2019-09-30 - The King is Dead, Long Live the King

Procuring de la Vega's keys seemed like a good idea at the time, but as it turns out, when one speeds in a police Captain's vehicle, one does actually get pulled over. One does not necessarily get a ticket, but one certainly gets a talking to, particularly when visible yellowing of fading bruises are present on one's throat, which could easily been hidden with concealer. Good thing the PO didn't ask her to remove her mirrored aviators. In another day, all traces will be entirely gone, thanks to a spirit boost in healing from one Erin Addington.

Working EMS has its perks. Being friends with cops has it perks. Driving the Captain's vehicle definitely has its perks. It has a lot of get up and go, this car, and so she sped more coming up along Bayside, nearly hopped a curb, but thanks to some pretty decent reflexes even in the wake of that flu, crisis averted.

Sutton pulls into a spot out front of 13 bayside, leaving a little rubber down on the roadway when she tests the brakes. EERK. Little thrill for the neighbors. Engine off, in park, she pops the door, unfolds from the car, and heads along and over to the house. She even locks the Charger, which is a courtesy since there's a PD computer in there. Sutton slides her hands into her pockets, fishes out a key, and uses the front door this time. She raps a little knock first, just in case.

She didn't warn Carver she was coming over.

Sutton never warns Carver she's coming over. In fact, some of the times he thought she might be, she never showed.

That would be why the knock doesn't wake him from his slumber, one leg hanging off of the couch, one arm tucked in against his side, the other underneath his head for support as he snores, softly and with a great level of determination to stay asleep. Oh. Small note, Gunner would happen to be asleep on his chest. That mastiff is definitely still a puppy, but the size? He is a growin'. Growin' and a-sleepin'. They both look shattered.

This would also explain the three different tug-of-war toys on the floor around the coffee table, the new arrival of a dog bed that is going totally unused because, hey, Carver has a chest and a waistcoat that totally needs hair and slobber on it, and the dog food bowl in the kitchen that has moved by itself three times in the past hour. Nobody noticed.

Sutton comes in, hangs the keys in her hand on a little hook by the door, and makes her way into the living area to find Carver once again asleep on his couch. It's like the man doesn't even have a perfectly good bed upstairs. She leans against the doorway and smiles, taking in the doggo toy carnage and sleepy pup and man. She takes her phone out of her pocket, snaps a photo of that, and sends it off into the worried puppy parents so they can see that Gunner is in very good hands.

And has a playmate, which no one has noticed. Sutton refuses to acknowledge if she has. No, that bowl isn't moving as if someone's nosing it for a potential crumb of missed kibble.

"You make me want a nap, boys." She does sound tired.

They. Both. Look. Shattered.

Carver? Oh, he's out of it. Her words summon nothing but a soft continuation of snores from him. Gunner, though? An ear twitches at the sound of the door, a pup eye creeps open at the sound of her voice, and upon confirming that yes, this is in fact Sutton, his head rises up into a wide lolling grin and a mad, if slightly over-sleepy haphazard scrabble from his makeshift bed of man to climb down to the floor and beeline for her.

And, as all dogs are wont to do, his back left paw catches Carver perfectly, crushing his meat and two veg up against his thigh.

The curling up is immediate, as is the "Fucking HELL!"

Sutton does have that affect on men in her life, with an alarming kind of regularity.

"Hello, baby. Who's a pretty boy? Who deserves some bacon?" She doesn't have any bacon, but she has bacon flavored treats in the little thigh pocket of her short-shorts. She holds her hand up, treat under her thumb. "Sit. Sit, Gunner." She waits, and watches him do a spin, swirl his butt on the floor and go belly up like she said breakdance and play dead. "... Close enough." She offers him the treat and then gets down on the floor to blow a raspberry on his doggie belly.

All. The. Scritches.

"How are you balls, love?"

Carver makes a sound not unlike a helium balloon slowly deflating in reply, rolling slightly to sit up on the couch, leaning forward with a heavy-set press of an elbow into his thigh to nurse the damaged area with a hand. That is to say, everything in his body is screaming 'PLACE PRESSURE ON THE WOUND' at the same time it is also screaming 'DO NOT TOUCH. NO. DO NOT.'

