2019-10-21 - Doctor, meet Drifter

The night is dark and full of monsters.

Carver's house isn't. The two story craftsman that makes up 13 Bayside road is well lit, with little solar lights finally having turned on to line the winding stone footpath up to the front porch of the property. Though the curtains are drawn, light from within bleeds through the material on both floors, casting a small line of foliage that sits below large bay windows in a dull glow.

Music, a little folky, largely acoustic can be heard the closer to the door one gets, as well as an accented shout of "Don't you DARE!" from somewhere within. Yup. Everything seems fine.

After getting the text that it was all clear there wasn't any waiting. Vivian could have waited until the next day, could have called first. Could have done a variety of different things.

But she does none of those things. Instead she turns up, relatively unannounced. Honesty she could probably have dressed down for this, but there is a good bet that she's still wearing what she was wearing at work perhaos, or she armed herself by wearing the grey tweed suit and black coat. When she over hears the shouting when she reaches the door there is a brief hesitation, then she reaches up to knock at the door.

Carver's in a bit of a stand-off right now, so it takes a little while for the door to open.

In fact, when the knock comes, he's halfway across his kitchen, fingers pointed directly at a deep black shadow with shockingly green eyes that sits atop the breakfast island, one paw hovering about an inch away from an empty bottle of root beer that sits precariously close to the edge. "I don't..." He starts, casting a quick glance towards the sound at the door before returning his gaze to the cat. "...negotiate with terrorists."

He takes one step backwards. The paw doesn't move. In fact, the cat shuffles backwards ever-so-slightly, head dropping as those eyes lock on the retreating man.

A few moments later, Carver opens the door. He's in the same clothes he was wearing earlier. White buttoned shirt cuffed at the wrists, deep black waistcoat, slacks, and a well-polished pair of shoes. He doesn't meet the sight of Vivian with any recollection whatsoever. She's there, appraised for a second in outfit and expression, and a hand drops to his hip as he asks "Hi. Can I help y-"

From the kitchen there's the unmistakable crash of a bottle hitting the hardwood floor and shattering.

Carver blinks. Just the once. Slowly. His lips thin, and he casts her a teeth-grit smile. "...Motherfucker."

Patience is a hallmark of someone in her profession. Vivian waits patiently, because it's clear that someone is actually home, so it is best to just wait until the screaming dies down.

By the time the door opens she is...exactly where she started. Not even any fidgeting seems to be going on. There is a quick flick of blue eyes over his shoulder, like she's expecting another person with the yelling. To find nothing. Literally, not even a hint of recognition.

"Dr. Glass."

"Personal name, company name or a suggestion?" Carver answers, turning his head slightly to look behind him when her's flick over his shoulder. "Because I think I could use the second. That bottle was a family heirloom." That bottle was on offer at Safeway.

"Also-" he adds once he's turned his head back, only a touch of curiosity on his expression. "Alexander gave you the all clear?"

"Personal. Doctor Vivian Glass." There is probably a middle name somewhere, but who really needs to know what that is, right?

Vivian tilts her head a moment before she makes a decision, and starts forward, "Do you have super glue anywhere around?" She wonders, clearly her decision is to force her way in under the guise of helping him to glue his precious family heirloom back together. Standing around at doors is an awkward proposition, after all. "Yes, Alexander said that you were fine with my coming by."

Carver steps back to let her in as she steps forward, closing the door behind her and heading off to the kitchen as if she's not a complete stranger. Well, she's not. They've met. But that was a while ago, and certainly wasn't a 'Drop by, come on in for a cup of tea' style meeting. "I've a dustpan and a bin. That'll do."

The void that is a cat is nowhere to be seen. There's only evidence of foul motives and the murder of a poor innocent bottle to show she was ever there to start with. At least the guy already has a dustpan and brush ready and waiting. "You had questions, or some such?" The bottle fell kitchen side, so she's nodded towards one of the stools that lines the breakfast island.

"I did, yes..." Vivian replies with a nod, sliding her coat off and folding it over one arm as she takes a stool indicated, her other hand unbuttoning the button on her jacket. "I'd like to say that my motives are pure and innocent, but I figure that I'll be open and up front with you, Mister Carver."

