2019-08-13 - In Respite Of Himself

Love wanders up off of the beach a few minutes later, wandering along the various seaside choices. She settles on an order of spicy fish and chips, regular fish and chips with extra chips, as well as an order of popcorn shrimp and two boba tea she scored at some random shop she happened across the other day. Healthy? No. Filling and delicious, absolutely. She has a fry in her mouth when she crosses the road to the Motel, pauses at her room to stow a board and squeeze out of her wetsuit, pulls on some jeans, and wanders over to 14 from 11.

She hefts a bag of food under her arm, a tray with two cups in her hand. She raps on the door and then tries it.

Carver's sat at the small table his room contains, the sound of the unlocked door being tested meaning that when Love enters, he's slipping closed an old leather-bound journal and tucking his pen into the aged and stained loop of twine that serves to keep it closed. The clothes he had stacked and piled on there previously are gone, either tucked away or burned for the sake of his mental health.

He looks rough. Not least because he's currently wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a deep blue tee that says 'Houston Love' on a silhouetted skyline that slowly transitions to make the entire thing seem like that of a heart, although the attire totally helps. He's pale, a little ragged under the eyes, head topped with artfully messy 'bed head', and there's a certain amount of bulge and rustle around his chest from where that shirt hits other material.

But damned if that face doesn't brighten at the sight of her, back-lit from the sunlight through the doorway. "Like an actual fuckin' angel." Behold the slightly dehydrated rasp!

Love's long hair is pulled up, a bit damp, but mostly dry. She smells like sea salt and sunscreen. The tattooed woman lets the door drop closed behind her, wandering deeper into the room. She glances around only briefly, confirms this place is a mirror of hers, and heads over to the table to put the bag and cup tray down there. "Are you a diary-keeper?" She smiles. "Me too."

She slides off a pair of mirror-shades and tucks them atop her head, squinting against the relatively low light of the interior. It's a bit drizzly outside, but still quite a bit more cheerful than this tiny room. "You look like the wrong end of a ten day bender." She puts her sunglasses down, and offers over a vaguely purple chilled tea with black tapioca pearls in the bottom, chewy and sweet. "Spicy fish and chips or regular fish and chips?" She pops another chip into her mouth and says, "Both are good." She tucks her drink against her body with her arm and walks over to sit on the bed.

It's warm enough that she didn't bother grabbing a shirt when she changed, and sits on the edge of his bed in a black bikini top and jeans, kicking off her shoes before she pulls her leg up. She opens the bag of food and rips it down the side, spreading the paper out like a little tray. That's a lot of seafood and potato. "That's me, inked up and slightly salty."

With the angelic look of a person with food wearing off after a few seconds, Carver has to turn his head away from the door to overcome the feel of a suddenly far brighter light on his eyeballs than he's been used to for the past day or so. It's... unpleasant. To the point that he finds himself uttering a silent prayer of thanks when the door swings shut behind her.

The rest of his moves are obviously stilted by some sort of hindrance in his upper torso. Reaching out for the drink is labored, taking a couple of sips of the offered drink that rapidly turn into half-a-cup-gone gulps before he's even ready to reply to anything Love said his way. "No bender." Oh good, less rasp! And it's said as he makes an attempt to pull himself from the chair to join her on the bed. There's no sitting on the edge for him, though. Instead, he makes his way over to the side of it, places his drink down on the end table, and half climb/half crawls his way on top of the sheets. He ends up propped up on a pile of far more pillows than any motel would ever give the occupant of one room at once.

Someone's either been purchasing, or stealing.

"I had a day." Attaboy, Carver. Explain away. "Got a couple bites of my own." A hand reaches out in a slightly grabby fashion towards the food. "Regular me, Saltlady."

Love sits cross-legged on the bed, sipping her tea. She tucks it in against her knee, where it's less likely to spill, and leans across to turn the food spread, shoving the regular fish and chips closer to Carver. She breaks off a piece of the spicy cod and holds it until it cools a little more. It steams happily, like seafood should. "Been raiding for pillows?" She opens the popcorn shrimp and leaves the open container between them.

Fish in mouth, she hands him his little carton of chips, since he does seem to be having some trouble moving too much. "Looks like it hurts." She doesn't ask for details. "Anything I can do?" She devours the chips one by one. Long day on the beach. There's the tinies bit of red on her face, perhaps a little hint of sunburn despite the sunscreen.

