2019-08-05 - Monday Night Margaritas

Monday night is fairly uneventful in the Bayside Apartments, at least. It's pretty quiet on this end of the hall, floor 5. Probably because 504 is a Murder Apartment. 503 is Sutton. 502 is an Addington. If anybody thought about that too hard, it might make them a little bit nervous. Luckily, there's tequila, and Carver helpfully located the blender in Sutton's pile of boxes in the living room. So now there's tequila and lime-salty margaritas on this overcast, so-far-rainless night.

Across the counter is a selection of items including a bowl of limes, an ounce measuring cup, Patrón, Grand Marnier, a glass bottle of simple syrup, zester, a plate of salt mixed with zest, lime wedges, a sharp knife, cutting board, and a little mint plant she just got, that will surely not last the week. It's nearly impossible to kill mint, and yet she will do it. Just wait.

She runs a lime wedge over the rim of a glass, dips it in the salt&zest, then sets it aside. Soft music plays from an iphone dock and speakers, something suited to margarita Monday—Chavela Vargas.

Carver misses his guitar. That's easily enough to tell, what with the guy stretched out on the couch, head resting on the arm as his fingers dance back and forth along his chest in something resembling fretwork accurate for the piece playing. He's lost a jacket somewhere (hung up on the wall), lost his shoes somewhere (neatly placed by the door), and rolled the sleeves of his light blue shirt up to the elbows. The dark bags around his eyes are faded, but thin, dark lines still litter his forearms in places, once or twice being given a scratch when he completely loses track of the song's melody.

Yes. He has a waistcoat on. It's Margarita night, people.

"You musta been popular in uni." Is his only comment, accented with a little too much emphasis on the vowels, barely looking in the direction of the counter as he focuses on the music. Carver never went to a university to learn. Legally. Students all drank margaritas, right?

There's a knock at the door. And then, before you can say Tequila, it's being nudged open, and the entryway appropriated by a man who could be best summed up in four words: Not Wearing a Waistcoat. In fact, he pretty much personifies casual, in his faded black Seattle PD tee shirt, cargo pants and combat boots, and the ballcap smushed over dark curls. Ink for days suggests a misspent youth either in correctional facilities or simply as the instigator of questionable decisions; two full sleeves, though the left is sparser than the right.

He's on the phone as he steps inside, and tugs the door shut while rattling something off in rapid Spanish. The contents of Sutton's counter are noted with a furrow of his brows, and then the brunette herself. And then, somewhat belatedly, the guy on her couch. Oh, hello.

Into a tall tumbler goes a few ounces of tequila, fresh lime juice, orange liqueur (only a little, fished out from under the sink last minute), simple syrup, and a pinch of zest. She pauses the blender, pours that in and re-caps it, mixing for a few pulses. She dips a spoon in to taste, considering the flavor, then goes in with a little more tequila, a splash more simple syrup poured from a small-necked glass bottle, and a little more zest. She doesn't taste it again, but does replace the lid before pulling the entire pitcher to pour some in the rimmed glass, tasting it that way, with the sugar-salt-lime rim of the glass in play.

"Yeah, but not for this reason." Sutton's smirk is very audible in her reply. Curiously, she has four glasses out, not two. She's just coating each with sugar-salt-zest after kissing each rim with a lime wedge all the way around, when there's a knock at the door. Sutton reaches for a little towel to wipe her hands, which doesn't nothing to mitigate the sharp scent of citrus on her hands. The door's unlocked a lot of the time unless someone else locks it. She has a habit of locking herself out otherwise, because snack machine.

"I make a lot of vintage cocktails, and most 18 and through 21 year olds prefer beer," she pauses, "because it's a cheap and easy drunk." That last is what she's saying as Ruiz steps into the apartment and does that visual sweep. It's like she doesn't even remember there was a murder next door. "Nobody appreciates honey syrup." At some point in the last few days, Sutton cut off a whole lot of her hair, glossy strands now reaching her shoulders, just. "Margarita, Javi?" She doesn't seem surprised to see him, and is pouring three of the four glasses already.

"I'm glad you found a better breed after High School." Carver replies early, his fingers losing the melody completely and hands flopping down on to his stomach at the sound of her smirk. It takes talent to have a smirk heard across a room when the other person isn't even paying attention, and even moreso to knock Carver out of whatever he's busying himself with. Sutton. Got. Skills. The number of glasses isn't noticed. He's across the room. Well, across the room and has seen her drink enough for four, so really, even if he did notice, would that set off any alarm bells?

"Honey syrup is an unsung hero of our times, love." Carver's head rolls to one side on the couch when the door props open, scanning the new guy for anything he'd recognize. Face? Nope. Clothes? Nope. Immediate expression of wanting to punch Carver? Eh, maybe. Seen worse. "-Speaking of cheap and easy drunk... New guy, who dis?"

Someone showed Carver memes.

That someone should probably pay for it.

Ruiz doesn't appear to have any designs on punching Carver in the immediate future. But he is a slightly scruffy-looking Mexican with a nose that looks like it was broken some time in the last week. So the odds aren't precisely in the other man's favour.

He's presently distracted, however, with watching Sutton. With her chopped-off hair and her.. where the fuck did it go? He signs off on his phone conversation with, "Si. Tengo que irme. Adios." before shoving the phone in the back pocket of his pants and reaching for one of the drinks before Sutton's even opened her mouth to offer him one.

"Si vas a llamarme un borracho fácil, será mejor que estés dispuesto a respaldar eso," is murmured against the rim, dark eyes aligting on Carver as he speaks. And they remain there with his next words, "You cut your hair." Clearly, Carver did not cut his hair. And even if he had, Ruiz has never met him before to make such a judgement, now, has he?

"You're damn right, honey syrup is fucking amazing." Pretty soon she's going to find a way to have the whole building drinking Bees Knees. Hopefully not with Veil tainted honey. Or something. Sutton is still wearing her top from work, the dark blue GHFD shirt with PARAMEDIC across the back, but swapped out to some shorts, no shoes, when she got home not too terribly long ago. She must have ordered new boots, because they're lined up against the wall by the door.