That black coat is folded across her lap, and her hands settle on it, "You remember our first meeting?" Important questions are clearly needed answered before she goes further, however.

"Never met a person with pure and innocent motives I could trust." Carver's tone seems pretty sincere about that, brushing the glass up in to the pan for a moment, voice muffled slightly by the counter between them before he's standing up, shaking the pan to make sure all the shards settle at the back, then pouring the load of it in to a waste bin inside one of the kitchen cupboards. Once that's done and the pan is placed aside, he heads on over to the refrigerator, watching the good Doctor's motions as they draw a few glances aside.

"Pawn shop loft. You got thrown a set of car keys and killed the next unfortunate person to cross your gaze with the daggers your eyes were throwing."

"Afraid there was no murder, but I did allow Mister Clayton to drive the Wraith for ice cream." Vivian shakes her head a fraction, shoulders tensing for a split second before she forces herself to relax, a faint smile offered, "But, yes, that would be the moment in time."

Which, eventually, after a second of thought, brings her to at least part of what her purpose for being here is, "I was curious about why Byron Thorne seems to hate you."

Pulling open the door, Carver pulls a fresh, unbroken bottle from inside, letting it hang by the neck from the tips of his fingers as he turns to catch the brief flash of tension. Noted for later. "Surprised you didn't just head down to California, but to each their own."

The bottle goes to rest on the counter, the door left open as he lingers, grimacing for just a moment at the face he's quickly running out of drinks. "I woke up one morning, decided to come to Grey Harbor for shits and giggles, and my first stop was to piss in his cereal." He answers as if it's undeniable fact.

"Drink?"

"At the time I had very high hopes that it was just a momentary thing, and that we'd work it out." Vivian replies thoughtfully, her thumb absently starting to tap against her other hand, "It never really got mentioned, and as you can see..." She then pauses, the laughs faintly, "Well, maybe you can't see. But I believe the term is I hitched myself to the wrong wagon, and now I'm stuck?"

At the offer of a drink she nods, "Whiskey if you've got it, otherwise I'm just fine." She doesn't wait for him to sort out the drink situation, however, because reason number two has to be addressed, "You seem to be a man that knows things, from what I've been able to piece together. I'm looking to get a very specific handle on a few things, if you could perhaps lend a hand? I'll understand if you'd rather not, and if not I'll thank you for your time and get out of your way."

Out of curiosity, Carver checks the freezer compartment. Yup. Bottle of Vodka. Right there. The booze fairy made a visit at some point. And drank half of it.

But she asked for Whiskey, and by god does he have that. It's stored in a kitchen cupboard behind the cereal boxes, but he has it. Pulling down the bottle, a glass comes from a separate cupboard, and they're both slid slightly across the island top to her before he returns to his own bottle, leaning up against the edge of the fridge as he breaks off the cap with a soft hiss. "Depends on what you want to know."

Oh yeah. He's not touching the Byron thing with a 400ft pole. Walls have ears. His fridge has ears. The cat has ears. Where the fuck is the cat?

Carver sips.

"Thank you."

Evidently the Byron thing seems to be over for the moment, because she's not back tracking to that topic. Which either proves that she's more of an adult that she really should be in these situations, or she's gotten the only answer she felt she could hope for. When he slides the glass and the bottle over she reaches for it, absently turning the bottle to check the label before she fills the glass up over half-way.

"That is a complicated answer, Mister Carver. The honest answer? Everything. I'm tired of feeling like I'm operating with only half the knowledge I should have, and continuously failing and fumbling due to it." She sets the bottle back down, pushing it back towards him before she picks up her glass, "I can compensate you for your time if you're willing to play teacher. But I'm going to find answers to all this one way or another."

Carver winces as he lowers the bottle from his lips. He's been doing a lot of both of those things lately. Especially today. The fact it's the first time in a week and a half he's had visitors might have something to do with it, but that's probably a coincidence. Everything. That's... that's a topic and a half. Could take a while. Where should he start?

As for the Whiskey? Not a cheap bottle. Not exactly expensive, either, but you'd have to pull it down from a top shelf if you were visiting a liquor store. Of course, it can also be bought in a liquor store and isn't kept behind the counter.

