2019-07-30 - This Above All

On a hot summer night, the park is quiet. There is a bench just across the road from the Firehouse & Police Department, under a wide-branched tree that's within almost-earshot of what passes for a Zoo in this strange little town. The sky above is filmy and grey, moon hidden behind the clouds most of the time now, star-scattered sky obscured. Every now and again, the clouds part, and silvery light spills down on the landscape, throwing things into softer relief.

On the bench sits a fair-skinned blonde wearing dark blue skinny jeans, a low-cut, plain cotton tank top with a very deep V-neck, carrying a slushie in hand. Thee edges of some very fancy lingerie peek out from her top, as it drops down below that undergarment, showing off a bit of it. Long, layered necklaces are worn at her neck, delicate things like a rose-gold locket on a long chain, tiny hammered discs like bitty suns on a filament of yellow gold.

Sluuuurp. Straw tucked into the corner of her mouth, she watches the shadows like she expects something to walk of then aaany moment now. Overlong fringe falls into her bright blue eyes, hair just skimming her eyelashes.

It's only a minute or so after that slurp that Carver steps out from one of the shadows. He does so hate to defy expectations, after all.

Okay, that's not true. Normally, he'd be all about falling out of the tree Lucinda sits beneath, but climbing is something a little tricky right now, and if he waited in branches for her to show up, she'd totally have gone to hang out at the laundromat or something instead. It's the law of bastards that meant these two hadn't bumped into each other since their staggered arrivals into town, and it's taken him an absolute effort and a half to break through.

He's a little more pale tonight than even his standard Brit complexion manages, darkened shades lingering around the edges of his eyes, cheekbones a little more prominent than usual, hands tucked deep in to the pockets of a completely-buttoned-up long wool overcoat that he wears despite the onset of summer. He might even be considered a little clammy, a soft sheen to his skin that occasionally catches in the moonlight when the clouds part.

"Been waiting long, Lucy?" A little raspier than usual, but with all of his normal humor. He actually sounds a little parched.

The real question is how did he hide a lit cigarette in a shadow, of all places.

The blue-eyed blonde sits with her head slightly tipped, gaze occasionally roaming the shadows slowly, slowly for a flicker of movement. "Not at all, Ali." Yes, two can play at the adorable nickname game. She catches the movement from the shadows easily. After all, it's not like Carver is big on hiding. Like some kind of fatalistic defense mechanism, he struts into situations when he should slink, and slinks when he should saunter. It's all very Carver.

Luce eyes the man. Yes, it's dark out, sure. He's English, of course. But he's pale. He's... more pale than she? Almost. "What -- something's different about you?" She nods to the bench beside her, shifting her leather jacket, which is too hot to wear, out of the way. It rattles and clinks as she does so. "Sit down." She offers her cup with a shake and a sloosh of the internals. "Cherry slush?"

"Did you just say my name with an I at the end?" Carver stops mid-step to say that, canting his head for just a moment to, you know, casually take in the sight of an old stranger in a new town. When the jacket moves, his motion un-freezes, giving her a small tip of the head and settling down into the offered space, one hand slipping out from his pocket to reach for the shaken drink.

There's no eye contact. Not at first. His gaze drifts up to the tree, his back leaning in to the bench as he slinks down about half an inch, finding comfort where he can. "Something usually is, pet. You want the list?" Grabby hand, cup.

And the longest of slurps. The son of a bitch is not conforming to the rules of drink sharing right now. Not AT ALL. "Pretty sure I'm poisoned. Maybe dying. Spent a week in some bastardized version of this town's forest, mostly unconscious and feverish. Mels found me some help, got me some treatment. I think she's dead." And finally, there's the eye contact. He's horribly matter-of-fact. And that's not a lack of sleep around his eyes. Or eyeshadow. It's almost like something under the skin is is staining him, ever-so-lightly. "Again."

He offers back the drink.

"Your name isn't Alystair, is it? Why would I say it with a y?" Like he can hear the difference. Well, apparently, he can. So there. Lucinda crosses her legs toward the Englishman and turns on the bench, an elbow hooking over the back of it.

Luce drapes her hand along the weathered old wood and tips her head to study him now that the man is closer. "Best to start with the list, get it all out of the way, yeah?" She watches him take a huge slurp of the frozen drink, doesn't say boo about it.

