2019-07-13 - As A Stranger Give It Welcome

This late in the evening, spurred by the reminder a day before that he'd left his necklace in a jacket pocket he no longer possessed, Carver had hovered by the gate to the Bayside apartments for a good hour or so, chain smoking his way through the end of one pack and into the start of another.

Fifteen minutes later, he stubbed out the remainder of yet another against the gate, pulled up his collar to shield from a breeze that seemed determined to find his neck, and left down the road.

Ten minutes after that, there's a knock at the door of Apartment 503.

Melissa also hovers. Not literally, there are some things even she can't manage, after all. Giving her knuckles a little check once they've rapped on the wood of the door, her hands reach up to adjust the fit of her hat. She's changed outfits since the last time she lingered on this side of things, with a slouch beanie in black almost hanging from the back of her head, letting her dyed hair hang free and loose over parts of her face. Her dark shirt is emblazoned in bright white with the words 'BOLLOCKS London Est. 1981', part of the lettering obscured by the deep green and maroon plaid baggy coat she's thrown atop it. The coat actually goes lower than her shorts, old jeans that sit high, rip-cut at the upper thigh to show off black dash pattern tights that disappear into a pair of loosely-laced 1460 Martens. Round, mirrored circular glasses with a silver frame hang from the neck of her shirt, the plum lipstick that looks hastily applied somehow manages to clash with both the magenta streak in her hair and her pale complexion.

And let's not even start on the smiley-face prints in alternative blue and green that sit on her nails.

She looks about 17, and that's the perfect age to take fashion tips with a pinch of salt.

There's a moment or two before the deadbolt is thrown and the door's pulled open. Sutton stands on the other side with a mug of tea in hand. From the smell of it, it's something in the chai family, spicy and aromatic. She gives Mels a once over and blinks. "Hey." Just about the last thing she expected when she opened her door today: a 17 year old girl rocking somewhere between grunge and punk, and basically channeling all that is the early 90s, which means now's retro. "Uh. Hi." She's no longer hung over, but her processing speed has yet to catch up to normal levels after what she did to her body this week... and last month, if we're being totally honest. "Good tights."

Sutton is much less fashionable in a pair of cuffed, midnight blue short-shorts and a Seattle PD tee that's a little big on her, but does have the name SUTTON across the back, which isn't visible just now. She leans against the door and waits to see what the teen has to say. Wrong apartment? Need directions? Seeking disposable lighter to make a timed IED device in the garage?

They've never met, but so much of Melissa might stir an odd feeling of familiarity. They way she shifts weight from one foot to the other, the brushing of her nose with a thumb that's going on right as the door swings open, and most definitely the way her face settles into an easy-going smile almost instinctively. Okay, there might have been a flicker of really? across her features at Sutton's initial appearance, but... yeah. It makes sense to the girl after a moment's thought.

"Hi!" Oh god. Another Brit. The smile flashes wide, completely at odds with what personality the outfit might suggest. "Harry Sutton, right?" That's not unsettling. "503?" Too perky. Too, too perky. The guys on the door let her in?

Her hand goes out. Not to shake, but palm up, as if expecting a present. "Chain, please."

The smiled she's greeted with of course naturally prompts a slight mirroring smile, which cranks up at the obvious British accent, and freezes at 'Harry Sutton', and disappears entirely by 503. Her lips part, and she takes a short breath. "What the fuck."

Her hazel eyes focus on the girl for a long, long moment. She opens the door wider. "Get the fuck in here." And then she steps out of the way and gestures with her cup. "Then use more words."

"I can't." Melissa's smile returns to the easy state it was at before, glancing down at her hand and flexing the fingers a little, almost looking surprised at the fact that asking did not miraculously summon a silver chain to it. It drops to her side.

