2019-11-10 - Late Night Arrival

Quietly, the key hits the lock at 13 Bayside around 2 in the morning on the 10th, and Sutton pushes inside wearing a slightly large-on-her SFPD tee, the one with the little stain of white paint on the hip, a pair of jeans so old they're soft, though full of distressed areas and missing the knees, and a pair of flip flops. Normally, that's a fine ensemble. Tonight, with the drizzle and the temperature, it's a poor decision. In one hand: an open bottle of red wine, cork gone missing somewhere on Bayside Road. In the other: a box of stale macarons from Vydal's place. She's still eating one as she comes in and kicks the door lightly closed behind her. She leans against it, takes a slug of wine, expensive wine, and stands there enjoying the heat of the interior. It only started raining again when she was most of the way down Bayside. She shoves half of a macaron into her mouth. "These are so stale."

May it be fortunate or unfortunate timing, Sutton will never know.

But scant seconds after she complains about the staleness of her macarons, Carver swings open the door to the main bedroom before backing out through it on to the landing, dressed in, it has to be said, the quaintest pair of PJ's she's possibly ever seen. Blue and white striped, full length, full sleeve cotton outfit, with buttons that run down the full front of the shirt. His hair, growing out slightly, falls across his forehead as he tucks an arm behind his back, the other hand holding an outstretched piece of plastic with yellow feathers on the end of it, fencing at what appears to be thin air at roughly shin height.

"You will NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, FOULEST CUR!" He yells, stage theatricality eminating from every pore in his body as he takes quick, hopping backsteps away from the ball of black fur and claws that's giving as good as she's getting in this makeshift duel, yowling and batting at the feathery end of her new toy with an almost unsettling focus in those bright green eyes.

They both notice Sutton at the same moment. Carver's head turns to look at her, the cat toy dropping to his side as a few deep breaths show that yes, he was actually giving it his all. Hope peers at her through the slats in the railing, which, looking closely, she could totally fit through if she so wanted to.

"Hey, Sweetheart?" His tone is one of caution. The wine, the outfit, the weather. They're usually not the best sign. "Are you oka-AUGH."

His concern is interrupted by Hope's leap to snatch the toy from his hand, using his thigh as a rebound point for her hind legs (and claws) to spring away before she leaves the mystery of whether or not she can fit through the slats of the railing to be discovered another day. Instead, just for a second, she balances atop the railing, feathery stick dangling from her mouth before she just drops to the couch that is at least twelve feet below and a good four feet off to one side, landing like it's the most casual move in the world before hopping down to the floor, padding her way over to Sutton, and jabbing her in the leg with the feathery end.

Carver rubs his thigh, hissing a slight intake of air.

Sutton shoves another macaron into her mouth despite the staleness. She's half in the bottle, so it's not like she staleness ruins it for her. She's putting some food down there, sort of. Does sugar count? "These still taste good, but I bet they taste way better fresh." Obviously. She's muttering to herself as she steps into the living room, and looks up the stairs to the landing... to see that.

She's looking at them both when they look at her, the cat then the Englishman. So she sees the foul treachery before Carver feels it. Hope's a sneaky little girl, isn't she?

Every time she interrupts their antics, Carver eats some claws for it. "Hello, baby. Hello, hello." She grins and reaches down to drunkenly swipe for the end of the toy. She's not drunk, really. Just a little bit buzzed. Wooooo. Half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, bitchesssss. Sutton reaches over and scritches Hope's head. "Yes, you little demon. So sweet." She pads in further to go drop onto the couch. "How's your leg?" She's asking if he's bleeding, but without so many words.

Hope, multiple times, pulls the toy away just as Sutton is about to catch it with her fingertips, and Carver can't help but note even as he's furiously rubbing to get the sting to fade from his thigh that that is totally not the right way around.

But, when Sutton grows bored of the game, Hope's more than content to follow, letting out a hiss full of threat that quickly descends into a quiet purr and a lick of her chops before she's taking the risk of weaving figure-eights between a half-bottle-Sutton's legs en-route to the couch, hopping up beside her to take up an adjacent cushion. There's no contact, just proximity, with the toy left discarded over by the door for Carver to pick up when he passes after descending the stairs, placing it on the mail/junk item table that sits next to the door.

"No worse than my back after this morning." Carver replies to her question, running a hand through his hair to pull it from his forehead as he drops to the couch on the opposite side of Hope, unintentionally mimicking the pose of adjacent, but not quite touching. "Forgot to feed her. Obviously I haven't settled in to her routine well enough yet."

Said so casually. Like this isn't an odd occurrence at all. Like Sutton so very often turns up at 2AM, half in the bott-

"What happened?" He says, looking pretty intently at the TV in front of the two of them, the black dimmed reflection from the switched-off screen showing the room in a half-light.

For fuck's sake, Carver.

"Stop fucking with me cat," comes Sutton's tolerant reply without a move to nudge the cat away. She lets Hope do what Hope's gonna do without fucking with her. She also doesn't reach for the cat, but she does toss her macaron box down on the coffee table. She ate two. That's enough food, right? Sure. "Maybe you should try trimming her claws." The blonde glances over, reaching across to put her wine bottle down with a thump! She leaves that on the coffee table next to the macarons.

"You shouldn't a pussycat walk all over you, love. Peroxide helps keep those from getting infected." She smirks a little and reminds him, "You don't feed the ladies, the ladies take it out on you."