His fingers drum along the neck of the bottle for a moment, and then he rolls his eyes. It only lasts a second, but it was definitely there. "Okay, in the beginning, there was nothing, then there was a lot of things. Ants are assholes. The Christian Clergy in Iceland often use tithing as a form of monetary income, Owen Wilson's favorite childhood activity was to throw spiders at dogs and shrimp exist."

He sips once more, watching her face. "Be specific, Dr. Glass."

"Specific." Vivian doesn't look too resigned to having to sort out what specifies she might want to ask, but she doesn't look excited about it either. Instead she lifts the glass up to take a more than generous swallow before she sets the glass down, clearing her throat before she nods, a hand raising to absently slide her thumb beneath her eye. Very much like she's checking her make-up, but probably just buying herself a few extra seconds.

"Specific. Do you want a list?" Vivian then lifts that hand up, forestalling any response to the question. "When I came here I didn't know any of this exists, Mister Carver. Not this other world, these Dreams, zombies, ghosts, possessed rings...none of this. Let alone these powers that seem to be part and parcel to it all. I've barely begun to scratch the surface about any of it, and most is what I hear in the middle of chaos and crisis. So specifics? Let's start with what you can tell me about Dreams, and then go down the rest of it with this other side and whoever Them is next."

There is a half-second pause before she adds, "And I'm aware that your answers might simply be your opinions and observations, same as anyone else's I've been able to get answers from. Assuming you can answer this."

"Ever stand in front of a mirror in a darkened room, but with just enough light to see your reflection?" Carver starts, instantly. He doesn't really move away from the refrigerator, but his posture shifts slightly. His shoulders pull away, crossing his arms over his chest when he's not taking sips from his bottle. "Giovanni Caputo did a study on it for a while. A combination of how our brain starts to divert attention away from a static image after a while without us knowing about it and our natural love of seeing faces in everything has this bewildering effect that means after a few minutes, people don't recognize the reflection staring back at them. It's still them. They know it's them."

It's a slow, slow sip he takes this time, watching her expression the entire time he talks. "But in all fifty of the small trial case, every single one of them had a distinct emotional form of disassociation."

The burp is covered. Barely.

"Dreams are our reality experiencing the same thing. Same. But different. Us, but not. There are still people trying to get by on the day to day. There are still animals hunting animals. There's still a food chain. Economy. Life cycle. I asked a creature less than a foot tall that eats rocks for sustenance and enjoyment to keep an eye out for people asking about me. Might seem weird. You think it has any idea what the fuck 'Instagram' is?"

"Pareidolia." Vivian promptly supplies in regards to the tendency to see faces in things, but she doesn't otherwise add anything else to what he's saying beyond the slight tug inwards of her brows as she focuses on what he's saying.

She listens, for a living in fact. But there is a weight to her focus at this moment, every fiber of her being is present, alert, listening. Despite the alcohol, despite the long day, and even longer few weeks. Never has she been more focused than in this one moment, at least not in any recent moment.

"I imagine that it doesn't, nor would it care." Vivian has nothing really to back this up, though, just a feeling. "So..." She trails off, trying to formulate her thoughts into some sort of intelligent response. "The Dreams, then, are a...disassociation then? A reflection? I feel a rather silly urge to quote Nietzsche."

"Fuck no." Carver actually has to pause mid-sip to refute that point. It looks a little awkward, but he soldiers on regardless. He does, at least, add a shrug to it. Just to take the edge off. "Just the easiest way I found to explain it. I'm taking it you're a shrink by the Nietzsche urge, or a masochist, so you probably know already how we have a tendency to let our minds linger hard on negatives."

While he's rambling, Carver really can't help but note this is a conversation that should be had over pizza, and his mind drifts towards the pizza box that sits, folded and empty, in a bin beneath a kitchen counter. It's possible he regrets wolfing it down.

"-And as I was saying to Mr. Clayton, when all you meet are arseholes, you tend to assume everyone is an arsehole. Thing is, can you say our side is filled with any less? Fewer?" He blinks. "You know what I mean. Look at it from both sides. People keep falling through the gaps, from here to there, there to here. You get scared. They get scared. You feel threatened, they feel threatened. They try to eat you, some motherfucker in a suit throws lightning. The Dreams aren't anything. They're just a vacation spot with freedom-of-movement visas and weird customs."