There's a glance over at Carver as he memes. She watches him for but a beat before she turns her hazel eyes back to Ruiz. She laughs at whatever it is he says in Spanish. "I'd have to say it takes quite a lot." Again, the English is a bit heavier in her accent, and it doesn't take much to realize it's likely from chatting with Carver, though their accents are different, perhaps more pronounced (at least on her part). "A girl at the salon did it." Literal, Sutton. She reaches up to touch it, fingers flicking through loose waves, most of the curl styled out of it today. "Got tired of untangling it from things." She used to wear it this way, a couple of years ago, though it was blonde then. She takes a sip of her own slushy margarita, tart and lightly sweet, before she replies. "Alistair meet Javi—... Ruiz." She stumbles a bit over that last, because it actually takes a moment to remember what most people call the police captain informally.

Carver's holding his phone when Ruiz is finishing his call. Carver's holding his phone with the green flashing emblem of Google Translate clearly visible when he murmurs something against the glass.

Unfortunately for Carver, Ruiz is across the goddamned room and murmuring, so that little glowing icon might as well be a dock light on the other side of the bay for all the good it does him. He almost looks disappointed. Almost. Does he make a move to get out of his chair? Nope. Even with the completed drinks on the counter. Ruiz' broken nose is noted with a gaze that lingers a touch too long. Sutton's haircut is given yet another thumbs up. It's had a few of those since it happened. "And it looks great, pet. Less of a weapon now, too."

See, Carver can be complimentary!

"Ruiz! So you're the one who hit her, got a lamp thrown 'atcha, had her fix your broken nose and got your ass thrown to the floor?" It's said with the easy tone of someone reading a list of groceries, with the easy smile of someone reading a list of groceries that ends in chocolate gateaux. "Pleased to finally meet you, mate!"

It really seems like he is.

Ruiz finishes taking the sip he'd started before replying to either of the people in Sutton's apartment. Because priorities. "Mm. It's good. I didn't know you could mix drinks." He nudges his boots off, glass still in hand. After studying the brunette and her haircut for a few moments more, he steps in close to murmur something in her ear, and prowls on over to go check out Exhibit A: Couch Carver.

"Almost," he grants the man, dropping down beside him whether or not there's room. He'll make room, right? That, or they're about to get real cozy with one another. "Except she didn't throw the lamp at me. I'm sure she probably wishes she had." That's wry; as is his smile. "Alistair, is it? Alistair Carver?" That smile turns just a touch wolfish. God knows why. "Encantado de conocerte también." He offers a hand. Even the backs of his fingers are inked.

Sutton reaches over to touch Ruiz's shoulder, her lips parting to say something, just as Carver verbally charges in with commentary that has her pausing. She flicks a glance over at the Englishman. Those pretty hazel eyes narrow a fraction at the litany of things that just comes tumbling right out of his mouth. She stares at him for a long, long moment (it seems long, but really it's just about five seconds). It's certainly not the tone that sparks the look, but rather the content of the sentence. And the pairing with the tone, which isn't a particular combination he's used with her before. It's remarkably believable, but there's no way it's sincere. Basically none.

"I used to bartend," is said absently to Ruiz's comment about mixing drinks. "Thanks." To the compliment that it's a good one. Whatever Ruiz said to her garners a smile, a slight shake of her head, and a few words back, quietly. Her hand slips from his arm when he prowls over to bro down with the Englishman.

She poured a drink for Carver, but has yet to offer it to him. "She doesn't wish she had, but she has another lamp if that changes." She looks from Ruiz to Carver, because it seems like that goes for the both of them. She picks up a very sharp knife, and walks over to the sink to rinse off the acidic lime. That's set aside when dried, and then she goes back to top off her cup. She fiddles around in the kitchen for a few moments more, fishing out some salsa (store bought) and chips and, incongruously, white cheddar cheese puffs.

The chirpy, British, feminine voice of Google Translate's default setting echoes from Carver's phone. 'NICE to MEET youTOo'.

And Carver's face lights up like a streetlamp, grasping the other man's outreaching hand with a gusto he usually only reserves for grabbing snacks out of someone else's hand. Or Root Beer from Sutton's fridge. "Good! You've heard of me." It sounds good? There's a certain sensation Carver gets when someone's been pre-introduced to him, and the wolfish smile just confirm it. "That usually saves a lot of hassle in the long run."

The whispering between the other two either hit large enough of a nerve that he's ignoring it, or nothing at all, so he's ignoring it. That's probably a little harder to discern than the fact every hair on the back of his neck is standing up on end and there's a mixture of fight-or-flight tension running through most of his limbs. And features. "There's that pawn shop on Elm too, pet. They had like, six lamps the last time I was there."

His eyes never leave Ruiz's face.

Ruiz probably has a sense that something. Something is off about Carver. Call it those grizzled cop instincts, or call it the fact that he never knows what to make of chipper English men in waistcoats. His grip, when they shake, is firm. Not bone breaking. He pumps once, pulls back, and settles back against the couch cushions with a loungy, space-eating sprawl.

"Si. I've heard of you." That's neither hither nor thither, given his tone of voice. He downs some more of his drink, dark eyes on Carver, then flicking back to Sutton to watch her with that sharp knife. He appears to be completely oblivious to the tension rolling off of Carver. "Do you live in the building?" he wonders. A faltering attempt at smalltalk; the captain is clearly not much of a conversationalist.

Sutton finishes up in the kitchen, and carries a balance of bowls on a tray out to the coffee table: a large bowl of white corn chips, two small salsa bowls, each at the opposite end of the tray, and a smaller bowl of cheese puffs. She plucks her topped up cup from the tray and straightens. Is there enough room on the couch for her too? Yes, between the men just barely, but would that be wise?

"Shuffle it," is all the warning Carver gets to rearrange himself on the couch before she plants her ass between the men, that is once they've finished shaking. Or, you know, not, if it takes long enough that she can put all that shit down and still not have a clear spot to sit. She brings the bowl of cheese puffs and rests them in her lap, her margarita glass on her knee. "That reminds me, I need to go check on Lily. I haven't seen her since her wreck. She's sweet and I have too much crap to cart around next time I move." PAWN IT.

"Shuffling, shuffling." Carver shuffles, throwing a little shake of the head to Ruiz as he swivels and gets the hell out of the way of an incoming Sutton. If the tone of voice didn't carry enough weight, the fact she had snacks? That tipped the odds. "Nope. I don't."

How's that for an answer?