"It was hard enough to convince Aly to let me here at all. I had to promise not to invade your space." There's a pause, a shrug, and a quick puff from her lips and a shake of the head to stop a strand of hair from dancing along an eyelash. Just in case anyone was worried she might be winking. "Like, promise promise. Three times. I think he was worried I'd throw your brother off the balcony." Did she also promise not to put too much on Sutton at once? Fuck yes. But she's allowed to break one. That's the rule, right? Right. "His silver chain. The one in his jacket. We need it back. I'd really like you to do that before all his whiny decision-making is for naught, puppy."

It takes her a moment to realize what's happening, not the least of which is 'Aly' not ringing a bell. And then there's the promise not to invade her space and the oh, so maybe Carv—brother what. His chain in his jacket affirms, yes, Aly is Carver, so Aly is short for Alistair. Okay, got that. Good. All of this is obvious as it ticks into place by the squint in her eyes lessening a bit. The only reason, the only reason she hasn't slammed this door in Melissa's face is that she's still somewhat confused.

However. Only one person that she knows of in this city knows she's Harry. "Is this some kind of sick fucking follow up mindfuck from De la Vega?" Because she will light his ass on fire if so. That's clear in her voice. Of course a moment later she realizes, no, couldn't be. He doesn't know who the 'Brit' is. Once again, Melissa is a mystery.

"Ok, more words." She's doing her best not to lose her cool, and barely, barely holds it down. Probably because she has a cup of tea in hand and is at least half English. "Who are you? Who are you to Carver? What's with the chain? Why didn't he come for it himself, and what about my brother?"

"Who the fuck is De la Vega?"

That'd be a confirmation on Sutton's realization, then. Tucking her thumb into the pocket of her shorts, Melissa does a full weight-shift-shuffle to lean the majority of her weight on one foot, expressions slowly phasing from the easy smile to boredom as the questions are thrown her way, taking the opportunity to size up the woman in the doorway. Y'know, a not at all impolite appraisal that starts at the top of Sutton's head, ending up at her feet so a pair of almost jade eyes can flick back up to her face in time with the word 'Brother.'

Mels sighs. The weight shifts to her other foot, a finger coming up to rub between her eyebrows as her face scrunches up for a second or two. "Okay, look. I'm not supposed to say a damn thing. Or Aly'll be pissed at me for throwing his unnecessary martyrdom under the fucking bus, alright? But you're asking questions, and I'd ever-so hate to be impolite." That last word comes with a little spin on it. It's the spin of a teenager finding a loophole in a rule. It's dangerous. "I'm Melissa. His best friend. Chain's mine. He's trying to stay away from you for your sake." There's a little interruption there as something occurs to her, and the girl leans in for a second. "Seriously, you should see the amount of unsent messages on his phone. You'd think it was pathetic. It's hilarious." Her tone doesn't suggest it's completely hilarious.

Maybe that was to distract from the brother question. She'd already said too much.

At least both of them are dropping f-bombs now, so Sutton doesn't have to feel alone in that.

The shift in the girl's expression doesn't concern Sutton. What does is the rest of it. "He's best friends with a, what, sixteen year old? So... surprise baby sister? Secret daughter?" Those are the two scenarios she's willing to entertain. She doesn't even ask the third one any cop, her dead brother in particular, would have asked. Her blonde-streaked dark hair is pulled back in a knot. Her face is clean of much makeup, just a little eyeliner, some sunscreen, a little mascara. Her lips are painted crimson, which is fairly fancy for a paramedic, but some days you need the armor. And the distraction from how tired you look.

"Right." Never mind the unset messages. She'll deal with that later. She crosses the room, her back to Melissa, and heads for the coffee table to pick up a little plastic sandwich bag she's filled with all the stuff from Carver's pockets, minus the crumbs and orange peel. She sweeps his jacket off the rack on her way back, too. She doesn't offer them over yet. "None of this... none of it is funny. For my sake. That's... " She left her tea back on the table. Calm is waning. "Did he call me Harry?"