That's... that's quite the list. Lucinda takes it all in stride, and considers it for but a moment. Cataloging it, perhaps. "First's first. You seem alive right now." She lifts her hand without moving her arm, gesturing along the back of the bench. "Bit of a sweat happening." She twirls her finger in a small circle. "Seems you could use more treatment. Let me think on that. What envenomated you?"

And then, finally, "The otherworldly is tricky. I wouldn't count her out just yet. Death is usually the beginning." She just eye-rolls a tiny, tiny bit when she says that. "So say all the stories." It's annoying, really. "Keep the drink for a moment. Sip slowly. The sugar and ice will help." Or hurt, but either way, he'll feel something else for a moment.

Carver looks about to say something in response, holding the drink out in mid-air between the two, his lips parting half a touch-

And then he winces. It's full-face, too, his other palm slapping up against the side of his head as the rumble of a complained groan vibrates out from his chest. Obviously, whatever venom is coursing through his body is doing a real number, causing his to shake his head from side to side and start softly cursing about-

"Jesus Christ brain freeze."

Oh.

One finger goes out in a small plea for patience on his reply, his mouth seeking out and three times missing the straw of the now truly shared drink to sip. Slowly. As asked. "Shereriti." Is all he mutters through slightly pursed lips. Eventually.

Lucinda smirks at the brain freeze, reaching up to brush her fingers across her shoulder, when a little breeze kicks up to tickle her hair over it. She gives her foot a little kick, something in her brain hitting on Shereriti but not quiiiite shaking loose. "Is that the two story giant gremlin dressed like a stripper with the personality of that junkyard lady from the movie with Ben Stiller and Janeane Garofalo? With the... Mystery Men, 1999." She nods, satisfied as the information pops into her mind. "Or the tiny tortilla with the jazz hands from Little Havana?" The Veil is a magical place, ok. "No, wait, if it was the second, you'd already be dead."

The straw slowly slips from the corner of Carver's mouth, his hand dropping down to rest the cup on his thigh. It's not complete confusion that spreads across the brain-freeze-recovered expressions, but an eyebrow definitely goes up. Honestly? The slushy seems to be helping already. Some of that sheen is fading. Sure, the pallor is still there, but baby steps. Baby. Steps.

"I... Never saw that." He admits, a little sheepish, head shaking as he throws a little shrug her way. His eyeline only dips down below her chin for a fraction of a second, but it's enough. "That was the bad year. Well, one of them." Slurp.

The wink that follows in an attempt to lighten the mood? Totally fails. And takes two goes. Basically he blinks twice at her. Good job, man.

"She was a spider. Mels killed her. I think she ripped it in half?" Double Slurp. "I was kinda seeing colors not on the normal spectrum at that point."

"I aspire to be the junk lady when I get old and decide smoking a carton a week is the way for me." Lucida replies, by way of explanation, which really isn't much of one if you haven't seen the movie. "A whole year marked as bad. Must have been something." Particularly considering.

"A spider." Lucinda nods. Something in her eyes changes, ever so slightly. Her lips twitch, but it's not a smile trying to break through. "This would be... a Tolkien kind of situation, yes? A very big spider?" She holds up a hand. "Wait. Wait. How did you fall prey to a spider." Even a massive one, which we will not discuss at present. "Good on Mels, though."

"About twenty feet or so?" Carver confirms, rattling the slushie cup in his hand with a little hint of his normal smile flickering over his features in response to the slight twitch in her own. It almost, almost slips in to a full grin for a moment there, and it's quite possible the next few words have a little extra relish on them.

That might just be projection, though.

"Wolf spider, I think. Two big eyes, buncha smaller ones. Pointy, hairy legs. Fangs about..." Definitely relish. So much of it. Even as he glances up to the tree above them, his free hand unfastening the buttons on his coat. Well, they're half buttons, half toggles. Really that just makes it easier to undo. And lift the black shirt away. It was untucked to begin with. The wound that sits just below his ribs is about the same width as his palm, excluding outstretched fingers. It's almost a perfect circle, and has settled into somewhere between scab and scar, a divot in his tissue slightly below where his gallbladder may or may not still be. Fuck knows what his internals look like, but the outside edge of it shows small tendrils of inky black streaking away from it, following the path of capillaries and veins.

"Yay big?"