So instead he has to settle for wheezing out high pitched breaths and blinking away the water from his eyes for about a minute or so.

"I-... I think his are fine. I never looked closely, we're not at that stage of the relationship."

Sutton does not offer his jewels any first aid. She's sure he has that under control over there, and she doesn't inquire further, but she does say, "Try not to disable the people who feed you, Guns," before she smooches the dog right on the top of his furry face. "You're so damn cute."

"I think you mean you're not flexible enough."

What? Who's she talking to? Noooo one. It's fine. "Oh, who's a good boy?" She gives Gunner one last furious scritch, and then she moves over past the couch and into the kitchen to open the fridge and pull out a drink. "Can I get you anything, love?" She doesn't cook, so that's out.

Carver's not flexible, and yet he's doing a good impression of someone who is, leaning fully forward to almost press his chest against his knees. "Gunner!"

His voice comes out as a squeak, and the pup busy watching Sutton go pays not a lick of attention.

Okay, attempt number two. Inhale. Exhale. Let the pain flow away, down through the legs, out from the soles of your feet, and into the floor. Breathe, man. Breathe. In. Out. Okay, we good? We're goo-Oh she's asking a question. "Cola. Cold, please. Coldest one in there. I need the bottle." He needs the cold, but hey! His voice sounds a lot better.

"Gunner! Where's the King?!"

THAT time it gets a reaction. The pup's head swivels to the sound of his voice, tilts sideways for a moment as the words come through, and as soon as the word 'King' has left Carver's mouth, the pup is half walking half springing in a slightly excited hop to the largest of the tug of war toys.

That's not to say he fetches it. But he does locate it, taking it up in his mouth before rolling over on to his side, immediately embroiled in a vicious battle with the most nefarious of foes.

Sutton glances back from the contents of the fridge, pulling out two bottles. She hip-checks the door shut and wanders back in eating a hunk of cheese she found in there. "Did you teach Easton's dog to behead the monarchy?" She strides over to the couch, throwing herself down on one side. A cold glass bottle is passed over to the man of the house, and Sutton kicks off her shoes, tucking her feet up under her. She twists off the cap of a sweet root beer, bringing it to her lips before the first misted release of carbonation smokes out.

"That enormous baby boy makes me wish I had a dog, but... ownership is a bad idea for me."

"Maybe."

By the time Sutton's back, Carver's leaning back in the couch, watching the pup go to work. He shuffles his way over some, freeing up more space than is really necessary for her to sit, but it allows him to man-spread it out and rest the passed-over bottle right on the family jewels. The look (and sound) of relief is immense. A long, comfortable sigh, his head resting back on the couch as he looks to the ceiling. "That's why you make friends with people who have them. You get all of the fun parts and none of the midnight wake-ups when they need a shit."

His eyes, closed when he leaned back, peek open to glance in her direction. He clocks the glasses. The neck.

He clocks the ceiling. "Wanna talk about it?"

Belatedly, she reaches up to slide the glasses off. Her eye's yellowed too. The bruises look old, but there's no way they're as old as they look. He's seen her too recently, which means someone had a spirit healing recently. "Apparently." She tosses the aviators onto the coffee table. "A bunch of people involved in the Murder shit got... ghost cursed with intermittent rage." With the glasses off, she looks tired, but that could be a combo of flu and, you know, no makeup to even out her tenderized complexion.

"I don't really know if I want to talk about it." Which part, really. There's a lot. She watches the dog. "I thought maybe we could eat some grilled cheese and watch a movie."

Sutton gets hit again. This time, it's by the fingers of Carver's hand softly touching the side of her shoulder as he moves to stand, tentatively moving the bottle as he does. Like said, it's not a hard hit. Carver's terrible at melee. He's not got his usual, casual smile. The easy one that he always seems to wear. Now? Just a smile. A little bit sympathetic, maybe a hint of worry, but definitely a large case of the 'Good to see you's scattered in it for good measure.