As an answer to the comment there is a business card produced from the pocket of her jacket, placed on the island and pushed in his direction. It serves two purposes, both the validation of her profession, and a phone number.

There is a slow consideration for the rest, then she shakes her head, "No, there is always going to be a mix of types....and of course you're going to start expecting negative ones when that's all you're faced with. But..." She pulls her coat off her lap, moving to set it over a stool next to her before she leans forward, "They are actually nothing? I find that to be a concept that is harder to grasp that they aren't anything at all. Why aren't they every where, then? Or why is here more of them. There's got to be some reason behind it....and I'll easily accept that everything over there isn't automatically bad. Same as I'll accept that of those here."

There is a brief pause, then she carefully adds, "Not that I've had a single positive experience over there, but my sample size is rather small. So I'm willing to take your word on that." She reaches for her drink once more, lifting it up to carefully take a sip from it before she sets it down, "So you say that people are falling through the gaps...is every Dream just us walking through a door into a dark room instead of one with the lights on?"

Carver shrugs. He's good at shrugging. He makes even the largest ones look almost effortless. Effortless enough that he can cast a glance at the business card even while he's in the midst of the motion. "You keep asking me sixteen questions in a row and the answers you get are going to be disappointing and vague."

The noise the bottle makes when it's placed down on the island is soft, and it takes the man a few steps to get close enough to do so. Bubbles roll up the inside from the slight impact nonetheless. "But to answer your last one? I've had plenty of Dreams that were fine. Relaxing, even. Had one last night, woke up this morning, walked through the door in my basement into that place's version of downtown and made sure to pay my little buddy a couple chunks of basalt for their hard work."

The nail on his forefinger flicks the neck of the bottle. The 'Ting' is hollow, and fades as soon as his hand grasps around the neck once more.

"You ask me? I figure folks around here have a real need to be punished for something. The fear in this place is thick enough you can sometimes taste it, and I don't think nearly as much of it comes from the other side as folks are assuming."

There is a brief flash of apology when he mentions all the questions, but she keeps any questions to herself for the time being. The nails of her thumbs start to scratch lightly at the glass in her hands, eyes focusing on the whiskey that is still in her glass.

"Self-punishment." Vivian murmurs after a moment, expression thoughtful, "A residual need?" She glances up, shaking her head at the rhetorical question. "Alright, so the quality of the dreams people are having here is a product of the environment, their idea that they need to be punished. I can...see how that could be, and it could even be unconsciously taught through generations. Stories like the bogey man coming to punish you if you misbehave being a blatant example of that, and if the bogey man turns out to be real?"

The glass gets lifted upwards in a silent salute before she downs the rest of it, setting it back down and pushing it away from her, "So the question becomes, for me, is can that need be changed? Can the...feelings that pervade the town be altered, and if so...should it?" She shakes her head at him, offering an apologetic smile, "I don't expect you to have answers to that Mister Carver. I'm just talking out loud."

"The bogeyman is real, Dr. Glass." Carver might have winked. Might be the whiskey.

"Clocks in, clocks out. His shift's a killer and leaves him lousy when it comes to poker nights." He brings the bottle up to his mouth, returning the salute and leaving it up in the air as to whether or not he's taking her on a little flight of fancy or telling the truth about where he was last Saturday.

"And good. Because I don't. What I do know is the concentration of people with fancy tricks in this place is higher than most, they're careless and overzealous with the use of it, and if this place didn't have holes punched in it already, it sure as fuck does now. Gray Harbor might be a town with hidden and open sins and a populace that oh-so-very desires punishment, but with how some things like to feed on the other side of the curtain? It wouldn't matter. Someone put up neon lights and a menu, and the customers have come running."

"No putting things back in the box now, hmm?" Vivian questions with the faintest of resigned sighs, then she tilts her head, "I've a curious question. If you kill someone on the other side, someone who had been spending a significant portion of their lives there....would they die and vanish like normal, or would they linger? Is there a higher probability of life after death in some form, be it ephemeral or....rotting."