Sliding far enough down the sofa that he might as well be perching on an arm, he casually snatches a handful of cheese puffs from the bowl in Sutton's lap, popping one into his mouth and letting his other hand act as a makeshift bowl. Naturally, there's immediately a slight line of dust down the dark shade of his waistcoat. "Lily's doing okay." Crunch. There's a little glance aside to the two of them. "We went to the beach today. Figured I needed to get her out of her self-imposed hermitage for a bit."

Crunch.

"She bought me a turtle."

Nope. I don't. Fantastic. The cop seems to take this as the shut down that it is, and finishes off his drink with a quick tip back of the glass as every trace of the sugary, boozy concoction is washed down his gullet. Once he's sure that no molecules of liquor remain, he slides his hand over Sutton's neighbouring thigh and gives it a squeeze. "How about I come back later. Me da la impresión de que estoy entrometiéndome." He's equally brazen about giving the hinge of her jaw a kiss before he pushes to his feet and ambles off to wash out his glass in the sink.

Sutton is just getting comfortable between the two men, pulling her legs up to sit. She looks over to Ruiz, a cheese puff halfway to her mouth when he squeezes her thigh. She reaches over to cover his hand with hers and starts to say something, probably something else, but what comes out of her mouth is, "You're not." She clearly understands the Spanish just fine. "Javi, please stay. Carver is working through some personal issues with figures of law enforcement." She tries to catch the retreating Mexican's hand.

"Class is England's issue as much as race is America's. Everyone's in denial and it's all very tense." She sips from her glass. She has more thoughts on the issue, but it's a subtle reminder that just because he's itchy around cops, it doesn't mean he's done something. "Perhaps you should have a drink, love," is what she says to Carver, offering him a cheese puff from the bowl in her lap. "Do you know Lily, Javi? She was in an accident outside the PD a couple of weeks ago. Mike and I fished her out of the wreckage of SUV vs tree."

Sure, the destruction of a drink gives some idea of what was said, but Carver still glances down at his phone. That now sits in his pocket. And is not translating. Damnit, man. Luckily, Sutton's there to get the gist of something that wasn't meant for him anyway, and that's enough context clues to make him distract himself from the conversation, drink suggestion, kiss, thigh squeeze and mention of class issues by throwing a cheese puff up in the air... and he looks more surprised than anyone when it lands in his mouth. But, that's one snack down. The offer of more? Taken.

Chewing on the offered prize, he shifts a little on the arm, eyes moving from Sutton to Ruiz and back at the mention of Lily's 'accident'. "That was the tree out in the park, right?" It's muffled, and a little bit of puff crumb escapes a lip, one leg pulling up to press against his chest. Possibly defensive? "Did that explode or summat? I could see the smoke from Elm."

Ruiz's hand is caught by the brunett, and though he's more than strong enough to simply shake her off and keep going, he pauses. And looks over his shoulder briefly at the reassurance from Sutton that her Couch Englishman just has a bone to pick with cops, and it's nothing personal. Not that she said this, precisely.

The grunt offered by the Mexican, after careful consideration of the pair of Brits chowing down on cheese puffs, communicates little. Save perhaps that he'll remain for a little while, since Sutton seems to want him to. Off he goes though to wash out his glass, and avail himself of a couple of fingers' worth of her tequila.

"Lily. Lilith? Winslow? Si." He keeps his back to the pair while he pours. No comment on race and class; he's both the only non-caucasian in the room though, and would be considered quite working-class by English standards. Two strikes against him. Three, if one considers that he's a cop.

Sutton seems satisfied when Ruiz decides to stay, at least for a bit. Her screen is tilted just enough that one or both men might noticed the content of the texts. She drops some white cheddar cheese puff dust on her screen while she types away with her thumbs, conversing with none other than her fake Russian Husband. "More liquor seems like a great idea," she says to her phone, typing away. Her phone chimes a couple more times. Typey, typey. Across the top it reads: FOR A GOOD TIME MARRY. No name, just that.

"Yeah, tree in the park. It did explode. That wreck was a hot mess. Everything that basically could go wrong did." She glances up from her phone briefly. "Tree seems ok." She mms and thinks for a moment. Winslow. Winslow. "Yeah, Lilith." Obviously she was introduced to Sutton as Lily, though, because that's what stuck. "Is the door still unlocked?" As she asks this, she's getting up to check, putting the cheese puffs in Carver's lap. "Drink?" She asks this again, and then she's up to check the door, unlock it if it's locked, and prop it with the little security bar at the top. "Anybody want takeaway?"

There's a knock at the door a few minutes later with an Easton behind it. A six pack of Corona's in one hand, and awkwardly knocking with the knuckles of his other that is holding a lime. He calls out, "Suuutton! We are drinking!" Yes, he's using a Russian accent. And wow, it's way worse than anyone was prepared for. It's sound like the drunk Barny Gumble voice from the Simpsons. As if she has somehow forgotten that they just texted each other mere minutes beforehand. He's not dressed for going anywhere outside really, in a thin gray tee-shirt over a pair of black jogger warm-ups. His feet are covered with a pair of retro orange and blue sneakers. His phone dings and he shuffles things to pull it out before realizing it's just to say the door is open.

"Oh"

He opens the door and stops just now realizing she said 'we' have margaritas. He looks at Carver who he doesn't recognize and then at Ruiz, who looks familiar but it takes a few moments for Easton to place him as the police captain from the other night. Still using his awful, seriously painful Russian accent Easton says "I should have brought more beer." Seriously? What is he even going for?!

"You got any of the good stuff in the fridge, pet?"

Carver's reply comes in response to the drink question, slipping the bowl that was just placed in his lap onto the now-empty-space of the couch. "Because imma look." It's probably there's root beer in the fridge for the guy, but it's also highly likely he's slowly demolished the stock over the past week or so. "Winslow." Carver's fingers snap as he stands, throwing a passing nod at Ruiz as he beelines a way for the kitchen. "That was it. I really need to change her name in my phone."

He doesn't elaborate.

And then there's an Easton! He... Does not know Easton. He definitely does not know what that accent is. Seriously. It completely stops the guy in his tracks, hovering about half a foot from the kitchen counter and just staring. staring. staring. "Oh. Sweetheart. No."