He doesn't move to the kitchen, though. First stop is up the stairs, calling as he makes way to the linen cupboard up on the landing. "Remote's by your left hand, love. Netflix us something good, alright?"

When he comes back down, it's with a blanket over his arm. It's soft as hell, a little frayed at one side, and a combination of blues in a slightly tartan pattern that make it look like the ultimate 'Grandma wears this on her lap because her circulation is terrible in winter' chic. And it's given to Sutton without hesitation. Well. It's foisted on her. Unfurled on her. Both. She's getting the blanket. She can fight out of it when he's going to make grilled cheese, which is next on the list, popping open the bottle of coke as he goes.

"I was in a band in school called Intermittent Rage, y'know."

"Thank you." Sutton says this when she catches sight of that smile of his. She glances down at her lap, where the bottle rests, hooked in the circle of her fingers.

"I mean, I don't know if it'll be good." She picks up the remote, turns on the television, turns on Netflix, and starts browsing the profile. "Veronica Mars, Forensic Files, or some chef show where professionals flame out because they can't accept a critique?" She glances up and then gets blanket monstered. No choice in the matter, just blanket. "Um." She pulls the blanket up a little and accepts it for the gift it is. "Thanks." It's kind of a blanket kindness assault.

"Intermittent rage is a fine name for a band." She slouches into the back of the couch. "Not so much good for an already volatile relationship." The latter is muttered.

"It doesn't need to be good, pet." Carver calls back from the kitchen, the sound of things rattling around, that's definitely a bread bin being opened, and the refrigerator had something removed from it. His head pops around the corner of the wall. You can see most of the kitchen from the couch if you lean back and crane your head far enough, but it never hurts to be polite. "If it's Forensic Files, you're going to have to put up with me calling out how prone to failure and human error forensic testing and evidence is. Angry chefs or Veronica Mars sounds perfect."

His head pops away. For a second. Long enough to turn a hob on and add the sound of a pan being moved.

"And wrap yourself up in the bloody blanket, love. I got it from a good friend, which is one of a dying breed when it comes to me. They made it all protective and such. It's also cosy as hell."

And then there is only more clattering. He doesn't want to have to tell her his band was terrible. She probably already guessed that, for one.

Watching the aftermath of blood, violent murder is probably a bad choice tonight, anyway. The last thing Sutton needs is a side-swipe panic attack because she has unresolved emotional issues stemming from a recent co-assault. "Veronica Mars it is. Who doesn't love a plucky blonde." She cycles through and starts by queuing up the pilot episode. "Personally, I'd have gone for Weevil. Duncan is a fucking travesty." She pulls the blanket up, unfolding it a little more, and crosses her legs under it.

"They made it protective?" She's distracted from watching Gunner worry a toy by that strange turn of phrase. "Oh, babe, cut into triangles, ok?" She has grilled cheese standards.

"I wouldn't know, love. Never seen it." Travesty, Carver. Travesty. Not even the fact your life went to shit is enough to get you out of the shame of this. He might actually be lying so Sutton can distract herself by firmly stating her opinion on all the the characters over the next few hours, but that man would never, ever admit it.

But hey, maybe the grilled cheese will be enough to pull him out from under the cloud of perceived shame. He's quiet for a while, having to concentrate on the food so it's not, y'know, terrible. When he comes back, there's two plates. Cut in triangles, of course. His was the first one cooked up, so it's a little on the rapid cooling side of things and not quite as stringily melty as it could be. But Sutton's? That's fresh on the plate. Crispy, almost golden, and when she bites it that cheese will stretch for miles.

At least, he hopes so. He's not bad at it, but he's no masterchef.

"Yuhuh. Protective." He explains, handing over her plate before slotting in beside her, sliding his own plate on to the table with a little case of the awkward fingers. He was holding his bottle beneath it. Gunner barely gives him a glance. The King must die. "Keeps in good juju, casts out bad juju. I believe it's pretty lax on average juju, though." Okay. Rearranged, the woman on his couch is thrown a smile, and he scoops up his plate to lean back against the couch, tapping the side of her foot with his before taking a testing bite.