Totally a normal question. Totally.

Vivian reaches for the bottle again, but she doesn't pour herself another glass, instead she rolls it back and forth between her fingers for a moment, expression thoughtful, "Would you suggest the use of these powers, these tricks, responsible use, or just no use ever at all?"

Carver shrugs. It's a little over-cooked this time, too much effort placed in making sure attention would be drawn away from his face. But he knows. He knows he went a little too hard on the motion, and has no other choice but to follow up with a sigh. "Honestly? I have no idea. I don't know if ghosts, zombies, whatever are actually any semblance of what they used to be, or just that side coalescing into something out of their memories. I thought I had a ghost for twenty years. Turned out to be something using my memories of them to make it up as they went along."

Totally a normal response. Totally. The sip's totally normal, too.

The slight smile? That... that actually is. "Can you imagine that, though? What it was like? The barest notion of existing. Just... energy and intent waiting for something to happen and then suddenly BAM. You've got memories, and a body, and ideas."

The Glimmer remark? That gets some contemplation for a while. A few more sips. A slight worrying of his thumbnail with the pad of his forefinger, and then: "Would you suggest, standing in front of a sleeping lion, chicken wire fence separating you from it, quickly waving a steak only when you need to bat away a wasp and have nothing else to hand, or letting the wasp sting you while the smell of the steak hidden under your shirt drifts through that fence anyway?"

His final sip turns in to a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once the bottle's placed upon the table, now empty. "Or, y'know, fuck it and do what half this town does and try and break down the fence with the steak. The fuck could go wrong with that?"

"I'd suggest not fucking with a lion." Vivian replies with a slightly upwards twitch of her brow, "But put in a position that I had to stand in front of the lion, I'd take the wasp sting me while I threw the steak at the lion and tried to put some distance between myself and it."

Which, then she shrugs, "But clearly I don't actually throw the steak and run, otherwise I'd be in California already. Which people keep telling me that I should leave, it's starting to make me feel unwanted." A second glass is poured, though this time it is smaller than the first one, and is knocked back in one go.

"The first law of thermodynamics states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, just changed and transferred. So, if that law is true, and we are nothing but energy, then..." She shrugs, an echo of his earlier casual one, "Then it seems to me that it is possible that the energy from when we die transfers, and perhaps life as we understand it does not continue, but a close approximation is possible. That energy used by an outside force to fake it."

"Not a bad plan. I lost my little gifts for a good long while and honestly? Most things just mocked me for it. There was far less attempts at eating than I was used to." Sure, Carver. Ignore that there were plenty of cases of court trials, attempted beheadings, and general assholishness all the same. Whaddya know, turns out the guy might be an optimist after all.

"Oh."

That thought comes as he's discarding the bottle in to the trash, which just so happens to coincide with Vivian's contemplation on thermodynamics and a possible 'after life'. It also comes with an immediate head shake. "Naw. My friend died. She was gone. Kaput. The energy that went into coalescing the thing pretending to be a ghost? That came from me. Electricity from the hands, start fires with my brain? Couldn't do that nonsense for twenty years, as all of that potential went into holding a ramshackle bundle of thoughts and energy into a single being. That first law of yours requires a closed system. Our universe is, sure. That one? I have my doubts."

"What about William Gohl?" Vivian wonders, a slight tilt to her head, "Multiple peoples energies feeding...something dancing around as Billy, causing chaos and killing people? Something different?" She rests her elbows on the island, her chin tucking into her hands as she watches him, that thoughtful expression seeming to remain.

"He was in the Asylum, and They had a purpose for him. If I remember what Dr. Marshall said correctly, though, they were unhappy that he died before they were finished with him." She points at that, "Which reminds me. Dr. Marshall was responsible for committing individuals to the Asylum recently, but wasn't the first in charge....and I saw him die over there. Then I met him again as a talking corpse...I even held his rotting legs to put them in the trunk of his sentient car."

"Gohl was just a dick."

Carver seems content with that explanation, leaning back against the fridge, wringing his hands clean of the condensation that settled there from his bottle. "A ghost. Tormented, sure, but a ghost. I'd raise some concerns about that seance I asked around about, but nobody died, so everyone got off light. Hauntings can be... Intense when there's actual intent behind it other than bemoaning one's fate. I figure he saw an opportunity and ran with it."

