mahalo." Just one little word that's unusual around here, but you live in some places for long enough, things start rubbing off on you.

She studies the lighter for a moment, then turns it around in her hand, clicking it open flicking it lit and spinning it down along her knuckles before she holds it up like a normal person and touches it to the clove to light it with two short puffs. Oops, maybe three. Yup, three. She rolls the Zippo closed over her hand and offers it back with her left, arm straight out to offer it back. This may explain her proficiency with stoking fires.

"Of course, now I'm curious." Not that she's admitting ghosts exist still.

Carver takes the lighter back with far less flair. In fact, there's none at all. There's even an eyebrow raised in a slight gesture of 'Really?' as he tucks it into the roll of his sleeve on his left arm, snug and secure just above his elbow. "You're welcome." He adds, unfolding his legs to stretch them out, and tucking the mostly empty bottle of root beer down in the sand to make a matching set with his whiskey. Still unopened. Still looking damned delicious to him.

Don't take any of that personally, Love. He's just trying to hide the fact he's impressed with the dexterity. And jealous that she can do it better.

"Curious about what?" His own cigarette, definitely not-clove in comparison, is plucked from his mouth, and Carver swivels slightly away from looking directly at Love to focus on the fire, wiggling his toes once they're closer to the heat source. "What she is, why I take talk of ghosts in stride, or what's under my candy coating?"

"It took me two months sitting in a hospital to learn that trick. I lit my bed on fire like twenty times." She says that last bit like it's a secret, gritting her teeth a bit. Probably got in trouble for it, open flame in a hospital and all. "I use it every time I light a cigarette in the dark. Use it or lose it, Aly." Love sits, then tips back, whumping down onto the sand to stare at the stars. She's going to have sand all up in her hair now. A moment later, she glances over.

"You really want to braid my hair sometime?" Maybe she ignored it earlier because she thought he was kidding. Or maybe she just was distracted by other things. Like the Yorkie face.

"Curious about — well, now that you've handily brought all those things up, all three. I was mainly talking about what she is if not a ghost. Not that I believe in ghosts." She drops her legs flat to the ground, feet almost shoulder width apart, in a very close approximation of corpse pose, except she reaches up to tuck the clove cigarette is in her mouth. She exhales the smoke through her nose.

"Hell, Love. I light my bed on fire just by smoking. The fact you were actually learning something at the time? Makes it worth it." Not sure any hospital staff would agree, Carver, but they're not here to argue. So fuck 'em.

Bringing one knee up to his chest, one arm wraps around the leg to hold it close as he casts his head aside to look down at her. Not even the noise of her whumping into the sand got him to look away from the bonfire, but the question about hair braiding? Shit, the reaction to that is instant. It's a pleased little smile, seeming all the wider for the shadows cast from the wood burning nearby, and his cigarette-holding hand tilts palm up as he shrugs. And nods. "'Course. It's relaxing. Like meditation with conversational partners. You can tell me the story of how your leg threw you in hospital for so long. It'll be cathartic. Or something."

Yeah, that's right. He was paying attention. He does that sometimes.

Her last statement? That gets his cigarette back in his mouth, puffing away happily and going so far as to hold the filter between teeth so he can continue talking. "Well, to answer all three, 'Dunno,' 'Because I see 'em all the time, and my best friend pretends to be one,' and 'Spite.'" Aaaand exhale. "The last one used to be 'Abs', but I've been living off of takeout food for months. And got lazy."

The hospital staff did not agree. Fuck 'em. Not all of them, though. Maybe just two or three of them. There are limits and standards in play here.

"That story's not that long, but I could elaborate it up all atmospheric if you like." The tattooed woman doesn't offer to tell it right now, because his hands aren't in her hair. Or, you know it's intensely personal and traumatic and she would require an appletini first. Tart and delicious. She rests her hands on her exposed belly and thumps out a light little drum sequence. "I have some experience in that arena as well. Takes a while to get 'em back once you've gone Chinese takeout and sit around."

"So you're not unwanted. You have a best friend. Those are exceptionally hard to come by and to keep."