Being considerably closer to the door than Sutton, from his vantage point in the kitchen, Ruiz takes the three steps toward the door to nudge it open for whoever she's about to let in. Meaning that Easton's arrival is greeted by 190 pounds of Mexican cop in a tee shirt, jeans and baseball cap, brandishing a bottle of tequila one-handed. "Hola," is accompanied by an attempt at a smile that's full of canines and not nearly as welcoming as he probably intended.

Then he ducks out of the way, sends the guy another glance over his shoulder, and tops up his glass with the bottle of Patron while Sutton fusses with the security on her door. "It depends on the takeaway," he tells her. "I could make you a pico de gallo, if you have some vegetables." Good fucking luck with that, Javier. He idly watches Carver, watching Easton. And judging his Russian accent. Some tequila goes down the hatch while he observes.

Sutton is still standing between the door and the kitchen when Easton bellows through the door, then is helped in by the Mexican, who's graciously willing to give up his pour to host. Just means he controls the Patron longer, no? "Easton, uh," nevermind, she doesn't know his full name, "Alistair," she points to the couch, "And Ruiz." She points to the Mexican in question. "Come on in, there's chips and salsa," she thumbs over her shoulder to the coffee table and the couch, "And cheese puffs," white cheddar ones so your fingers do not get stained. Genius snack food. "And we were just discussing takeaway." She was. By herself. "Yeah, I don't have... vegetables." Ruiz has seen the inside of her fridge more than once. It's literally all bottled root beer, Cokes, and like one lonely bag of organic carrots. "I should get some veg." At some point.

She's not going to.

"Margaritas on the kitchen island." Along with a bottle of Patrón, Grand Marnier, orange liqueur, a glass bottle of simple syrup, a bunch of sliced limes, a bowl of whole limes, a plate of sugar-salt-zest, and a couple of handblown glass margarita glasses rimmed in the salty-sweet mix. A large blender pitcher rests on the counter, still quite full of frozen margarita, obviously custom mixed by the counter contents. Ostensibly to Carver, she says, "Vodka in the freezer, if my Russian Husband wants some, and there's some whiskey under the sink." Apparently she only chills the vodka. "That accent is the worst. Please use it every time you come over." She laughs.

"What's the best takeaway in town?" She moves to pour Easton a margarita, which is only a couple of steps. She leaves the door unlocked and slightly ajar. On one hand: she lives next to Murderpartment. On the other, alcohol and three men at her place. Your move, killer.

Looking between Carver and Ruiz, Easton hesitates for a moment longer in the doorway. But then Carver calls him sweetheart and his head tilts to the side, he looks at Sutton and then back to Carver and he breaks into an easy laugh. It's obvious that by we're drinking Easton meant he was already drinking and joining Sutton to continue doing so. He agrees with a good natured, "Fine. I'll work on it." No, he won't work on it, and even if he did there is likely no saving whatever the hell that was.

He passes Ruiz with a chipper, "Captain." with a nod and then heads to the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge and grab a margarita.

"Nice to meet you. I'm her fake husband." Yes, he purposefully drops the Russian from that statement. He shrugs off the offer of other drinks and says, "Margaritas is fine for now."

Talk of the best takeout causes Easton to give a half-shrug, "I will eat any of it. Not that I consider much of it good? But that rarely stops me. Especially drunk me."

Carver's half pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer when Easton makes a claim on a margarita, so that's put back with a shrug, a mild diversion on the way to the fridge and the sweet, sweet prize obtained within. Yup. Root Beer. IT'S REALLY HARD TO GET GOOD STUFF IN ENGLAND OKAY LET'S NOT QUESTION THIS MORE THAN WE HAVE TO. I mean... what? Nothing.

His knuckles rap on the kitchen counter as he passes back around it, skipping a choice of seating for a lean against the wall next to the balcony door, but absolutely scooping up a couple of the cheese puffs on the way, just-about managing to point a finger in Easton's direction as he passes. "Da, tovarishch. That shit is astounding, and you're never allowed to let it go."

"I have heard a lot about you." That's from the off duty cop, who's taken up a lean against the kitchen counter in lieu of a seat, like a normal person. Presumably he's talking to Easton, whom he's studying curiously in light of his identity finally being revealed. And by a lot about you he probably means a little. As in, an oblique mention.

After confirming the sad, meagre contents of Sutton's fridge, he tells her, "I could swing by the diner, and pick up a few appetizers. Si te gusta." Then tips his glass back for a healthy swallow of tequila, and tracks Carver in his journey through the kitchen.

"I can't judge that," Sutton says to Easton. "The things I end up with photos of when I got out and drink..." she shakes her head, but does not elaborate. Bennie might have some photo evidence from the last time they went out, though Easton showed up to catch at least some of that. In the background is some kind of station, clearly themed to the Margarita Monday, though at the moment it seems to be going through a string of Chavela Vargas tunes.

Of course Carver meant the glass bottled soda. Still, she eyes the Englishman for a moment, without comment, as he again goes the non-alcoholic route. It may be moderately disturbing, but only those who know her well, who are watching her just then, might notice that brief hesitation. Sutton smirks, of course, when Easton fake husbands it, and Ruiz acknowledges that. She really should watch what she says more when she drinking. Yeah, not gonna happen.

"If you'd like, love, though we could just as easily order something to be delivered. Your choice." She pulls a few menus from one of the drawers in the kitchen, nudging that drawer shut swiftly afterward. No reason. "I've only been to the diner the once." No menu on hand for it, it seems.

"Well thank you. I put a lot of thought an effort into it." Easton responds easily to Carver's decision that he must keep the accent.

Easton laughs and takes a drink of his margarita before looking around for the tequila to booze it up a bit more. He borrows it from near Ruiz and plops in another splash before stirring it with his finger (classy!) and taking a big gulp. He raises his eyebrows at Ruiz and says, "Me? " He looks to Sutton who can't possibly have that much to say about him and then back to Ruiz before shrugging and saying, "Well hopefully it was about my amazing sexual prowess or predilection for faux marriage based pump and dump shenanigans. I'm going to go ahead assume it is."

Mention of the diner causes a bit of side-eye from Easton, but he doesn't say anything. It's not that he's avoiding Bennie who's working there tonight, no! That'd be crazy. He just takes a big gulp of his drink for no particular reason.

"It really shows, mate. It really blood shows." Carver throws Easton a small salute with the bottle, popping the cap and taking a couple of sips as he leans in to get right proper comfortable against the wall, throwing Sutton a little glance and shrug that either means 'Look, I'm socialising!' or 'Whut?' Body Language is a very nuanced thing, you know.