As for the Asylum talk, that has him listening. Intently. His eyes even narrow a little. "'Over there' at the asylum, or 'over there' in another place?"

The mention of the seance causes her to shrug faintly, "I wasn't involved in it, I'm afraid."

But that doesn't mean that she doesn't actually have answers regarding the rest, her fingers lacing together before she settles her chin on them, "I met Dr. Marshall at his office in the hospital, here. I went to someone else's office and instead walked into his...we spoke of the Asylum, I was looking for information for someone else at the time." She weighs the rest of her words for a moment before forging on ahead, "I attempted to convince the good doctor that I wanted to assist him with his work at the Asylum in the hopes that he'd bring me to it, and I could find out if the person in question was actually there. Then mention of Gohl came up, and that's how we found out who the skeleton belonged to...and that they had a plan. He was a patient from before Marshall's taking over of the Asylum...At that point something killed him. I never saw anything."

She lets that sink in for a moment, waiting a few moments before finishing the story, "Easton Marshall, Dr. Marshall's nephew, myself and one other then went back over....through a waiting room over there, and then to Marshall's office where he was still behind the desk just as he was when I left him. Only awake, while rotting."

"Neat." Carver nods, checking his nails for a moment or two. He may seem distracted, or disinterested, but by the way his eyes glance over every so often as she talks, there's definitely a sense that every word is slowly being taken in. Especially when Easton's name comes up. "Question. Did he have a bowl of candies at his desk?"

Okay, so maybe he's not paying attention. Or this is something he always has to ask. Sometimes it's better not to question Carver logic. He can make about as much sense as the Dreams do.

"There were pictures on his desk." Vivian replies after a moment, her eyes closing as she thinks back to that moment, "It looked like a normal office, but something felt off...and the faces in the pictures were blurry. You couldn't focus on them." She then slowly opens her eyes so that she can look towards him once more, "But I don't recall a bowl of candy on the desk. I remember he smelled like cigarettes and rum when he was still alive, and was friendly."

There is a moment where she seems to reconsider the next part, but follows through with it after all, "When we found him dead, he was putrefying. Flies were everywhere, his legs fell off, and he lost an eye, I believe. I don't really recall many of the details of which parts did what, I'm afraid."

Carver doesn't say a word. Not a one. Instead, the look she gets from him the instant she's mentioned faces in pictures being blurry? That's one hell of a look to open your eyes to. It says everything he doesn't have to. How his answers to her questions started. Well, after the joke.

Maybe, just maybe, Carver knows what he's talking about.

"Always sucks when they fall off. Shame he had to die legless, half blind and surrounded by insects."

There's a bit of a long pause from him after that. As if he's considering something important in what he just said. Or what she just said. That, or he's scanning the shadows to see if any of them suddenly start showing green eyes in the darkne-"Goddamnit. I need a smoke now."

"I think the legs fell off after, when we started to wheel him to his car." Vivian shakes her head very faintly, "He had his legs when I first met him...that much I remember." She straightens up, however, her hands dropping from where she'd been sitting with her chin tucked onto them, "He said that he'd take me to the asylum."

Them. Take them. Maybe? Vivian shakes her head faintly, "Or me and Easton. It was rather blurry at that point, but something about the eleventh? Eleven seemed to be important. And if you want to smoke it doesn't bother me."

"Nah, it's not that. I'm supposed to be quitting. I mentioned the word emphysema once and now the roommate won't stop bringing it up." Carver mutters. Well, she brought it up ONCE, but there was a tone behind it. Even if it was a text message. Never question a paramedic. Unless there's vodka in your freezer and a cat to distract the warpath.

His hands clap together, and the guy pulls himself away from the fridge. From his lean. His back arches as there's a small little stretching out, and he eyes the bottle of whiskey for a moment. "Sounds to me like your trip to the asylum will have more answers than I do. Or less. Or maybe the same amount." One eye, his left, closes a little in a subconscious twitch. It can happen when you think about this stuff too hard. "Don't eat anything, don't bring anything back with you that you're not certain the provenance of, if this means you have to leave a diary or something behind, so be it, get a better memory."