Does Carver look when Love's hands beat out a rhythm? Of course he does. He's human. He might also immediately regret it and be feeling the effects of two or three night's worth of boxed noodles. At least this time, for once, he lingers on the ink he can see. He took it in stride before. Hell, that's not true. He barely noticed it before. There's a difference. It's subtle, but it's there. "Looks like you managed well enough." A compliment? "Well done." Okay, that sounds sarcastic. Might be the accent.

And he doesn't ask her to elaborate the story. It's true, there are no hands in her hair. His are too busy holding a leg and drawing patterns in the sheet beneath them. "32 years and counting. She's been a nightmare to get rid of." Carver deflects, jokingly, looking away from the exposed skin to join in with a bout of stargazing. "Owe her my life. No idea where the fuck she is right now."

And really, isn't that what friendship is truly about?

If it is sarcastic, and she doesn't take it as such, Love merely replies, "Thanks. These are abs crafted by a lot of planking." Her belly is flat, not cut, though perhaps it once was. "And moderate consumption of road trip foods. It's harder than it looks to get 5'11" of person upright on a surf board, let alone without core strength. If I didn't have that in my life, I'd probably live on cake for the duration."

"Thirty two years. Wow. It's probably good you aren't together every second. You'd murder each other." Can you murder a ghost-not-ghost? Not that we're saying ghosts exist. "As long as she's there to hold your proverbial hair back when you're face down in the metaphorical toilet, that's solid. If she has your best interests at heart, and always tells you the hard truth whether you like it or not, but only if you need it to move forward." There's a pause and then she says something kind of horrifying, "That's a long time. You should probably find out what she is in case she's vampire sucking the remainder of your life away. I saw this movie once."

"Aaaah." See, everything clicks in to place for Carver eventually. The approaching on a beach. The easy deal with kindling. The Mahalo. The knowledge that competitive water ski is a THING. "Surfer. Right." Does Carver look like someone who knows the troubles of standing upright on a board? Fuck no. Does he look like someone who has ever tried? Also fuck no. He's got a certain standard of appearance, and 'Surfer' as a descriptor is about as far away as one could imagine. Next county, even.

Hell. Canada.

"Well, she's only been dead for twenty. Not so bad." He continues, leaning to one side to flick some ash away, dropping his head back down to watch the bonfire once more. There's one branch, just on the side, middle burning, edges not quite there. He's waiting to see if it breaks in the middle before the whole thing goes up. "She's there to mock me, bitch at me, throw shit at my head, insult anyone I happen to meet..." So yeah, best friends.

Inhale. Exhale. Cloud of smoke.

"I've lost count of how many times she's saved my life in the past year, she was happy to keep an eye on someone I've known for all of a month, and listened to me when I told her not to spy on someone. That's about the best I can ask, I think."

And lastly, a beat. Or four. He turns to look at her face. "How 'bout you? Been haunted lately? Other than by the spirit of paperwork and hassle, I mean." Yes. He's ignoring the idea she might be a Ghost Vampire. HE'S POINTEDLY IGNORING IT.

Good surfing in Canada. Ask her, she'll tell you. "Yeah. All of us are a little crazy. And we love the ocean. I could sit here all night." She just might do that, provided the temperature stays above 'wake up a corpse' temperatures. Also provided she doesn't need a blanket. On the water, even in the hottest portion of summer, it can get cold at night.

She blows a tendril of spicy smoke upward, cigarette popping a little when she sucks on the filter, the tip flaring orange. Mostly, she lets it burn down, and remembers to ash occasionally lest a breeze put a long stack of no thanks in her eye.

"Nope, no hauntings, but I did get some paranoid rambling letters, which is almost as creepy. Being watched, being hunted kind of stuff. Hey, maybe he's haunted. That would be a relief, actually. His delusion rolls deep." She ashes somewhere over her head and vaguely to the left. "I'm still working on how best to be the adult child of a nutcase I haven't seen in fifteen years. It's much easier to do from Canada." Which is literally where she lives right now. "Instead, I'm here, and... this town has definitely done some sliding down the kooky scale."