Lucinda blinks slowly when he mention of a twenty foot spider. Moving right along. Moving right along. She runs her thumb across the tips of her other nails as Carver launches into the description of the spider, and the fangs, that ruined his week. Lucinda watches him undo his buttons, then lift his shirt. She swallows a couple of times, near-silently, though her throat works visibly. Mmhm. That's... "Hm."

Luce slides her thumb across her fingertips again, studying the scar. It's the tendrils of black veining the fine lines under his skin that have her attention. She's doing her best to ignore the depth that would must have been considering the source of the injury. She starts to reach over, then stops, and takes a slow breath. "You really should be more careful, Ali. That's... wicked gross." The good thing is that maybe she can do a little something to help it along. Lucinda doesn't say that, but she runs har thumb across her fingertips one more time.

Carver might feel warmth and a sharp twinge in the wound, like a fuse lit and streaming across every place the black veining touches, the prickle-burn like a sparkler held too close to the skin.

"Ah!" Carver confronts the sensation like any masculine manly man man would. By flinching, closing his eyes slightly, nearly dropping the drink, and raising the pitch of his voice by a couple of octaves. "Angry sparklers, Angry sparklers!" He squeaks, the words coming out like a clarinet with a busted reed as arms raise up above his head to flail. Slightly. With the utmost composure and debonair styling.

The wound doesn't vanish. There's no immediate healing. Instead, scar tissue begins to creep in from the outer edges of that circular puncture like ice frosting across a glass bowl. The blackened veins do not recede, but fade slightly. It'd be easy, when all's said and done, to assume it's merely dirt showing up along a fold or bump in his skin.

During one moment of over-exaggerated flailing, the collar of his coat and shirt part enough to show that even where his neck meets shoulder, those blackened lines extend like thin, reaching fingers.

And then, just like that, it's done. His head drops back down, his hand releases the shirt, and Lucinda gets a whole bunch of side eye from a slightly delayed easy-smiling face, the mouth distorted just a touch by the straw that eventually finds it's way there. He doesn't look as tired. The sheen fades. "Still with the Agent Provocateur, then? Suits you. But-" Slurp. His head shifts slightly, and while only he can hear it, there's totally a popping in the neck. "How much was the tank?"

That's probably Carver-Speak for 'Thanks.'

"Breathe through it, you big baby." Lucinda reaches over to pluck the slushie to safety from his fingers, assuming he lets go when she does. She watches the wound change and shift, the black fade out rather than vanish. "Huh." She puts the straw to her lips, tucks it into the corner of her mouth, and takes a sip. A delicate sip. A sip much less likely to result in brain freeze. Why? Because she already gave it to herself once earlier. Does she note the extent of the poison's creep? Yes she does. "You were pretty much mortally wounded, weren't you?"

Luce's fingertips slip down to brush along the deep V neckline of her tank top. She smirks slightly when her fingertips skim over the little bit of lace that's showing. It'd hardly cause a scandal, but Carver is attentive to detail, isn't he. "The two of us like what we like." She tugs on the fabric of her tank top, which is a simple cotton one she simply cut to change the neckline. "This? I don't know, maybe $20. I like sales." Nevermind her lingerie cost somewhere around $850. To glance at her, you'd think she was wearing less than $150 with the shoes. She hands the slushie back when he's finished flailing, of course.

'Attentive to detail' ascribes qualities to Carver that are at best, hopeful, and at worst, willfully ignorant of how the man works on a fundamental level. Agent Provocateur bra underneath a twenty buck tanktop? Yeah, He'll notice that. The fact a spider sounded real hungry when it offered to let him hang around it's home? Eh, notsomuch.

"Guess so." He agrees, thumb coming up to flick at an itch on his neck where the feeling of angry sparklers still lingers; a ghost sensation, not actually there, but you try telling his brain that. "I really don't remember all that much. I was on the floor, on my back, and then the skyline vanished and there was a very angry looking-"

For both their sake, he doesn't finish that sentence, and instead places the cup down on the bench between them, shifting slightly, rubbing his neck once more, and casting a quick glance down at her chest in the third most blatant of fashions she's probably experienced this week. Maybe second. "If you've started calling you and your tits 'the two of us', I am raising concerns, Lucy. Concerns." Hey, at least his eyeline goes back up where it belongs.