There's another sip. A third sip. Did Carver notice Easton's side eye? Did he notice Ruiz's second plan to pop away for a while? Will he ever shed this useless human form he stole that night in the ve-wait, different plot. "So, you tried the omelettes, huh?" Okay, he noticed Easton's side-eye. "That's a mistake you only make once."

Carver has made it four times. So far.

Ruiz nudges the tequila closer to Easton, and opts finally to tug his ballcap off and scrub his knuckles through his hat hair, rather than continue looking at the guy from under the rim. It's tossed onto the counter behind him, and his glass lifted to his lips. A chortle at the reply he gets. "No. She didn't mention anything about sexual prowess."

His eyes tick to Sutton, bemused, as she nears to rifle through that drawer. "I think she's holding back on me." He tries to catch a glimpse of its contents before it's banged shut. And, "It won't take me long." Quick smile, and he brushes her arm with his fingertips before setting his glass down and heading for the door with a jangle of keys. "What do you want me to bring back?"

Yes, Carver. It may well be attempt number two to escape. Because he's remarkably transparent like that.

Sutton coughs after a sip of margarita comes riiiight before Easton says pump and dump shenanigans. It sounds somehow way worse when he says it, then again, the last time they talked about this, she was wasted and having four text conversations from a stall in the men's room at The Pourhouse. She glances at Easton as he gets that look re: the diner, but likely assumes it's because he's allergic to the bears or something. "Not a fan of pop polka grunge?" Or whatever's been playing this week. She hasn't been in again for a while for a reason, mostly the music. She might or might not remember what all she's said about Easton to other people, B T dubs.

"Who'd be dumb enough to eat an omelet ..." Sutton shakes her head. Not touching the sexual prowess question here, which either makes it look like she's been canoodling with her partner's boyfriend (on again off again?) or like she's just not. "Some girls pay extra for detachable parts." Fuck, where did that come from? Begone, Satan. Maybe she's been drinking sips of Patron while making the margaritas ok. Or something else before everyone arrived. "Chili fries, extra, cheese, and... I mean they have those, right? Just whatever you think it'd take to feed four drunk men." She touches Ruiz's back as he goes, "Bonus points if you can find a strawberry malt on your way back." Offer go to get food and suddenly people have additional requests. Never. Fails.

The bottle is accepted with a nod of thanks and put right back next to Ruiz when Easton's done. He doesn't seem to notice Sutton's spit taking about any of the possible topic of conversation that might have come up about him. He does let her off the hook a bit with, "I'm her fake husband, but her partner's actual boyfriend." Just to clarify in case there is a relationship with either of these guys that she might not want him to roll all over. But then he can't help add, "And yet I haven't gotten them to tag team me yet. Which is super disappointing. I totally thought I had a shot at the strip club the other night."

Anyone noticing his shiftiness at talk of the diner is ignored when it comes time to put in orders. He waves it off and says, "I'm good with booze." Technically no one specifically offered, but well it's Easton and that hasn't really stopped him before. "But yes, they have great chili cheese fries."

"Bacon sarnie please, mate!" Carver's really doubling down on the vernacular today, giving Ruiz his second root beer salute of the night in a manner that seems entirely too friendly for how they started off the night, then casting his gaze out of the door beside him for a second or two. He's having flashbacks to omelettes. And the phrase 'Pump and dump' really didn't help. "That..." Right. Easton's description of how who knows who and what is what gets his attention back.

"That makes sense." He nods and everything, rummaging around in the pocket of his waistcoat for a moment, giving up, switching to his pants pockets, and finding the pack of smokes that eluded him up to this point, sticking it between two fingers that point at Easton. "If at first you don't succeed, next time: more tequila."

Carver's falling into a winking habit lately, and to be quite honest, it's becoming uncontrollable. Thank fuck he's heading for the balcony.

Ruiz's own pack of smokes is already halfway out of his jacket pocket by the time Carver mentions bacon sarnies. He tucks a cigarette between his lips while he shoves his feet into boots. His boots, preferably. His jacket follows, slung over his shoulders and instantly swallowing up the ink blocked in cheek by jowl along both arms.

"Bacon sarnie-" He's distracted by something in that drawer, and it derails his train of thought for a very long moment. Sutton's given a look, and it might have something to do with pump and dump, but then again it might not. "Chili fries, extra cheese. And a strawberry malt." He touches knuckles to Easton's shoulder on his way by. "You're sure you don't want anything?"

"To be honest, if I'd stopped at about four shots, that could have happened, but by the time you two sauntered off to the loo, I was too drunk. Woulda fallen off the back of the toilet." Sure doesn't seem like she's worried about potential relationship dramas, course it's pretty hard to tell if she's kidding. Time spent around Carver's upped the ante on the English in her accent. "Speaking of booze, if I bring in a bottle of honey syrup, will you make me a Bees Knees? They're no fun at home alone." Easton is somehow rarely behind the bar when she's in the Pourhouse at the bar itself, but she does know he tends there and has seen him through the crush on busy nights.

She looks after Carver and his smokes headed for the balcony. She's not technically a smoker, but she probably used to be by the way she tracks him. "More tequila would have put me on the floor." She mms and sprinkles a little more zest in the glass she's drinking from. "How's Bennie today?" Seems she doesn't know they're avoiding. Sutton's been rotated to an earlier shift for a couple days this week. She's having Bennie-sunshine withdrawal, it seems.

"Two orders of the fries, love." She looks to Easton then back to Ruiz, nodding. Easton'll eat the fries. Look how much choice she's giving him. Unless, of course, he decides to request something else. And now she's looking at a Mexican with a cigarette in his mouth. Damn it. Why is everyone smoking. She takes a swig of her margarita. That's the way you get brain freeze.

As if prompted by Carver, Easton pats his pockets and pulls out a pack as well. Sutton is literally surrounded. He doesn't move to light it or towards the balcony just yet. He just takes a seat at the kitchen counter. At Sutton's request for a drink, he stifles a grimace and says, "Of course." And can't help himself from adding, "So long as I don't have to drink it." He considers it a minute and adds, "Hell we should have ordered some for the bar and run a spring special." Looking off to the side, the cigarette still in his lips he asks no one in particular, "Is honey a spring thing?"