Carver scratches at his chin for a moment, watching Love's face as she talks, and coming to a conclusion somewhere mid-sentence that sitting up is for chumps, and now it's time to spread out and ease up a slight nagging sensation somewhere in his lower back. There's a whud noise, and before too long he's settled in much the way he was when she arrived. Flat on his back, an arm tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow, watching the stars. Or watching the sky for stormclouds. Maybe both. Summer don't mean jack for rain here, after all.

"I'd not knock the company if you did." He muses, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and outstretching that arm to hang from the side of the sheet. Ash the sand, not your bedding. "And I didn't say, because I forget to do shit like that sometimes, but I'm sorry. 'Bout your troubles with you dad. Sounds rougher than you're letting on, but that might just be me doing some projecting." And then a beat. "This town is... something. Yeah."

"Oh," Love smiles, though it's a little sad. "Yeah, thanks. It is a little rougher, but mostly baggage. I'm not going to worry until I have to. It's a beautiful PNW summer and it's not raining on us. For once." She probably just jinxed the nighttime slumber party on the beach though, with that comment. Now the storm clouds are taking it personally, where ever they are.

"Smokes and snacks on the beach. Life's not so bad tonight." Yet. "Hey, thanks for saying it was cool for me to join you. That was a good choice on my part asking." Love brushes her hands over her arms, dusting off a little sand. She wraps her rosary necklace around her hand several times and fiddles with the beads, sliding one arm folded behind her head. "Do you think the pizza guy will deliver to the bonfire on the beach as an address?"

"I'd say all the best with it-" Carver starts, hiding any hint of expression behind his usual easy smile. That she's probably not even looking at, considering they're both looking up. Habits. Hard to break, right? "but you've probably cursed me to being struck by lightning while I try and nap, so now I'm not bloody gonna."

Does his tongue poke out? Of course it does. He's 37, that's not an adult.

"Again, you're welcome. I appreciate the company. I was just gonna sit out here and poke a fire until I got bored, which probably would have been about ten minutes ago." He doesn't exactly turn, but there's a certain shift in his shoulders, a slight adjustment of the arm he's using as a pillow. It comes as a reaction to the sound and movement of Love touching the necklace. "It's pretty." Is about all the comment it gets. And that's soon covered with a "Probably. I doubt we'd be the first to ask. If I can get one delivered to a campsite, a beach should be no problem."

Y'know, unless the pizza places are experiencing a high ratio of 'Missing Persons' reports after sending drivers out to the middle of nowhere lately. Which... maybe?

If their management hasn't caught on to the missing persons reports yet, they might not until tomorrow, which means strike while the iron is hot. No, it means order before they get cautious! That's what it means. Sorry, the first one made the beachgoers sound like serial killers. NOT TODAY.

"Oh, thanks, I borrowed it." Permanently. She unwraps her hand from the rosary, ashes her smoke one more time, takes a final drag of it, and then reaches over to drop the smoldering butt into the empty root beer bottle. "Let's see how they take it." She sits up, glances around to figure out where along the boardwalk they are, then pulls her phone out of her back pocket and Yelps up the closest, highest rated delivery. "Half cheese, half bacon?" She's already dialing.

"Don't be silly. You'll be woken by the rain long before the lightning fries you." She hms. "Probably."

"Hi, yeah. I'd like to order delivery. Yeah, no. I'm on the beach. Stand on the boardwalk behind Fried Fish and look to the north for a small bonfire and two very pale people. Right. Yeah. Sure. No, I'm not crank calling you..."

Eventually, after some goading, a pizza arrives.

Sure, a British accent yelling 'I'll tip like a motherfucker' may have hindered more than it helped, but it's more likely than not the fact that Love can be incredibly persuasive when it comes to food that gets them what they're after. Her name didn't make things any easier, but Carver's... nearly made it worse, actually. They know he's real, though.

And as the night gets truly dark, the bonfire repeatedly stoked, and a half cheese half bacon pizza is thoroughly devoured, the conversation glides pretty smoothly from casual topic to casual topic, any unplanned awkwardness generally broken up by either a dumb face as Carver burns his mouth by trying to eat food too quickly, or Love laughing at something.

And not once does anything weird happen. A rare night, when you can find them.