Sutton doesn't answer him right away, like it's normal she walked in to find him reenacting a scene from a crap pirate movie with his cranky ass black cat. "I was trying to get laid and Javier decided it was a good time to tell me he maybe has an adult kid my age. His grip kept tightening on my arm like he wasn't gonna let go. There was more, but I think he's too busy fucking his way through everyone we know to get his shit in order, find out if this girl is his kid or not, and stop snorting enough cocaine to drop a footie team." She glances over at the dark tv.

"And then he asked me to move in with him. When his house is built." When his house is built. "I'm suicidal and high, move in with me while I figure out if my daughter, whom you could have gone to high school with, is my daughter. Like do you ever use a bloody condom."

She's quiet for two heartbeats, and then she's folding up out of her slouch to snatch for the wine bottle on the coffee table. Come to mama. Mama is still mad.

Carver considers this for a moment.

Well, considers that. All of that. If directly questioned, he couldn't tell you what he was expecting her answer to be. He's sit there for a moment, mouth half-open, tilting his head from side to side while he let out little 'Ah, well, you see, It's really a case of, but you can't forget to allow for-'s to buy him time to find some other words to say in place of 'Not fucking THAT.'

In fact, his head is tilting from side to side, mouth half open as if to respond when Sutton reaches for the wine bottle. His hand goes out too, but distraction and the fact that she's always been faster than him, and probably always will be unless it's a dead sprint away from something means there was only ever to be one outcome. His fingers whiff, her's don't.

"You're welcome to try." He settles on, bringing his hands back to his lap and glancing at her through the ultimate in side-eye, like looking directly at her will summon the wrath she may so desperately wish to rain down on some appropriate target. "...The claw trimming thing. God have mercy on you."

One of the charms (ha) of Sutton is that you just never know what's going to come out of her mouth. Sometimes it's hilarious and sometimes it's horrifying. Sometimes she should really edit before she speaks, but, you know. Half a bottle of wine (and two stale macarons!) Probably Carver didn't need to know she was in bed when all that went down.

She glances over like she's gonna say something about his reach for the bottle. She grunts something and brings the bottle to her lips. She tips the bottle up and takes a couple of sips. "Claw trimming is a two person job. One holds them, the other trims them. You speak softly and clip, clip, clip." You can see it, can't you? You can see how it's going to go? Sutton's going to try to convince Carver to drunkenly trim the kitty claws, and they're gonna go for it, and then one of both of them is going to end up in the hospital. All the horror unfolding so simply.

"Sorry about all the information. I know some of that was TMI." Some of that?

To Trim The Kitty, One Must First Catch The Kitty.

It's this little proverb that has Carver feeling somewhat safe that no matter how the night unfolds, Hope would rather leap off the rear balcony and take her chances with the bluff below than allow herself to be picked up after not one, but two people have mentioned the t-r-i-m-m-i-n-g word. He doesn't look safe or relieved, though. In fact, he looks a little tired. Or maybe concerned. Hell, it might just be gassy.

He lends a little more weight on that last option when he leans deep and heavy back into the couch, tilting his head back to rest against the top of the padded backing and letting his eyes roll up to the ceiling, taking a moment to both regret the fact he stopped smoking a short while back, and appreciate the fact that at least she only took a few sips.

At an honest loss for what else to say about any of this, Sutton gets a very, very soft touch. From the palm of his hand. To the side of her face. It's not a cheek caress, nor back of a knuckle running along her jaw. No. It's the palm of his hand, fingers splayed, casually pressing in on the side of her head like he's leaning against a very close wall. "The fuck."

He blinks.

"You want golden girls or kung-fu marathon?"

Sutton hasn't given this much thought to the kitty. She should, considering it seems to like to sit nearby. She takes another drink from the bottle, gestures with it slightly. She thinks about it, then takes a longer pull on the bottle. That's about half a glass again down. She leans over to thump the bottle down again, heavy glass cracking a little hard against the table. Nothing shatters. Might be a scratch though.

She turns her head into the touch of his palm, looking over. She watches him for a couple of beats after he speaks. "Yeah, right?" She smells a little like wine. She sinks a little more into the couch.

"Fuck. I don't know. Kung fu. And a grilled cheese." She pauses. "Can we make some grilled cheese?"

Sticking the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, Carver scrunches up his face in exertion as his hand leaves her face with only the slightest joking push to undertake the un-envious task of 'rummaging around in the couch cushions for wherever the fuck the remote went.' "Kung fu it is." He mutters a moment later, finding the damn thing with nary a wince towards the possible damage she's just done to either the bottle or his table.

Then he has to pull himself up from the couch. Sutton. Sutton. Carver has to pull himself up from the couch. Why. Why did you do this he'd just sat down.

At least that's what his body language says, moving with all of the grace of someone twice his age and three times his arthritis, hitting the power button on the remote before it's tucked into the pocket of his PJ's pants, running the now free hand along his jaw before offering it out to her with a casual, if slightly exasperated look. "We can make grilled cheese. We. If I leave you here you're going to try and hug my cat and that bottle will have vanished. Up you get, pet."

Sutton is always asking for things just as someone's sat down. Wait till she's like it's too cold in here, can you go and close the door? right when you're about to fall asleep. It's what she does. She's that person. Just wait.