Ruiz's shoulder bump gets shrug, "Yea, I'm-.." And then Sutton is cutting in to order for him and he nods, defeated but not that sad about it. "Yea, another order of those fries for me apparently. Thanks."

Carver's comments about tequila get a grin out of Easton and a reply of, "I have found on more than one occasion that alcohol is in fact the solution." It's unlikely that anyone who knows him would have trouble realizing that he believes that to be true, it's also unlikely that they would agree with him.

"Two orders of chili fries," is murmured once Ruiz has extracted the cig from his mouth. The Mexican looks amused, but doesn't question the power dynamics at play. "Give me an hour, tops," he tells Sutton, and then ducks on out.

Agreeing with Easton with a quick "Chemistry says you are absolutely correct." Carver steps onto the balcony with little more than a "Stop eyefucking my smokes, pet!" to Sutton before sliding the door mostly shut behind him, just for the sake of propriety. He then props his arms across the railing, pulling out the third most battered zippo most people have probably seen in their lives. It's tarnished, there are a couple of dents in it, and someone's scratched a poorly-done letter M on the base of it. But hey, it works well enough, and he's silhouetted in the light for a second or two before there's a cloud of smoke drifting away with the wind.

And there he chills for a little bit, smoking, sipping at his drink, looking at his phone, fighting off a pterodactyl. The usual.

Okay, that last one is on a mobile game he's playing, but would it really be that out of place?

"Summer and early fall when most of the bees are packing in for wintering over, but it's available all year round. Honey basically never goes bad." Sutton, bee enthusiast, garden killer. She's horrible with plants. The brunette leans against the counter, briefly running her fingers through her shorter, shoulder-length hair. "You don't have to drink it, but it's good. I'll drink it for you." She smiles a bit when Easton goes along with her order, and then Ruiz goes along with it too. She's so bossy sometimes. "Gracias, bebe," is uttered to Ruiz as he slips out.

"It's true. Something goes bad, add more alcohol and it'll probably circle back around to ok." Unless it doesn't. Then it really won't. At least two of the people in this apartment right now have worked as bartenders. Probably three. Faith in booze!

"I eyefuck whatever I want, thank you." She doesn't even hesitate to callback to Carver's sass. She reaches over to touch Easton's wrist when he doesn't answer about Bennie. The touch is brief and light.

The information about honey is duly noted and he says, "Fine, we'll do a fall honey special at the Deuce." Yes, his bar is called the Two if by Sea, but more usually it's the Deuce or Twibs because he's never lost the urge to make dumb acronyms out of things that the military instilled deep in his bones.

At the touch on his wrist, he looks up at Sutton. And suddenly they're basically alone in the apartment and Easton's rather loud over-sexed talk quiets down to a dull, "It's fine. We're good. We're in love. It's great." The rapid fire list of statuses comes out and he realizes that what he just communicated is basically the opposite of all those things so he tries again. "It's good." There are a million dumb things running through his head right now, specifically around ways to get Bennie to not worry about what he's going to be getting up to the next night but that's not what he's here for. He's is here for drinking!

He stands and says, "I'm joining Doctor Who for a smoke. You coming, or just gonna eye fuck us all night?"

There's just more smoke from the balcony, the sound of a pterodactyl screeching, and a Carver calling back an "I'm well aware!" to Sutton that probably pissed off the neighbors both above, below and to either side.

There's a long moment before Sutton glances over at Carver again, who's hanging out on the balcony doing what Carver does. She flicks a glance back to Easton. The Deuce is such an unfortunate name, but she doesn't say it. She's clearly thinking it. "You're so full of sh—" is Sutton's immediate reply to Easton's rapid-fire list, but then Easton's going into edit. "Okay. If it's ever not, you can drink here." There's a pause, then she says, "I'm pretty sure if I'm coming it's moved past eye-fucking." Not. Even. A. Pause.

"Yes, fine." Twist her arm why don't you! The brunette makes her way around the bar with her margarita still in hand, and follows after Easton. She is absolutely staring at his ass trying to see if she can tell which leg is false by his gate, and if it affects the symmetry of his bum at all. For science.

Easton accepts the invite graciously and just nods, "Deal. But for real, things are good. She's staying at my place for a bit." Note he did not say living with him. It's a subtle bit of linguistic resistance to domesticity. He stops trying to assure her though and heads out for a smoke. The line about coming makes him cough in surprise and have to grab the cigarette out of the air, which he does quite well.

Yes the fake lower left leg affects his walk, even if he's trying very hard to correct his gate. The even-ness of his ass though is thankfully unmarred by his injury, it remains the tight gift to booty watchers everywhere.

Carrying his drink outside he says, "We're invading." to Carver and sets down the drink to light up as soon as he's outside.

"Christ, wasn't 1776 enough?" Caver bemoans, rolling his eyes a touch more than necessary as he shuffles his way down the line of the railing to open up some space, even going so far as to turn around when he's done. It allows him to slip his phone into his waistcoat and swap sides the cigarette lingers on, keeping it away from the rest of the party. Again, unpracticed decorum and all that. "I saw that, by the way. If you're gonna play up the Russian Husband, you can't be spitting out cigarettes every time she goes for the low hanging fruit."

"No one expects the British-American invasio—" Sutton's being witty when her knee catches the couch arm a few strides from the sliding glass door. "Fuck!" She sloshes her margarita a bit on her wrist, but manages to keep her feet, thanks to trusty reflexes. "Ok, I believe you." Maybe she even does. "If you guys ever wanna have breakfast before work, I'll eat pancakes someone else cooks. Waffles. French toast. Toast." Any foods, really. Booty symmetry so noted, Sutton nods and makes a mental note. Left leg. Which she'll either forget completely, or reverse when it comes time to use the information for Good.

She says nothing on 1776, though she does smirk. And when Carver mentions low-hanging fruit, she passes on that one too. "Nice save, though." The cigarette. She moves onto the balcony without much of a limp, despite racking her knee into the furniture. Good thing it's padded. Her hands settle on the railing and looks out over the ocean. "I do love this apartment."

"Nope" Easton readily agrees that independence was only the beginning of the atrocities Americans will visit up on the British. He takes a place on the railing and takes a drag, much like he would be doing if he were one floor down on his own balcony.

At the comment about low hanging fruit Easton smirks and says, "Well if she goes to play with my balls, I'll be sure to keep my smoke firmly between my lips."