"Best. Friend. Period." There's a slight edge to Melissa's tone that probably doesn't help alleviate any concerns regarding how she knows Carver. Sutton wouldn't realize in a month of Sundays quite what it was she just managed to get under the skin of.

When the paramedic goes to fetch the sandwich bag, Mels rolls up the sleeve of her jacket, her own watch worn in a similar fashion to how Sutton does it. Face turned so it sits on the inside of her wrist. There's even some foot tapping for good measure. When Sutton talks, she looks. First to the bag, and then to the jacket, and finally to her face. With that easy smile. It really does come oh so easy. "It's not funny, no. But, he's an idiot. Whatchagonnado?" Her lips purse up, and the lipstick suffers for it.

And then there's another question. Sutton's calm is waning. Melissa's easygoing start is fading. Always a good combination for a conversation. A hand even balls up for a second. But that smile never fades. "Yup! I only need the chain." The hand comes out once more, opening and closing in request.

Sutton regards Melissa for a long, silent moment, her face blank. There's another body on the pile of Carver's skeletons, how he knows Melissa, and why he sent her, or talked to her about Sutton, how the fuck he knows her nickname. It's the second time someone's said it to her in the last week. "Yes, he is a massive idiot." The two can at least agree upon that.

"Answer my question, love." She stands there, arms crossed over the jacket, the baggie of belongings in her hand, including the chain inside with the currency, stubs, receipt, and other items. Of course it's the one evaded that she's had to ask twice. And stands there now, waiting on.

"Jesus."

The inflection is a near-perfect copy of how Carver would say it, Melissa's arms crossing low over her stomach as she huffs out air and throws on the least subtle expression of distaste this side of a sober adult being served at Chuck E. Cheese. "You blatantly ignore shit you know deep down is there, get pissed at a guy when he realises he'd do nothing but push you forward quicker than you're ready for-" A hand goes up to stop any retort at this point. "-Yes I know he did it in the worst way. Massive idiot." hand back down. "And only now, when it's the one thing I'm not supposed to do, you get some weird impulsive obsession for answers?"

You done, Mels? Got that out of your system?

Her hand goes out for the chain again, so quite possibly, she has.

"Yes. Now, gimme."

Sutton stands there for a while, watching Melissa. "This coat fits him poorly, but it's his, and you should take it back to him." She holds both that and the bag out to the girl in the corridor. "He should have them back." She stuffs the bag in the jacket pocket and holds the jacket our on her fingertips, brightly painted nails the cheeriest thing about her right now. She isn't happy about Melissa's refusal to answer, but her mannerisms being so like Carver's have also annoyed her just enough that she's willing to let it go. For the moment. In the interests of not using a whole mess of very bad words.

"And tell him that when he's ready to stop pouting and lying poorly, he's welcome to come have a cup of tea."

Mel's hands claw up a little, grabbing at the air as the easy smile turns into something more of a frustrated grimace. "Nnnnnnnrgh!" She starts to say something. Stops. Tries again. Puts a finger up to her mouth. Ponders. Considers. Points. Finger back on mouth. She even stomps her feet a little.

"You..." You can hear the 'Augh.' She doesn't vocalize it, but she doesn't need to. It's somehow audible purely through body language and actions. "People are infuriating sometimes! Fuckin' hell!" Teenage temper tantrum without the ability to go 'I HATE YOU, MUM?' Mels is suffering here. Suffering.

One more deep breath. Some calm is found. Somewhere. "Look." Palms out. Disarming. Apparently. Look, she learned it from Carver, so take that for what it's worth. "I need the chain. Because it's mine. Everything else has to stay here, or he'll never have a reason to come back. And I can't handle him moping about this for much longer. He's treating people normally and it's fuckin' killing me. I'm going to take a pickaxe to his skull. I will literally buy a pickaxe, bring it back to the motel, and embed it in his temple."