She presses her lips together when he reaches for her and makes that assertion about his cat and the bottle. Both of those things are one hundred percent true. One. Hundred. Percent. "Ugh. Fine." Ughhhhh fiiiiiine. She takes his hand and shoves off with the other, leaving the cat with the couch and the toy, the wine bottle on the table. She heaves up to stand, and shuffles closer to Carver, sliding her arms around him in a hug. Yep, smells like wine. "Thanks, love." She sniffs. "I like grilled cheese so much."

It's funny that she went in for a hug, because his arms lift right as she's going for it almost like he was trying to do the same thing himself. Just like that, she's embraced by (remarkably soft, thank you) PJ sleeves, his hand making sure she's got the full-cheek-to-chest hug going on even if it means she's got his fingers up in her hair. She's got his face up in her hair after a moment, too.

Hope yawns.

"Grilled cheese is so good. So, so good." He nods, even if it's a little hampered by her head. "And we can actually talk about all of that what the fuck whenever you like, but this is gonna be the last time I mention it without you bringing it up. Okay?"

He sniffs. Yep. Smells like wine.

"And we're getting you a different drink."

"You look like Paddington Bear." He looks nothing like Paddington Bear. Except she had a Paddington Bear when she was a kid, and Eli totally set it on fire, and the pajamas her mom sewed for it to replace his little coat outfit looked exactly like the striped PJs Carver is wearing right now. She says this against his shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around the Englishman. She squeezes. Squeeze.

"Don't wanna talk about what the fuck. Wanna think about what the fuck and watch some sweaty assholes get the crap fake-kicked out of them and eat grilled cheese and talk about your day." Sutton says all this, though there's a chance the first part is a little muffled. "I mean if you wanna talk about your day. If you don't, that's fine too. Can I stay here?" She huffs out a breath.

"S'wrong with my drink? S'good wine."

"I look nothing like Paddington Bear." Carver mutters, squeezing right back as his hand withdraws to simply stroke the back of her head. "And let's go make grilled cheese and you can think about what the fuck while watching some sweaty assholes get the crap fake kicked out of them." He gives a little upturn of his head towards the kitchen, not breaking the hug, but definitely easing off to let her lead the way if she actually chooses to break it. "You can stay here if you let me make you a cup of tea."

Is what he says. What it sounds like is 'You can stay here no matter what but I am going to TRY and do the tiniest little step about your go-to-coping-method of alcoholism to feel better about myself.'

"It's mostly fake crap kicking," Sutton reminds him. "Except sometimes, oops, the stunt guys fuck up an crack each other one." Sutton sniffs a the Paddington Bear rejoinder, but doesn't argue. Oh, she'll argue later, but only one she has proof on her side. It'll be a Paddington ambush.

"Stop saying grilled cheese until the melty yum is in my mouth." Sutton shuffles closer, helps spin Carver with her hands, and shuffles behind him, her hands on his hips. They have a two person conga line headed for the kitchen. Unless Hope joins in, and she might. Humans are weird but have thumbs and can open food cans and stuff. "Pfft. Fine. Tea. But only if it's strong and milk and sugar." She slides her arms around him, which makes the walking harder. "All the sugarrrr." How much wine did she drink? "Do you have cookies?"

Carver's tongue clicks in the back of his mouth, eyes rolling before he's being set up to conga towards the kitchen. "I know, you're going to be watching out for the hits they kept in." He doesn't quite laugh, but at least, there's a smile. Mostly because no, Hope does not deign to join them. You can tell because the conga line reaches the kitchen intact, even when he has to shuffle the last half of the distance with tiny little steps when she wraps around him.

"All the strong." He agrees, planting his hands on the breakfast island and wiggling his shoulders like he's trying to shake off a backpack so he can be freed to actually, you know, make grilled cheese and tea. "You put the kettle on, love. There's maybe one cookie and a bunch of brownies in that jar over there."

"You know I am." Sutton agrees, regarding looking out for the cracks to the face and sundry the actors are gonna receive. "You smell nice." The blonde is just drunk enough to say that out loud, which means a lot of other top of the head / tip of the tongue shit is probably about to roll Carver's way. She makes a sound like a displeased kitten when the Brit tries to shake her off. The whole point of the kitchen is food to soak up some wine and tea to keep her hands busy so she doesn't finish the bottle, and yet.

"Rude." She disentangles herself and goes to fill the kettle and tuck it into its cradle, flipping the switch. She leans against the counter. "I stopped drinking wine after it made me sick for this few weeks." She waves a hand. Those few weeks. "I forgot how charmingly slow the buzz is." Wine doesn't slam into you like vodka or tequila. "Kettle's on, pet." Good job, Sutton. He can see that. Oh, right, the jar. She sneaks up on that and takes the top off carefully, then jams a hand down inside of it. Cookie? Brownie? Tiny pixie holding a grudge?

Carver wouldn't be surprised if Hope came out of the cookie jar by this point. She vanished from her cushion on the couch when the two of them stood, so the little black void could be anywhere by now.

But no. It's a cookie. Chocolate chip and carrying all the artisan styling that Safeway has to offer. Which is to say with half a bottle of wine in you, it's probably fantastic.

The comment about his smell is let go without retort, a hand patting the paramedic's hip as she leans against the counter before Carver's bee-lining for the stove top, unhooking a skillet from the wall on the way past to drop it down on a hob. His eyes glance over as she's working the kettle, then rolling for the second time as she waves her hand. Ah yes, those few weeks. His bottom lip gets thoroughly chewed on as he holds in a comment about 'and yet here we are again' or somesuch, instead opening up the fridge for butter, and a small wooden box on the counter for an as-yet-unopened loaf of bread, tossed her way to open and start buttering. Gotta keep the hands busy, right? "Sneaks up on you, huh?"