Luce tips forward a little, then leans back again when he begins to describe the spider. She relaxes as he changes gears. That last description is seriously going to stick with her for a while. She brushes her hands down the thighs of her jeans, rubbing the condensation from the slushie cup off her fingers. Must not think about spider. Must not think about spider.

She rolls her shoulders and relaxes onto the bench again. "I do not name my ..." She will not say tits today, Carver. She does look down at her shirt and the edges of the bra showing. It's a lovely pale pink with black embroidery, thanks very much. Yes, she's wearing long necklaces to draw attention downward, and they're sparkly and lovely too. She, for one, would rather talk about boobs than twenty foot arachnids.

Gah, stop saying arachnids.

"If you think this one is nice, you should see the collection I left folded neatly across the top of my roommates dresser. My roommate situation is exceedingly strange." She probably shouldn't have brought that up. "I'm still trying to find a new place, one where the furniture doesn't blow up and nobody--" She clears her throat. Not mentioning the cocaine. Noooot mentioning the cocaine. "Uh, so what else with you. It's not like you to nearly die then wander about town like nothing happened. A bit at loose ends, my dear?"

"Really?" Carver's focus slips from her face. Off to the side, this time, and most certainly not in any downward direction, pulling up an arm as he does so to drape it across the back of the bench, a thumb flicking at the side of his nose as he takes in the view of the town's combination PD/FD building. "You could call lefty 'Nitot' and righty 'Belperron'." Sniff. "Nobody'd judge you."

He would also rather talk about boobs than arachnids, but sometimes the elephant in the room has eight legs and tries to eat you.

Wait, no, that actually just gave Carver a flashback. IGNORE. IGNORE. DUMBO WHY.

"You leave your collection across their dresser?" Okay, that gets his attention. And a quizzical look. Probably at the idea of Lucinda having roommates. Roommates for long enough that there's actually been the slow migration of clothes. "You have roommates?!" The look doubles, and there's damn near a laugh. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I nearly got someone killed within my first month of moving here. I know I got her da killed. But you? Roommates? How in the hell?"

A little bit of truth, a lot of diversion, and some outright ignoring. He's definitely Carver.

"Is that one of the necklaces you got offa me?"

"Really." Luce laughs. "Are you finding this neckline distracting? Is it the gold?" She wraps the necklace with the hammered discs and jiggles it. The gold shimmers with a soft luster in the low moonlight. "Now I'm thinking about diamonds, thanks."

She grins when his expression shifts with a flicker of whatever he's thinking. It's subtle, but sometimes Veil walkers have the weirdest triggers.

"I do. My roommate agreed I could have his bed and he'd sleep on the couch until I ordered a bed for my room, right? I never ordered a bed. I think he's a little pissed about the couch-for-weeks thing, between you and me." She smiles. It's what she does, talking people out of things and into things, and letting them think it was their idea, after all. "Two roommates. One's an unstable... tattoo artist or sex worker, still not sure. She's very passionate, but I don't want to wake up with a chair leg in my chest cavity." She lifts a hand, "The other's ... unfortunately a cop." We know how we feel about cops, her look to Carver says. There's more there, but she doesn't elaborate.

"Look. I refuse to own real estate in this shi--" -thole town. "Charming seaside village." She mms. "You got someone's dad killed? Nicely done. How'd you fuck that up?" Or not. Maybe it was intentional? Stranger things have happened, because sometimes fathers aren't nice people. "Yes, this is one you gave me. I think for that ... minor arterial bleed you had that time." Which time? Carver's Carver and maybe he should be called Carved-on.

Carver's arm, the one opposite Lucinda, stretches out fully across the back of the bench, his head tilting as far as he can take it to look at the sky. Cloud. Cloud. Patch of stars. Cloud. It meas he can only see the faintest hint of her playing with that necklace, and the only real response he gives to that is a slight huff. That's it. Just that brief little exhale that sends a slight jolt of pain along a rib. Like always, right? Nothing to worry about. "Yeah, Lucy. It's the gold that's distracting."

It does not sound like it's the gold that's distracting. Not in the least.

"Jesus Christ." Roommate summary: Dealt with appropriately. No, wait. He has to pull out another cigarette from the pocket of his coat, leaning forward a little to give a proper rummage around, pulling out the dog-eared and battered to all hell paper pack, and even, after some time, finding his damn lighter. By the time he speaks again, it comes with a cloud of smoke that drifts slowly upwards before being caught by a sudden breeze. "How in the fuck did you fall into that situation?"