"Ah, well that would be tough consider I think both Bennie and I are equally kitchen challenged. I mix drinks. I assemble prepped meals. That's about it." He doesn't even make cereal! Granted that's possibly because his cereal boxes are full of ammunition, but where else are you going to keep it.

"And that's what you fuckin' get, yank."

Of course Carver turned around at the perfect time to see Sutton's little dalliance with the couch, raising the bottle up to his mouth to hide the total absence of a smile that totally isn't, never was, never will be, never had been ever there. It's followed up with the cigarette, because fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound of staring-mockery. His teeth worry at the filter for a moment before sliding about half a foot along the railing, muttering out of the corner of his mouth "You say that now, but... nails."

There are several things Sutton could say in this situation, but the one that tries to leave her mouth is, "One of us needs a wife or husband who cooks." The only person she knows with any demonstrated prowess in the kitchen is on a food run right now. This is troublesome. She makes a note to text Byron later and suggest a crepe bar on Sundays. Who doesn't love a good crepe?

"I can only juggle so many balls at one time, love. Bennie's going to have to manage yours." Sutton glances between the two men on the balcony. "Someone give me a cigarette." She maybe elbows Carver for the yank comment. (Definitely.) "What's your view like?" She might have already forgotten which apartment Easton's in.

Somewhere between talk of American-British atrocities and low-hanging fruit, the door's shoved open and a certain bulky Mexican wanders back in. This time, bearing gifts of greasy food. Two cardboard containers of cheesy fries are set down on the counter, followed by what might or might not be a bacon sarnie. A strawberry malt is plunked down as well, and somehow he's managed to find the hands free to be midway through stuffing a hamburger into his mouth while arranging food and removing plastic bags. "Is juggling balls some sort of euphemism I am not aware of?" he queries Sutton, before taking a bite of his burger.

"I agree. Or at least a fake wife or husband that can cook." Easton agrees with Sutton's assessment of their romantic priorities.

"She'll just have to manage with her hands full I suppose." He pulls out his pack and offers one to Sutton and would even light it for her if need be. He's a gentleman, kind of. "My view? It's nice, it's on the ocean side so sunsets and all that good stuff."

At the sight of the greasy food containers, he leans in to check it out some more, suddenly very grateful that Sutton overruled him. He puffs away on his cigarette and helpfully answers Ruiz, "I think she means she's fucking too many guys right now." Okay, he meant to be a helpful wingman in case there was a relationship somewhere he should be aware of but that apparently went out the door. There was an effort.

And you know what, Easton? That totally gets you a pat on the back. A literal one. From Carver. "Mate-" He starts, a little muffled from the filter held between teeth. "-You lasted longer than I would have."

This time the grin can totally be seen from around the edge of his bottle. The bottle that's quickly finished, the cigarette dropped inside, his own pack put away because hey, Easton is totally within the dictionary definition of a gentleman if you squint and hold the book upside-down. The very same bottle that's dropped in the bin as he passes it, beelining for what looks like "-That is a suspiciously baconbuttie shaped package. Much appreciated, chief!"

Weirdly? Just a term. Carver missed Easton using the same earlier.

Contents, checked. Contents... probably found acceptable(?). "Howmuchioweyou?" Yes, it's one word. Yes, it's said through a mouthful as he wanders around to the other side of the counter.

Of course that's when Ruiz walks back into the apartment. "Nope, pretty much straight up balls. No euphemisms here, Captain." Sutton is undeterred. She does seem distracted from porch smoking by the ghostly waft of the scent of cheesy-heavy fries. She turns and her hand catches on the rail, nearly thumping the margarita glass from her hand. She clears her throat and straightens like that didn't just happen, and reaches for the smoke offered by Easton. "Thanks, neighbor."

"I hate you," Sutton says softly, but it could be to Easton or Carver, and it's not said with venom. She lets Easton do the classic bartender lighting of the smoke before thanking him with a pantomimed curtsey. She takes one very deep drag on it, cheeks hollowing like she hasn't had a cigarette in weeks and is dying for one. Smoke's exhaled through her nose. She takes another, shorter drag, holds it for a moment, then tips her head back to exhale into a breeze that kicks up off the ocean.

Duty done, Ruiz proceeds to lurk in the kitchen while the others are out on the balcony.. smoking? Since when does Sutton smoke? He squints at that for a moment before opting to pour himself another margarita, and check the messages on his phone.

Sutton's answers of just straight up balls gets a serious nod from Easton as if she just agreed to what he said. Which isn't that far off. The pat on the back from the other more male Brit gets a quirked eyebrow but since he's not being murdered just yet he isn't sure what he means. So he does that half-drunken nod thing that he does so well and agrees with a little too hearty, "Yup!"

And of course he started smoking right as the food got here and now smells amazing, or at least the little bit that he can smell through the cigarette smoke does.

I hate you

"I am literally your favorite person." Easton easily counters, even if she wasn't talking to him it's good to establish these things.

Words mean nothing, bacon is everything. It's not a huge leap of logic to guess that Carver's response to Sutton would have been something along the lines of 'Yup,' but the siren song of bacon just goes ahead to beat all. To be fair, he was by that counter so quickly, folks might not have even seen him move. But judging by the fact half that sandwich is gone already, he did.

Holy fuck he did.

"I find you tolerable," comes the reply from the smoking American with a fucked up and occasional English accent. It's only on some words! Sutton takes one more drag off the smoke, holding it in before she ashes over the balcony's rail, stubs it out gently, and tucks the unsmoked portion behind her ear. She gives a wave in front of her to clear the smoke before she asks, "You want a bowl or a plate for your fries, Easy?" This is how nicknames are born. She finishes off her margarita, now thoroughly melted.

She slides her phone out of her back pocket to check it, then tips it back in there a moment later, and steps back into the apartment, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood.

Stubbing out his own cigarette Easton smiles as she downgrades him from favorite to tolerable. He is about to banter back when she calls him Easy. He stops and snaps his head towards her in a very intensely curious look. No one in town calls him that, and he hasn't been called that for quite some time. Maybe it's not how nicknames are born, so much as resurrected. But he just shrugs it off and says, "Oh, uh. I was just going to plop my face in the container and eat it freestyle. But a plate works too."