Yeah. That's all he's got. Wine usually just gives him an immediate headache after a glass or two.

Sutton does a casual drunk eye on the cookie to check for raisins, because if she bites into that cookie and there's a raisin in it, there will be hell to pay, then takes a bite. She glances over to watch Carver fussing about with the stove. She pauses with the cookie halfway to her mouth, probably remembering the last time they were in this configuration. "... Yeah, kinda does. Trick is to drink water before you drink the wine." She takes that second bite of a cookie, her gaze roams Carver's backside, and then she huffs out a sigh and glances up at the ceiling.

And leans back against the counter, then takes a slide down to sit on the floor, her back to the cabinet door, so she can watch him from a more stable position. Wine may sneak up on you, but when you drink a bunch pretty darn fast, it dog piles. Her knees pulled up to her chest, Sutton rests her cookie on her knee, which is bare through the ripped portion of her jeans. "I can't figure out... how I got into this mess. Except, obviously, 'keep your knees together' is a strategy that never works when you add tequila." Tequila! "Secret adult daughters is what I should have asked," she mutters.

Carver watches the bag of bread fall to the counter, Sutton slipped down and to the floor. He looks at her. Looks at the bread. Looks at her. Gives only a minor 'Really?' look, and then, as he often spends his evenings, goes to butter his bread by himself, taking solace in the fact that hey, at least she's busy with the cookie.

His foot, bare and warm, taps the side of her calf while he gets to work, heating the pan, prepping the pan, hauling a bag of grated cheddar from the fridge. The usual. He's quiet while he works, listening to her talk, occasionally providing a little physical touch with his foot or the side of his leg, and at one point very nearly dropping the bag of grated cheese on her just as a distraction. But, no, it goes in the fridge. There are times that food fights are necessary, and there are times that they're just a waste.

"The tequila I get." He nods, hauling a buttered, cheese covered slice over to the skillet, along with another slice for topping. Just the one. He's eaten, he's full, and for a rare moment, Carver wishes to avoid grease. "And secret adult daughters is the question everyone should ask but nobody ever does. Because really?" There's a soft hiss as bread meets pan, his eyes dropping down to look at Sutton and her cookie. "Who the fuck asks that?"

"What?" Sutton asks this with a minor spray of cookie crumbs. She catches the look, of course. "What?" She jams the cookie into her mouth and companionably wraps her arm around his leg, hooking it into her elbow like you might an arm, except this one's wearing pajama pants. She doesn't realize how close she came to getting shredded-cheesed. Such is the benefit of being in the Wine Zone.

"I ask that, except teenage daughters, because when I drink, I think about this stuff. I want to know." She asked, he said no, and then it happened. Granted, she asked like... three other people including Carver, when Melissa popped up all interrupting and demanding. Drunk texting sometimes leads to these misunderstandings. Correlation does not equal causation, Sutton. But still, a part of her brain is kinda on that tonight. "I need to get a grip," she says, with her temple coming to rest against Carver's knee. He may never get his leg back. She bites off most of the cookie and rescues it from her mouth with her other hand.

Never mind that secret adult or teenaged daughters can also be secret from the father as well. LOGICS.

"Please cut mine into triangles." Her sandwich, she means.

"Pet, you've got a grip." Carver mutters through a half-cocked smile, shaking his leg slightly. Not to boot her off, but just to draw attention to the fact that he's being clung to and this is going to make pouring her a cup of tea a nightmare in a couple of minutes. It also comes a little at odds with the hand not currently prodding bread with a spatula dropping to ruffle her hair.

It's a little reminder. Not for her. See, Carver's having a little moment. Just a little one. One where he's putting most of his focus on the soft sizzle of bread and butter browning in a pan to quiet that little voice in the back of his head. The one that pops up from time to time in a similar way to Sutton's thoughts when she drinks and thinks. The voice that, right now, is reminding him that the last time he lied, he accepted it and didn't see Sutton more than once in about a month and a half, if not more. The little voice that's telling him tomorrow morning, once she's slept off the wine and thanked him for the food and the place, he won't see her for a week or so.

The little voice that he's been ever-so-good at ignoring since the moment he first formed an opinion of Javier Ruiz De La Vega.

His hand pats the side of her head, and he nods. "One cut or two?" Big triangles, or lil' triangles. That's what he means.

Probably.

"Dos." Two cuts. Funny how Carver thinks of Javier Ruiz de la Vega and Spanish pops out of Sutton's mouth. She wraps her arm more tightly around Carver's leg, her cheek now smashed against his lower thigh.

Ping. Her text alert sounds. Ping. She ignores it. "Fuck I left without my favorite bra." Thump. Her head drops back against the cabinet, probably right about the time her host started to wonder if he was ever going to get his leg back. Her arm's still wrapped around it, but she's no longer using it for a leaning post. Thump, thump. "Ughhh." She finishes off her cookie, and says, after a lengthy pause, "The fabric of these is nice." His PJs.

"Why are you so quiet?"

Flipping the sandwich together, Carver cuts the power and heat to the hob to let it sizzle for a moment, leaning without moving his leg to reach for a small plate, just washed, still upright in the drying rack. "Dos. Gotcha."