Sure, she asked another question, but hoboy is he going to wait for a reply to his, first. The Look says so. You can tell because his eyes stay on her face.

"I find gold distracting." Luce replies. "Moreso diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and, oddly, deep pink watermelon tourmaline. Opals." She's kind of a cliche when it comes to a con's love of sparkly jewels, though she rarely wears any. Just the precious metals, her adornment simple, if present, but with a price tag that's not shy about zeros. Not that they look it. Which is sort of the point.

How the fuck did she fall into that roomie situation? Lucinda shrugs. "I answered an ad in the local paper. It all seemed relatively..." She can't really say normal of Ruiz and Lex. "... uh." She pauses, "It seemed doable. None of the other things fell through. They're kind of sweet, and one of them cooks, a lot, and you know I like being cooked for."

Luce's a slave to being served, she is. The worst troubles come from favors. It's true. "Have you seen the motel here?" She shakes her head. "No. Just... no." Never. Going. To. Happen. She blows out a breath like she dodged that interior decorating nightmare.

"Where are you staying?"

"The Motel." Carver deadpans. Flat. Looking her straight in the eye. His fingers drum along the top of the bench. And then the smile starts to break. He could only hold it away for so long. "...And the loft of the person who's dad I got kilt. Preeeeetty sure I'm not staying there any more. Oh! And there was this other spot, but..." Luce knew Carver from a while back. There's a good chance she's surprised he didn't Irish up the slushie. Right now, at this very instant? Carver wishes more than anything that he'd Irish'd up that slushie.

"I've got no idea what's going on there." He also has no idea what his face is saying. Confusion? Disgust? Nostalgia? Regret? Urge for a sandwich? Who knows. "Kinda like you and Roomies, basically. Except I brought all the food."

And she answered his question, so fair is fair. His hands clasp together in front of him, coat scraping softly against the bench as he has to pull his arm away to do so. Now there's no eye contact. Now, his knees are getting the examining of their bendy little lives. "She's uh... not exactly new to all this, but... Y'know. Youthful exuberance vs Common sense and paranoia. Cursed shit always claims the debt in the end, y'know. I said I'd take it away from her. From them. Keep them clear of it."

There's a loooooooong drag of the smoke right there. Enjoy that awkward silence waiting for him to continue.

"But it already had it's hooks in. Easy enough to tell. I figured leaving it locked away with them would be the most suitable approach. If I took it, I'd probably have woken in my motel bed with her flaying me alive to find out where the fuck I put it." One more drag. One more shrug. One more... One first singular pat of her knee, and the easy smile comes with regret. Or gas. Maybe both. "The bridge hanging in the paper. One of them was her dad. I don't know too much about the rest of it, but I can figure out the general result of power plus obsession."

Of course he's staying at the motel. Of course he is.

Luce smirks, though she reaches up to flick her hand through her hair to hide it. She's looking at him when he starts to speak about the other thing. And probably that's because she knows something's coming, something lengthy and detailed, when Carver's eye contact sticks, it's sometimes a bad sign. In order, the last three times he maintained eye contact with her that long: a building exploded, a river boiled, and a giant melted into a flesh goo puddle all over the polished floor of a very nice roller rink on 80s night.

She watches him, and she listens. She nods to the mention of the other place, watches his face but says nothing about it. Really it's the dead dad thing she's listening for. "Oh." Oh. A cursed item. That pretty much always ends badly. All the stories say. All of them. "And you couldn't..." couldn't help them help themselves. Because curses are terrifying for a reason. It's a curse, not a fluffy kinda bitchy inkling. (Don't say wish. Wishes are even worse.)

"I'm still waiting for the part where you killed her father, Ali. It sounds to me like she and a curse killed her father, if I'm," she flattens her hand and drags it down an imaginary incline, "Reading in between those lines okay. You can't step in front of every bus. It's sweet of you to try." There's something that remains unspoken, but the magical thing about Luce and Carver is she rarely has to hold back with him. "And you're going to keep doing it until it gets you killed. Which, I figure it probably almost did."

"Y'know, weirdly? I'm pretty sure the.. S-word was entirely unreleated." Carver gives her a gentle little prod with his elbow, blinking a few times with the story told, returning back into his lean against the bench. There's a little pause to run a hand through his hair, giving it even more of a wayward fluff look. Whcih, y'know. Doesn't really help his appearance today, but it made him feel better. Sometimes, that's what counts.