Sutton blows out a sigh. She digs the bag back out of the jacket pocket, her movement measured, drapes the jacket over her arm, reaches into the bag, and fishes around for the chain. The chain with no pendant. She twists it around her fingers, pulling it out. "I'm not sure what in this he'd really come here for, aside from the flimsy excuse." She raises her hand up, loops of chain hanging from her fingers for Mels to take.

"What's so special about this chain?" She just can't seem to stop asking questions.

Then she says, "With how hard his head is, I'm not sure a pickaxe would do it."

"That's the point." Melissa looks astoundingly pleased that Sutton might actually be starting to get a hint of the whole point she's going for. Whatever she is, she's still based around the idea of a teenager. Don't try to adult logic her methods too much. You might get a headache. "He'll need the flimsy excuse. He thinks he's doing you a favour by not hanging around any more. It's why he lied. Figured that'd be the one thing could make him stay away with a clear-ish conscience or some shit."

While she's talking, that chain is snagged. Whippet hands. Forward, out, snatch, back, and the silver links disappear somewhere inside her jacket.

"He told me to come collect all his stuff." The eyeroll she pulls off could... Well, we're not entirely sure what it could do. But it's practiced. And impressive. And possibly physically impossible when you really stop to consider it for more than a few seconds. "Figured that would be firmly closing that door. But I know Aly. He'd just pine and moan and be pissy for months about it. I'm trying to do you two idiots a favor."

As for her question about the chain? Oh. Indignant face. For a second. And then she's back to the soft, easy smile that Sutton's used to from multiple people. "It's mine. Only thing of me he's got left. Other than me of course. Don't think about it too hard, pet."

"That's the worst logic I've ever fucking heard." Sutton's tone is just a little tired now. She shakes her head, "Just tell him if he wants his shit to come and ask for it." She releases the necklace when Mels snatches for it. "Do tell him to stop being such a child. Feel free to use that phrase, though I really don't think anything I say makes him angry enough to get a rise. I should probably try harder."

"I think you don't want to watch him mope either. He's no fun at all when he's being weird and introspective. It's deeply disturbing." Sutton watches Mels for another beat. "Don't call me pet."

"You two have very different lives." Melissa understates, looking down to brush something that doesn't exist from her jacket. Again, a familiar habit.

And then she looks at Sutton. Really looks at her. Eye contact and everything, with that easy smile growing half a touch too wide. "And don't you worry, duck." Careful what you wish for. "You piss him off just by existing. Someone he likes but could ruin the life of just by hanging around for too long? Fuckin' nightmare for him, you are."

And then she leaves. Just like that. Swivels on her heels, throws a quick mock salute in Sutton's direction, hell, blows a goddamned kiss... And marches her way down the corridor.

"Melissa Mackay! Stoke-On-Trent! October 2nd, 1998! That'll answer any parting questions!"

Teenagers don't know when to leave things well enough alone.

Sutton stands there with her door open, and then she glances toward the ceiling. "The fuck I did not just get a life lecture from a mouthy fucking teenager." She pulls her phone out of her pocket, kicks the door closed, and unlocks the screen. For a second there, it seems like she might be getting ready to make a Very Yell-y Phone Call.

And then she pulls up a browser, types that in, before she forgets it. Just because it's an answer, even if she doesn't know the question. Melissa McKay is what she types in, though, along with the rest. Hits search, flips her deadbolt, and goes to retrieve her cooling cup of tea from the table.

'Melissa Mckay' actually brings up unrelated stuff. Or at least, definitely not the same one, even with the Stoke-on-Trent addition.

It does, however, bring up the 'Did you mean' prompt. Which leads to a smaller local paper for the hometown of two of the oddest people Sutton's met lately.

And the obituary section.

And the rest is just funeral dates and the details for a mental health charity.

A little more searching gets news articles about a suicide from a block of flats. A press-being-vultures picture included of the victim during 'happier' times.

The same person Sutton just met.