She can't really see what he's doing up there, what with the counter and being sat on the floor, but after some shifting, the noise of a knife on a plate, and the loud rattle of said knife being dropped inside a cup that already sits in the sink, he leans back a little to look down at her head dropping back against the cabinet. Once. Twice. Three times.

Her empty cookie is replaced with a stooped Englishman offering her a plate of grilled cheese sammich cut in to four triangles. Oh. And a stare. He's definitely staring. "I'm quiet because I can't say anything nice."

Well. That was blunt. His leg wiggles. "Not right now, anyway. And the last thing you need is me telling you shit you already know, so-" His leg wiggles more, freeing itself so he can head to the kettle and whip her up a cup of tea. "-I'm quiet, instead."

Which isn't at all because he's plotting a bra hei-No, wait, now he's also plotting a bra heist.

Sutton looks up and stops thumping her head lightly against the cabinet. She watches Carver crouch and present her with a plate of crisp, warm and melty grilled cheese. "Thanks, babe." She reaches up to take that with a hand. Her other hand is shortly waggled free. She tries to balance the plate on her knees, but that seems unwise, so she lets her feet slide across the floor, then rests the plate on her thighs which are now resting on the ground. Much more stable. She pulls a little triangle free and brings it to her lips, a long string of cheese stretching behind. "You've got way more self control than me."

In a world where Carver's the sensible and sober one...

"I don't like you quiet. It's fucking freaking me out." She takes a huge bite of her grilled cheese, and makes a couple of little happy humming noises.

Carver's laugh is barked as he hauls a mug from a cupboard and pops open a box of teabags with the tip of his thumb across the cardboard, watching the strand of cheese threaten to snap and drop across her top. "I've the self control of a possum in a patisserie, love. The second I actually start talking on all this shit? We're both fucked. You never come here again-" The rest of his sentence is said without eye contact, the man instead focusing on pouring boiling water. You only need to scald yourself repeatedly throughout the course of your life to realize that pouring a kettle sometimes needs attention. "-and I go on police records as a suicide from two gunshots to the back."

The tea's left to steep, string tie of the bag hanging lazily over the rim of the cup, and her hair gets a second ruffle as he goes to the fridge for milk. "Eat your sammich, and don't let me open the floodgates. Ta."

Mm. Patisserie. She makes a mental note to go to Vydal's actual kitchen sometime, but just as soon as she has the thought, it's whisked away on wine and a bite of grilled cheese.

She's halfway through chewing a huge bite of grilled cheese when Carver elaborates on the nature of his silence, and what might well happen if he breaks it. She frowns, her cheek puffed out like a hoarding chipmunk, and she pulls her hands wide, one still holding half a grilled cheese triangle. It's a shrug wtf look on her face at the last bit. If she wasn't so hungry, she probably would have lobbed that sandwich bit at the back of an Englishman's head. Finally, she manages to chew and swallow the enormous bite she just took.

"I'ma take a shower." She has to get off the floor first though. She puts the sandwich aside and grabs the counter above to lever herself to her feet. It's a moment more before she bends, somewhat bonelessly, to reach for the plate, though bending over when you're drinky is perhaps an unwise decision. She misses the plate twice.

Carver doesn't quite sigh. He sure gives a good exhale, but it's not enough to be considered a full, proper sigh. His eyes close, head tilting back as if he were staring at the ceiling, hands going flat on the counter as the soft scent of lemon-flavored tea starts to drift up from the mug, bottle of milk resting beside it, fridge door slowly swinging closed by itself.

At least he's not cleaning grilled cheese from his PJ's.

"You fucking asked."

Sutton finally gets her hand on the plate, and actually manage, after a little fumble, though the sammy tries valiantly to jump to its death. She thumps the plate down on the counter. She's a noisy little shit when she's drinky. "Look." The blonde shoves the rest of that triangle sandwich into her mouth, then neatly stacks up the other three to carry them with her. Yes, she's taking her sandwich to the shower. "Your fucking anti-police shit is your fucking business."

She swallows hard, probably before that sandwich was chewed enough to be swallowed, but though it goes down rough, she doesn't actually die from it. "You wanna stew in your shit, that's fucking fine. My brother was a good cop. There are good cops. If someone tried to shoot you and bury your ass as a suicide, I would personally take them apart and dump their bits in the ocean." She turns around, a little too fast, so her next three steps go in more of an arc than a straight line toward the archway to the living area, and the stairs beyond. It's slow, slightly meander-y going. "You're such an asshole sometimes."

She says to the man who's just made her a sandwich and some tea.

To be honest, Carver would absolutely take the sandwich to the shower too. You don't let grilled cheese go to waste.

While she throws up words instead of hastily swallowed sandwich, Carver casually pulls out the tea bag from the mug, shaking it slightly to get rid of a few extra drops before dunking it down into the trash beside the counter. The milk bottle has the cap spun off somewhere around 'bury your ass as a suicide', and he fills the mug shy enough of the brim that the tea spoon can stir like a demon once she's meandering to the stairs. He was talking about one Captain in particular in this instance, buuuut it's not like he can begrudge her for the accurate claim on his 'anti-police shit.'

"Thanks." Is what he settles on once she's on her way, turning his back to rest up against the edge of the counter, blowing across the top of the mug and sending the steam lifting from the top of it off in every which way. "I'm drinking your tea."

Sutton's got her foot on the bottom stair when he says something about drinking her tea. "What the fuck ever." Stomp, stomp, stomp. She makes it up about three stairs before she calls back, "I'll just MAKE SOME MORE WHEN I'M DONE." Showering, presumably. She makes her way up and turns the corner, and then heads on into the bathroom. There's a yell from deeper in the house, but it's muffled by grilled cheese and distance. Maybe a door or two.