"Oops." Spoilers. Uh. "Then pretend you heard none of that." Not that it'll ruin the amusing notes of the show. The romance-y bits are largely plot devices, as usual. "Logan has his moments." She sits there for a minute then turns her head. "You know what, when you're being a dick, you kinda remind me of him."

Sutton reaches up to touch his hip when he hands her a plate of fresh grilled cheese. "Thank you, babe. I have a carnal relationship with grilled cheese." She likes toast in general, eggy toast, cheese toast, bacon on toast, and sandwiches of all varieties. "I like good juju." That's not too weird, so she keeps the blanket across her lap. That might be serious does cross her mind. That's cool. She's easing into this supernatural shit.

Before she takes a bite of her grilled cheese, she shifts the blanket over, partly onto his lap. She takes a bite and stringy cheese stretches so fr she has to twirl a finger around it to catch it. She says something like 'this is the best' but it comes out all muffled, because her mouth is full.

"Oh." Carver's eyebrow goes up. It's a good combination with the small bit of cheese that hangs from his lower lip. He catches it with what remains of his first triangle. "Thanks?"

She told him not to lie to her. That was it. The one rule. The fact he's seen the show and the blanket was some thing that attracted his attention purely for how warm and cozy it was when he was thrift shopping? Those are the kindest he can manage. She's easing in to the supernatural shit. If a blanket with vague supernatural properties and being able to talk to him like he's an idiot about something he knows nothing about are two things he can conjure up to help her feel like she's got some sense of control? He'll take the yelling when she finds out.

Saying that, it's been an age and a half since he saw VM. A lot of the explanations will come in handy.

He shares in the blanket when it's offered, shifting a little along the couch. There's still distance between the two of them, but he's got himself a nice helping of blanket, and that's what counts. When she eats and talks? He laughs. He covers his mouth to stop a few crumbs escaping, but he laughs. "I am not going to fish in your breasts. Jesus."

"You know that wasn't what I said." Sutton doesn't seem to take offense at his tit pond reference, biting into her grilled cheese. Crunch. Crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle, gooey on the inside. "It's not easy," she says, after she swallows that bite. "To make a good grilled cheese without burning the second one off the pan." She looks over. "You, sir, are a grilled cheese master."

She watches him and then says, "Thanks for having me over." Another bite is had and she scoots a little, to lean against him while they watch VM introduce a bunch of bikers to her gorgeous Backup. "You're welcome." About Logan.

"I know. You know. Gunner knows."

Gunner's head pops up at the sound of his name. The King is dead. The King is a pillow now. All hail Gunner.

"But sometimes it's fun to imagine." Carver smiles her way, chewing on his own few bites while she espouses the virtues he's somehow managed to pull off. It must be luck. Or, knowing Carver, sheer stubbornness somehow defying the odds. That, or it's the fact that while he was moonlighting at various academic institutions in the continental US, he lived off of grilled cheese for about a year and a half. Carver used to be smaller when he lived in England, and he's not exactly a giant man now.

When she scoots in, he double-hands his plate to avoid spillage, watching the side of her head for a moment before turning his attention up to the TV.

There's a soft crunch before he speaks, a thumb wiping the crumbs from his lip as he points up at the screen. "So these have to be the good guys, right?"

"Gunner knows the King is Dead." Sutton replies, and doesn't make eye contact with said dog when his name prompts a look her way. He knows she has more bacon-flavored treats in her pocket. She takes another bite of her sandwich, savoring her way through the toasty bread and cheese, watching VM badass quip her way through new friendships and sleuthing.

These have to be the good guys? "Well." She takes another bite. "Sometimes." Sometimes yes, sometimes no. "It's a grey area really." It's always a grey area.

Carver lets out a little noise at her logic. A little surprised, a little inquisitive, a little muffled by grilled cheese. "Huh."

He chews thoughtfully. The lean he presses back against Sutton is one he doesn't consciously realize, even with the watchful eye of Gunner making him oddly aware of everything he's been doing lately. He chews some more.

"Smart."