"I coulda run with it. Hucked it in the veil. But I didn't know what it was. At all. I knew it was the worst kind of bullshit and..." His hands pat his own knees this time. The lips purse up, the focus of his look falls back somewhere around her face, and the unimpressed smile comes with a free special offer of a shrug that almost makes shoulders reach ears. "I kinda figured they deserved it. It's how the rest of us had to learn. And between the lines or not, I'm pretty sure that makes me an asshole."

Which, y'know, he is. Not exactly usual for him to admit it, though.

"I guess I think one bus'd wipe the slate clean. It'd just have to be the right one." His eyes are on her collarbone. No lower, no higher. That's... actually kind of impressive.

"Oh, is that up for debate?" Lucinda smiles. "You know as well as I do we're both assholes. You never seemed really that ... are you ashamed of it now?" The blonde sits forward. "Hey." She reaches over to take hold of his shoulder. "Alistair Carver, are you envenomated and sober right now?" By the look of her eyes, she's not, but it's a mellow high, whatever it is. It helps he keep from falling, as they say: into the Veil, not falling falling. She walks around in heels in the park at night. She probably has some grass stains on those dark skinny jeans of hers already.

"I find your lack of shit-eating grins disturbing. Where's your verve? Your sass? Your devil-may-care?" She gives him a little shake with that hand, then tips back to rest her elbow on the back of the bench again. "Did you do something tragic since we last met? Or is this the nearly dying talking? It's disturbing, whatever it is."

There's a long moment of silence. Then: "Wanna help me steal something?"

"Lucinda..." Carver stalls. Blinks. Looks down at the hand on his shoulder. Looks up at her face. Back down at the hand. Slooooowly up to the face. "Did I learn your full name? I don't think I ever did." Is that question avoidance? That's totally question avoidance. That might be question avoid-Oh look, a tree. When did that get here? Carver should look at it. Intently. And not move away from the hand on his shoulder.

"I've been envenomed for a week, that word is getting annoying already by-the-by, and I've been sober for... uh... About a month, maybe?" He tells the tree, letting it take in all his personal secrets. If Lucinda just happens to be nosy enough to eavesdrop, that's totally not his fault in the least. Wait, he should check to see if she is.

..SHE IS. Instead of shock, this absolutely unexpected revelation is met with a little more studying of her face. Her cheeks. Her Li-nope, up, man, up. There, there are the eyes. And there's his shit eating grin. And here comes the sass. She mentioned it. She shook him. "You still falling through the cracks like a loose penny on the pavement, pet? All get up and gone?"

Realization dawns. Sass definitely dawns. It's like she challenged him, somehow, and his expression suggests that this will be the most important question. "Has it happened while riding a guy yet? I mean, we had that bet going..."

And there's the verve. "And yes. Maybe. I'd kinda like to stop tasting purple first."

"To be quite honest, it's changed seven times since we first met. It's easier for me to avoid the subject." Luce shakes her head. "If I plan to spend more than six months in the presence of someone." Not that she ever planned on meeting Carver, but when so few walk the Veil like they do, it kind of becomes inevitable.

"I like saying envenomated. It's very fancy." Luce shrugs. "En-venom-ated." She gives the last bit a little flourish. She glances over though. "Did you say a month?"

Lucinda is judging him with her eyes by the time he finds his grin. "I fell through before I made it from the town limits to Main Street. Got choked almost out in the Addington House and jumped so hard in, I dragged someone with me in sheer panic, do not recommend it." She enunciates it sharply. "Boy was that an uncomfortable two month expedition." Her expression sobers a bit at that mention, brain going down a path she isn't keen to follow. She takes a breath and the moment, and expression, are gone. Back to her slight smile and those cool blue eyes.

"Taste purple on the way. I don't know when the cop gets off shift and his mattress is now my mattress." Petty larceny vs cop. What could possibly go wrong.

"Four months in a prison tower of The Noose Queen." Carver states in response to Lucinda's little summary on her last trip. When her slight smile has returned, his hand is totally, one hundred percent, absolutely out for a high-five. And God does he look optimistic about it, eyes wide, smile wider. Of course, when she was talking about it, and her expression was sobered up for that moment, he looked concerned. Just a touch. Just for a second. Because, yeah. That's not exactly a high-rated travel destination on tripadvisor.