She thumps around in the bathroom, gets the shower going, strips and throws her jeans and tee out, which are the only two things she threw on before jamming from the motel, unless you count her flippy floppies that she kicked off earlier somewhere.

Carver does just that. Drinks her tea. He is, in fact, taking a sip and listening to the sound of angry thumping around in his bathroom when Hope silently appears on the breakfast island, hopping up from the floor after a minimal amount of butt-wiggled target acquisition. Those green eyes settle on Carver as she takes a seat in the fruit basket, knocking out two tangerines and a single banana to do so.

"What? I was talking about Ruiz. Not my fault." Carver explains. From behind the mug. He might be using it as a face shield.

Hope just stares.

"No, she doesn't need my help. She doesn't need me to point out the obvious, either. Thank you very much."

Hope grooms a paw. Slowly.

"I wasn't being a prick!" He hesitantly blurts, voice faltering a little as the mug lowers. "...And... anyway. If I was, it's only fair I get to be. She's got to know what it's like for me to hang around and pick up the pieces every time something goes off the fucking deep end with those two."

Hope curls up.

Carver throws his hands in the air, but carefully, because tea. "Fine! I'll go apologize."

And he's the second person in as many minutes to stomp his way up the stairs.

The sound of muttering goes on a while, and the shower sprays. There's some quiet for a few beats, just the white noise of the shower going. Not long after that, some loud singing can be heard from up there. It sounds like:

I know nothing stays the same
But if you're willing to play the game
It's coming around again
So don't mind if I fall apart
There's more room in a broken heart
You pay the grocer
Fix the toaster
Kiss the host good-bye
Then you break a window
Burn the souffle
Scream the lullaby

Up in the bathroom, there's a sqwerrr of a bare foot half-skidding over a porcelain basin, and then a loud thump! Maybe the drunk girl shouldn't have gotten into the warm, soapy shower on her own. You know. Or had a bath instead.

Maybe it's for the best though. That song.

The mug's a little less filled by the time Carver's found his way to the door, having spent the entire travel time up there muttering something about 'Fucking cats thinking they know everything.' Which, as a matter of course, he's accepted that they do in fact know everything but have the memory of a sieve by the time he's knocking on the door, having hovered there for a good four lines of the song, considered, pondered, and accepted that yes, while she's having a shower is in fact the best time to apologize.

He fully intended to have called said apology from behind the door, but the casual knock he planned on ends up as something of a harried slam of the side of his fist against the thick hardwood, coming about five seconds after the sound of a slipping foot and thudding body.

"Did you just fucking die, pet?"

Sutton is laid back in the bathtub with a leg in the air, thinking about how her life has come to this point. She lays there with the shower spray raining down on her, leg lowering to hook a knee over the backtub's edge. She reaches up to brush her hair out of her eyes. At least her grilled cheese is on the ledge of the sink and not currently getting sogged by the shower. "... No." The answer is belated.

She sighs and slowly begins moving parts to see if anything structural is broken. Nope.. nope. Nope, nope. Okay, all four limbs intact. She's awake now, at least. The blonde reaches up to turn off the spray, then goes about the business of extricating herself from the bathtub, running a hand down ribs that may be bruised later. "Ow." Sutton stands there a moment dripping, then squeezes out her hair and pulls the curtain wide to step out onto the bath mat where she continues to drip until she reaches for a towel.

"How's the tea?"

Carver takes another glance at the ceiling from the other side of the door when Sutton's voice finally rings out. It's a silent prayer to someone, interrupted by a brief sip of the tea and a slowly dawning notion that yes, this has happened before. Maybe not in the exact circumstances, but he definitely recalls-

"Why is it you always try and break things in my bathroom, love?"

A little muffled by the surface between them, most like, so he reaches for the handle of the door to crack it open an inch or two, letting the steam away before he's turning to place the mug atop a dresser, rolling through the doors one by one to pull out various bits and pieces. "Tea ain't bad. Should have added some honey, really. How's the grilled cheese?"

Congratulations, Sutton. Your perfect pratfall made him forget the whole reason he came up here. The apology'll have to wait. What doesn't have to wait is a folded up bunch of clothes he ends up putting at the foot of the bed. Pajamas, a dull grey hoodie that says, quote 'Local Sports Team', and a loose pair of shorts for her to eventually mix and match from at will. The mug stays where it is, and Carver pads across the floor to settle in by the doorframe leading from bedroom to landing, running a hand up and across his face as he covers a brief yawn, then pulls the remote from the pocket he put it in before leaving the couch, poking an arm out to clear the edge of the railing and turning the TV downstairs on from up here, browsing through Netflix choices with the occasional glance back over his shoulder in case of any future 'thud's.

"Maybe your bathroom is just too fragile," comes a somewhat petulant reply from the interior of said room. Sutton wraps a towel around her body and tucks it at her chest so it stays on by itself (in theory), and reaches over to pull open the door all the way, sweeping up her grilled cheese as she steps out to join him in the other room.

Once out there, she glances around, takes a bite of the grilled cheese, and makes her way over to the unguarded tea on the dresser. She picks it up and takes a sip, and really should have swallowed the mouthful of sandwich before she did that. She frowns, swallows both, and then tries again when she's clear of cheese bread. "Yeah, needs some ginger infused honey." Sandwich triangles in one hand, tea in the other, she moves over to sit on the bed in his towel. She glances down at her feet, and her fuchsia painted toenails. She takes a breath like she's going to say something, but then she exhales it, her shoulders sinking again.