From upstairs, there's a sudden but timely yowl and the sound of something falling off of a dresser to a carpeted floor.

Carver's eyes settle on the woman at his counter. "And don't bring back a pet."

"I can write you a prescription for Chantrix if you really want to quit." Vivian offers without a thought for that, "Nor will I bring anything back, again. I've learned my lesson there, and I like to think that I've an excellent memory."

The mention of a pet, though, causes her to look upwards before she shakes her head, "And no pets. Nor eat anything...I remember that from Pans Labyrinth, do not eat." There are plenty more things with that warning in it, though, all equally possible that is where she picked up that advice before.

Perhaps taking it as a hint though, the cat, the seeming end of the conversation, she starts to her feet, "I appreciate your willingness to speak with me, Mister Carver. You're not nearly the terrible person Byron always made you out to be."

"Just to point out, you find a cat? Probably okay. Those little bastards live between the two places anyway." Which might explain why Carver's green-eyed shadow keeps disappearing. That or the lighting in this house wasn't best planned out when it was built. Maybe a combination of the two.

"I learned early on enough that it's generally like walking into a fine china store when you have a total of sixty-three cents in your bank account. Looking is fine, touching is dangerous, fleeing out the door with something under your coat usually has repercussions. But if there's a bottle of bourbon just hanging around waiting?" Oh, that shrug. It's back. "Obviously shouldn't have been there in the first place and you're doing them a favour by drinking it."

When she starts to her feet, he starts for the bottle, reaching out to scoop it by the neck and the glass between a couple of fingers at the rim, giving a soft nod her way. "Pleasure meeting you for the second time, Dr. Glass. And don't let me fool you. I am a terrible person. Just for none of the reasons he thinks."

There is the very slowest smile at that, "You'll understand if I throw caution to the wind and say I don't give two fucks if you are or aren't, won't you?"

Vivian reaches out for her coat, picking it up to start sliding it back on, giving it a quick shake to knock out any wrinkles that had started to form due to it laying there on the other stool, or her own lap earlier. "I do appreciate all of this, and I'd be curious to know if I could contact you again if I find I have further questions?"

Carver lets his hands rest on his hips for a moment, taking a deeper breath than is really necessary once the bottle and glass have been put away and into the sink, respectively. It's a somewhat proud expression he wears, glancing up towards the ceiling for just a moment. "I get this warm, fuzzy feeling knowing i'm pissing off someone with more money than me just by existing."

He drops the pose when she asks her question, crossing through the kitchen and towards the living room and front door. He's not shoving her out, but it's a slow, unneeded guidance to at least be polite on the way. "You've my number. Can't promise I'll respond, but feel free to ask whenever you feel you need to. Signal can be..." He makes a little apologetic face. "'Spotty' when I'm out and about."

When he starts towards the living room, and the door, she follows along behind him, reaching into the pocket of her coat to pull out a pair of black kid skin gloves, "Sadly, I doubt it'll piss him off as much now as it would have if we were dating still. But do continue your friendship with Miss Winslow, he's hitched his pony to that wagon now."

Vivian tugs those gloves on as she pauses at the door, giving him a steady look for a moment before she nods, "I'll remember that, and not that I imagine you'll have need of it any time soon, you're welcome to reach out to me for anything that you might need as well."

Carver's mouth opens. Then closes. Embrace this moment, Dr. Glass, for it is one where Carver considered the feelings of someone other than himself and shut the fuck up.

"Thank you for the offer, Dr. Glass." He nods, opening the door for her and pointedly ignoring the black mass of fur that slinks in from outside only to disappear beneath one of the couches. He doesn't ask, the cat doesn't tell. It's a good arrangement. "But I'm pretty sure I'm too far gone for aid at this point. One day, that might actually frighten me."

His smile is easy. His smile is so often easy. They say ten thousand hours of practice can make you a master. "Feel free to call or message any time, as I said. And do have a safe journey home."

"Good night, Mister Carver." Vivian replies, then gets out the keys to her car and makes her exit, heading down to where she parked her sleek grey Aston Martin, utterly unaware of how rare that moment actually was.