"Wait." Uh oh, he just noticed something. You can tell by the eyebrows. "Choking as in... I won the bet, oooooor?"

That's either the Carver way of saying 'Sorry for your experience', 'I really would like twenty bucks' or 'I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question.'

"Because I'm not helping you petty theft shit until you answer my question." He states. So, yeah. That'd be the third option.

Luce reaches over to return that high five. "Right on. Four months with No Sense of Humor. You win." She reaches over and socks Carver right in the shoulder, knuckles tagging him right in the spot where two muscles meet. "No. The choking wasn't like that. Technically, he had his arms around me and it was grabby ghost hands choking me out. There was no riding in the Veil either. It was weird, though. People kept trying to kill us in there." That's never happened to her before.

"Get your behind up off that bench. You stopped sweating, so you should be good to go." Lucinda glances over her shoulder. "If you do drop dead of a sudden cardiac event, is there anyone you'd like me to call?" Isn't that compassionate? She just wants to help.

"Pity."

Yeah, that's it. That's his entire response to the fact he's not earning twenty bucks, and that the choking wasn't fun. Well, it's that and an immediately flipped bird at the sock to his shoulder. "Fuckin' OW." Something of an attempt to hide the wince, maybe? Maybe.

At her request, he pulls himself up and out of the seat, shifting weight from foot to foot as there's a momentary pause to brush off his coat. There's... there's nothing on it. It's been thoroughly washed since his last little excursion, and it actually goes as far as smelling a little like spring fields. Well, what a fabric softening company thinks spring fields smell like, anyway. He stares at her for just a second at the mention of sweat. Two seconds. The face... the face is slowly breaking. "What is the third most said phrase by Lucy the thief that causes men to pray for respite and sanctuary?'" One beat. Two. Three. Yeah, He's following. "Yeah, the morgue. If they bring you in to ident the body, you could loot most of the collected valuables."

Lucinda picks up her coat, which thunks as the pockets drag across the bench. She doesn't put it on, but she does fold it over her arm. "Agreed."

"... I don't like to steal things from dead people's pockets. That's just wrong." In all the time he's known her, she's never said something's wrong. Not once. If there was an emerald ring in a personal items envelope would she take it? Well maybe, but precious and semi-precious gemstones are different. Exempt.

"I never gave anyone a heart attack on purpose." She says that over her shoulder, wandering through the grass with the soft swish-swish of her heels dragging over it. She makes it to the road in short order. A well-timed Uber pulls up, idling at the curb just before they reach the road. Odd, like she requested one ten minutes ago while they were talking, but she never took out her phone. It's a pickup truck driven by a burly lumberjack looking hipster type. His hair is perfect. Honestly, it's a little creepy.

"It should only take about ten minutes, start to finish. I have one suitcase and the other thing we just need to drag to the road. After that you can stay for a drink or wander off to parts unknown, your choice entirely. I have cold pizza and limoncello."

"It's alright, they're not in the pockets for bloody long, love." Oh look, Carver's gained another cigarette. He's stubbing them out and lighting them just as quickly as they go.

Which, you know, entirely fucks him with the arrival of an Uber that soon comes.

"I mean really-" His hands are thrown in his pockets, and his own feet swish swish through the grass, albeit with something more of an impression left behind. Wider, maybe, but not deeper. Those heels, man, they chew that earth. "About sixty percent of that stuff is already in a tech's pocket by the time you're naked and on the slab. Don't think of it as stealing from the dead." He grins wide, holding the end of the filter between his teeth, then plucks it from his mouth with a couple of fingers and brushes the cherry away on the side of his pants. "Think of it as... uuuuh... Re-appropriating stolen goods. That's a civic fucking duty right there."

If he's any qualms about creepy uber, he doesn't show it. Getting in just as soon as she does. And he sure as hell doesn't have any qualms about theft. Or pizza.

Well, as long as the pizza doesn't scream. They really don't need a repeat of Paris.

Though, really, pretty much anything in Paris is worth it at least once. Honestly. And so off they go, to 23 Spruce, to pick up Lucinda (no last name)'s belongings, and at least one thing that doesn't belong to her: a queen size mattress that might fit in the bed of this massive pickup with a few creative tie-downs.