Carver's eyes roll when she complaints about the construction quality of his bathroom, but he's A), in another room, and B) looking down into the living area anyway, so he double gets away with it. He's flicking through such titles as 'Flying Guillotine', 'Flying Guillotine 2', 'Revenge Of The Ninja', and actually takes a moment to linger on 'Opium and the Kung Fu Master' with a pure expression of both amazement and what the fuck at the same time.

He's worrying a nail on his index finger when she leaves the room to steal back her tea, giving a little glance over his shoulder and leaning that little bit harder against the frame of the door as she makes her comment, turning around to lean the other shoulder and join her in watching her feet for a moment. The breath is noticed, the reasoning is not, and the finger that was being worried comes up to rub at his forehead instead. "Look, I, Uh-..."

Maybe he didn't forget the apology.

"I'm sorry. For being an arsehole. And for all the shit you're going through. I get pissed whenever you leave here only to come back because something new and incredibly bullshit has happened, and every time I just make myself out to be a hypocrite 'cause I'm just as bad."

Sutton finishes off another triangle of sandwich, and it seems like that's having an effect that's sobering, though it could have been the fall in the bathroom and the spray in her face. She glances up when he starts to talk, and then he speaks. She goes quiet and thinks about that for a moment. And a couple of moments. Then she's full on silent for almost three minutes.

She glances down, takes a bite of her grilled cheese, then closes her eyes. She breathes. "Is that how I make you feel? Like an afterthought?" She glances up, then down, and finally looks over to look at him. Insofar a she can see him from here. His shoulder or his profile, or whatever's showing through the door.

That three minutes feels like someone slowly turning a corkscrew into Carver's leg. He's too hesitant to break it with a joke, but also not nearly dismissive enough to turn around to focus back on the TV. Sutton's fuchsia painted nails get the examination of their life. He barely even moves. Like any sudden break of the silence might see her scrambling across the floor to shove him hard enough that he completely clears the railing behind him and tumbles to the floor. Did he picture that for a second there? ...Maybe.

...Yes.

And then she's looking up at him, talking. He shifts in the doorway a little, flicking the edge of his nose with his thumb and sniffing. She can see all of him. He's not hiding behind an edge. Just... there. In the doorway. Leaning. "...Nah." He says after a moment, pointedly redirecting his gaze to his own toes, nails unpainted. Which means that's a lie. "...Not quite." He clarifies. There. Less of a lie. Less enough that he can actually look her in the face, shifting his weight a little. "It's more..." His hand does a little swivel, eyes glancing up as he looks for some accurate words. He wasn't expecting this bit. "Think of the viewpoint I've gotten to see you and him together through. Best I can tell, you come here to get away for a while when shit gets... whatever it gets." Bruises around the neck and winemergency. That kind of 'whatever it gets.'

His lips thin up a little, face a touch sheepish as he shrugs. "And then I get to watch you go back."

Sutton, meanwhile, sits very still on the edge of the bed, in a towel, with her toes brushing back and forth lightly on the floor. Her brows are drawn up a little in the middle, and she looks at him with that expression on her face. Her eyes a little sad, like she's trying to figure out why everything feels just... slightly terrible. Some things feel more than slightly terrible, but she has a throbbing in her ribs to partially distract from that.

Not quite. he says. And then he says the rest, and Sutton slowly lowers that last bit of grilled cheese. She swallows. That lens... that lens is a different way to look at it. She swallows and very deliberately raises the tea to take a sip. "Oh." Another sip. Fuck.

Maybe she doesn't run through all the recent times she's been here, but really you only need to think of two, look it from that perspective, and consider to understand what, exactly, that looks like. She reaches up to touch the little silver medallion on a chain around her neck again, fingers it briefly, and then lets it drop. She finishes the lemon tea and rises to put the cup down on the dresser.

"So I act like a dick, but that's okay, because grilled cheese totally makes up for my behaviour." Carver mutters, without a hint of British sarcasm. Which means it's filled with it. Don't worry, he'll just be over here by the door hating himself that little bit more for the sad look on her face. Half of him wants to dive for the bed and wing a pillow towards her head, despite the tea-tastrophe and cheesexplosion it would cause. Part of him wants to throw himself over the railing to save her the effort.

Crossing his arms over his chest, the soft cotton making a slight noise as he does so, he instead settles on a slightly self-chastened look that soon fades into a soft smile, his head tilting back towards the stairs as he clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. "So c'mon, pet. I saw a film called Opium And The Kung Fu Master and it looks terrible."

And they need to watch it before her touching of that medallion has him getting mildly guilt tripped from two people.

Sutton takes a sniffle breath and turns away from the dresser. She swallows and picks up the cup, thinking twice about leaving it sitting up here when she's basically about to walk past the kitchen anyway. She makes her way over to the door, then huffs out a sigh when she realizes she's still in a towel. "Damn it." She turns around and wings the towel off, then starts pulling on borrowed clothes: a 'Local Sports Team' tee (ha), a pair of pajama bottoms which she ties, the fit not too bad, and she drags the hoodie along with her in case she decides the balcony looks nice for a little sit.