Ruiz looks up briefly at the blur that is Carver zipping in to yoink his sandwich off the counter, and seems to only belatedly register the fact that a question was asked. If one could could that mishmash of sounds a question. "What?" It takes him a minute to un-garble them and translate. "Oh. No, it's on me. You can owe me one." He smiles slightly like that amuses him, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. "I'm going to head out," he tells Sutton, who's conveniently walking by right about then. "I've got some things to move into storage that I have been putting off, and.." There is no and. But that story seems sincere enough. "I'll see you later." To the other two: "It was nice to meet you both."

"'Strange, oddly tense and probably making me realize something two days later' meeting you too, Ruiz." Sometimes, for Carver, a mouth full of sandwich or not, 'Nice' doesn't quite cut it. "Fanks for fhe fuffy. Fyor a fainfh."

Can you guess which of those two sentences came AFTER he took another bite out of the meal? You get three, first two don't count, third is available for a mulligan. If it takes you more than that number to guess, then sorry, but by the time you've answered, he's already in the fridge, sandwich held in one hand while he reaching down for a root beer, ponders, hesistates, and ponders some more.

Sutton may notice something about the reaction, but does she peg it to the nickname? Probably not. Nobody say resurrection out loud in this apartment. The resident ghost might come out to play, and then where would we be? "Far be it form me to chain you to the yolk of tableware." She grins. "You want a fork or anything? I just don't like that melty container taste to seep into my saturated fats." She glances back and smiles to Easton, then makes her way on into the kitchen, to slide past Carver, who's inhaling bacon. She touches his back as she slips by, then pauses as Ruiz makes his move to go. Does she understand anything Carver just said around his full mouth? Maybe.

Of course she pauses on her way to acquire dishes, standing with the swarthy for a moment. Her hand comes to rest on his ribs and she leans in to say, "Thanks for doing the run. And..." Something probably occurs to her as she's speaking, but it only causes a brief pause. She slides her arms around the man to give a brief but tight hug. "Be safe out there, okay?" She might be saying that because of the fact that he very clearly broke his nose sometime recently, though the bruises are fading. (No, Sutton didn't do it.) If she says anything else, it's too quiet to hear.

Easton helps himself to a container of the fries, picking them straight out of the container, at least the less loaded ones. He looks around for another drink and decides to not let any of the margarita go to waste. "Thanks Captain!" He calls as Ruiz turns to leave, relying on rank still ingrained in him. He notices Sutton's embrace and ohs, guessing that maybe he should have tried a little harder to not joke about her fucking every man around. Oh well, there's always next time.

For now, there's chili cheese fries, which he happily munches down on.

"De nada," is offered quietly, paired with a rare smile from the Mexican. He's about to depart abruptly, but then Sutton steps in close with that hug, and something about it stills him for a long moment. His arm slides around her, pulls her smaller frame close, and his hand catches in her hair briefly to direct her ear toward his mouth for a low murmur in return. He breathes, in and out, then releases her. Then steals a cheesy fry from one of the containers on his way by, and shoulders his way out the door with a tick of two fingers to his forehead in lazy 'salute' to Easton. Seems they've both got some ingrained habits where military protocol's concerned.

"What a C-"arver shuts the fridge door a little harder than he planned, cutting off whenever he was muttering about through a mouthful of bacon. Abandoned, sans rootbeer, his sandwich-less hand is free to open up the freezer and pull out that earlier bottle of Vodka without a second's hesitation, leaning in to unscrew the cap with his teeth. If it's a screw cap. Hell, even if it's not a screw cap, he'd give it his best go.

And quite frankly? Succeed.

Don't mind Carver! He's just in the kitchen. With a bacon sandwich. Swigging from a bottle of Vodka. Everything is FINE.

Sutton could have been stealing his wallet, but probably not. Whatever Ruiz says when he leans in has her snorting a laugh. She coughs and turns back to the kitchen as the cop departs, carrying her empty glass in to set it down on the counter. She gives the margarita pitcher a little slosh, refills her cup with melty drink, and puts that down to tiptoe, reaching up to pull down a couple of low bowls. She prefers these to plates. She really only has a couple of small plates, and those are likely saucers for tea. She leaves one and a fork on the counter for Easton if he wants to use it, and dumps half of the other order of chili cheese fries into her bowl.

She flicks look at Carver. Does she hear what he said? Mmm. Maybe. She definitely notices the swigging vodka straight from the bottle. "Dude, use a glass." See, she's definitely American.

Easton suddenly decides that this feast calls for a different booze. He uses the fork to shovel another bite into his face before explaining, "I have just the whiskey for this. I'll be right back.." He stands and moves towards the door exiting after the captain but hopefully not awkwardly after where you then have to have a conversation about the fact that you're not going the same way. Yea, anyway, he heads back down to his apartment and gets distracted by booze there.

Carver places the sandwich down on the table, taking the time to give Easton a quick thumbs up in departure as his lips never leave the edge of that bottle. Sutton? Sutton gets an index finger of 'Hold on a minute.'

As he gulps.

And gulps some more.

Liiittle bit more.

Touch more.

The bottle drops down on to the counter, spilling a little. It would have spilled a lot, judging by the force, but a certain Brit just went back to the days where he'd hang around a college campus during his late teens, and the skills learned therein. His sound of refreshment is clearly audible from across the room, seems incredibly pleased with the result, and is probably flammable from the vapor alone. One eye blinks slightly slower than the other as he looks directly at the owner of this apartment. Well, Leaser. Close enough. His lips purse up. Unpurse. Open. Close.

"When..." Oh, there are the words. "When you casually mention tequila nights, and you knooow-" His hand swivels around in the most vague of gestures. "everything that comes of that. Next time, love. Next. Time." Two words, emphasized by knuckles on the counter. "D'you think that you could mention when he's coming over? Or, I dunno..."

His train of thought seems to get distracted by a lightbulb. "THAT HE'S A POLICE CAPTAIN?"

Oh, wait. No it didn't.

Sutton thinks on that for a moment, digging a single, cheesy chili fry from her bowl. She blows on it a bit, waiting for Carver to finish his sentence, wraps a trailing cheese string around the fry, licks off her finger and glances up. She gives the fork a brief wave as she considers this question, even at the volume it achieves, and she mms. She shoves the whole fry in her mouth, chews twice, and says around her food.

"If you don't want to use a glass, I have plenty of novelty mugs."