There's a bit of grunting as Carver leans forwards, reaching with outstretched fingertips for the carton, missing one time before Love is ever-so-kind enough to hand it over. The guy's appreciation is possibly palpable. Really. He flashes her a wild smile in thanks, resting the carton on a thigh as he just flomps himself back into the pillow pile, opening up the carton with a casual attitude entirely at odds with how hungry he's actually feeling right now.

"I, uh..." popping a chip into his mouth in a hope she'll totally miss his hesitancy, Carver's looking anywhere that isn't her face when he answers with a slight low "Noooooo?" more chips totally help complete the subterfuge, right? Right.

It doesn't. He accepts that. Eventually. And begrudgingly. His eyes dart up to her face, and then down to the popcorn chicken, although he seems content to nibble on chips for now. "I'll be fine, pet. You're already doing enough. Looks like you caught a bit of sun today, though?" another chip for luck. "Been on the water?"

"Yeah, all day. I'll be paying for it later, but it was a good day in the surf. Whole body's tired." Likely, tomorrow, she'll have trouble getting out of bed, but that's a bill to pay tomorrow. Or possibly in the middle of the night when she tries to get up to pee and ends up facedown on the floor, as it were. "I'll have to run out for some aloe later. I didn't think to buy any. Not usually out long enough to catch this much sun. Just going to peel." Just her nose and cheeks, thankfully. Most of her inked bits were covered by the wetsuit.

"I'm around all week if you—" she pauses as her phone goes off, reaching back to fish it out of her pocket. She flips the screen around right side up and checks a text coming in. Love snatches a handful of popcorn shrimp and dumps them into the little paper boat of fries, picks up her drink, and leans over the bed to scoot the rest of the food closer to Carver. "Got a call to return. I'll be around later, you need anything. Just text, yeah? Anything. Company, soda, smokes."

"Glad to hear it, pet!" And hey, Carver actually looks it, too! He's got his easy smile, only interrupted once or twice by a little flicker of wincing when he get a little too eager on the destruction of a chip. Or, as is the case when she mentions Aloe, a finger-full of fish. A finger-full of fish that immediately points over to a shopping bag that sits by the door. "Mm." The sound accompanies an uptilt of his head to get her looking. "Enough in there to slather yourself in." Is the sentiment coupled with a slightly sheepish shrug? Sure it is. Is that immediately followed by a look of regret because Carver you fucking idiot you have multiple tears, contusions and outright gouges that you're tearing every time you shrug? Oh God Yes. "I'm a Brit. Aloe is the only reason I don't look like a shrimp cocktail every time I leave this room."

He's eaten about three more chips, another handful of fish, and grunted his way over to taking another delicate sip of the drink when she scoots the rest of the food his way, leaving him with a sizable calorie amount that will have mysteriously vanished in about an hour or so. The look of slight disappointment only lasts a second. "I could go for all three when you've got the time, love."

At least he seems fine with her leaving. Although his head does point to the little journal he was writing in. It's pretty thick, filled with loose-leafed sheets that poke out in odd angles and with vastly different levels of wear and weathering to the color of the paper. "Goin' a little stir crazy, maybe, so the company'd be nice. That fuckin' thing was brand new this morning."

Hey, he finally got a chance to lie. He must be feeling better already.

Love pauses to dig around in the shopping bag, jamming the aloe into her back pocket, the one not occupied by her phone. "Be back." She carries her armload of food and drink to the door, somehow manages to nudge it open with her armload, then says, "Won't be long!" Probably won't be long. "If it's more than two hours, call the cops." What the fuck is she going out to do, you may wonder. She doesn't say.

"I'll get some dessert when I come back." Whenever that is, hopefully sometime in 1 hour and 59 minutes or fewer. She smiles at his joke about his book, but is gone before she can make a comment about it.

Love pops back in after about ten seconds have gone by. "Forget I said that cop thing." Gone again.

Ten Seconds After Love Has Left: Carver has a single finger raised, is interrupted mid-thought by her addendum.

Twenty-Five Minutes Later: Most of the food is gone.

Forty-Seven Minutes: Carver's hungry.

One Hour, Eight Minutes: Carver drags his arse out of bed after fifteen minutes of telling himself he would. The bags and empty food containers remain.

One Hour, Fifty Minutes: Carver is asleep, face down on the table, with one of those loose-leaf sheets of paper from his journal firmly stuck to his cheek.