"Shut the fuck up, Alistair." She folds the hoodie over her arm and walks over to join him. "Cuddle me on the couch and try to stop being an utter cunt for five minutes." Her voice, likewise betrays nary a hint of sarcasm. You know what that means, sir.

Carver's mouth is open to point out the whole towel thing right as she 'Damn It.'s, doing his best impression of someone trying real hard not to laugh while desperately wanting to laugh. Thank fuck she turned around, so she misses both the hand coming up to cover his mouth and the blatant staring at her ass when she tosses the towel. Not like she's been on the receiving end of either before or anything like that.

Nope not at all what oh look there's something over there.

Which would be why when she approaches, fully dressed, he's out of the doorway and leaning over the railing, shifting slightly to bump the railing and then her with his hip at the demand she just sent his way, looking worried for half a second and touching two fingers to his bottom lip in concern. "I... stop? That seems difficult. I don't think I can. So I won't." Oh, look, back to normal. If Hope could speak English, she'd probably be confused as fuck right about now.

The "You want a blanket?" as he descends the stairs only confirms that yeah, everything's fine and as it usually is.

Sutton either missed all of that, or it's business as usual. She makes her way down the stairs after Carver, staring at his ass while she descends behind him. He doesn't have to know, because he's not looking. She hops off the bottom step and detours into the kitchen to stow the dish. "Yeah." And then she's coming back and headed for the couch, still smelling of wine, but a little less now. She smells like body wash, mostly. Sutton wanders around to drop onto the couch, throwing Hope's toy over toward the entryway.

"Fine, don't stop then." She waves a hand dismissively, and then finds a position in the middle of the couch so that whichever side he's going to, she can just tip over and have a cuddle. It'll be a while before she starts to wonder where her bottle of wine got off to.

That was Carver's plan. Slink the bottle away, drop a piece of truth that gets her distracted and thinking, then hope she doesn't notice and smother him to death on the couch. He goes to pull a blanket from the hall cupboard, a deep blue piece that looks like it would magnet-attract any loose cat hair in an instant, but also looks so fucking cozy. Her detour to the kitchen sees him smacking play on Netlfix, dropping the remote to the table and bundling the blanket to one side of the couch before he has to lift up a foot to avoid Hope.

Hope, who nearly sent the fruit bowl flying to chase after the toy, catching a glimpse of flying yellow feather from the island and hitting the hardwood floor with a thud, darting on a course that would totally have her taking out Carver at the ankle if he didn't raise up the leg, and then rolling into a tumble of fur and feather to settle on her back, hind legs doing their best to disembowel the caught prize.

"Jesus." Carver mutters, then completely fucks up Sutton's plan by squatting down to grab her ankles and lay them across the couch, shifting a few of the cushions to settle up against the arm, then reaches for the blanket to pull it up to her hips. of If this is going to be a cuddle, it's going to be a proper goddamn cuddle that he can fall asleep during. To prove that point, he slips on to the couch to lay on his back, shifting and shoving with his hip until she gets the hint to move up on to her side. He buys big couches for a reason. This isn't the reason, but it's a good bonus.

Carver spends a lot of time thinking about how Sutton may maim or kill him. If she knew, she'd probably be pretty pissed about it. Luckily, she has no idea, and just thinks all those silences are him resisting the urge to pun.

Sutton glances over at Hope only once she's caught the toy, though she clearly heard that entire thundering endeavor. She smiles. "I love this cat." Because she's fucking psycho. The cat. The cat is psycho. The best. Dumpster monster.

She starts to mutter something when he takes hold of her ankles and repositions her. She could kick him or something rude like that, but she doesn't, never has when he's shuffling her 'round on the couch. She lets him fiddle about then sighs, and moves forward and wiggles back against him when he's stretched out. She resettles the blanket over them both, pulls it up a little higher. "Jesus is busy and can't help you now."

"Jesus never helps me." Carver grumbles, slipping an arm around her and letting the other drape across his belly, taking a second to shift and slide some more until he's comfortable on a pillow. Hope's thrown a glance, still happily disemboweling something without bowels to dis, and all he can do is shake his head a little at the psycho cat before turning to look at the TV, squeezing Sutton only lightly.

And not at all thinking about how she might maim or kill him. Which shouldn't be taken personally. He spends a lot of his life thinking about how anyone he knows will eventually do him in. Fact of his life is more than a few have tried it.

"He only helps those who help themselves. I'm too self-centered to actually make anything in my life better, pet."

Sutton settles back against him, folding one arm to tuck under her head. She moves a couple of times until she's comfortable, and her other hand tips back to rest against Carver's hip. She looks at the television, watches it for a while, actually, then says, "No."

Just that one word hangs between them for a couple of beats before she says anything else.

"You don't think you're worthy of asking for more."

Carver's eyes don't falter from the TV when she speaks. They don't shift at all when his hand slides across to pat against hers, just one quick little moment of contact before it's coming up to brush the tip of his nose, quick as you like so as not to block her own view for more than a second.

"Nope." He agrees, tongue poking against his cheek.

"Never have been, never will."

Sutton sighs out the word, "Sometimes." She doesn't say anything else for a while, reaching back and feeling around until she finds that hand of his, where ever it may be. Her fingers catch it, then skim across his cheek. She flicks the fuck out of his ear.

Then comes back for his hand, quickly catching it to pull his arm around her. She pulls in close, nestling against him. She waits until he stops struggling and/or grousing. And then she presses a kiss to his knuckles. Though he could escape there because her grip loosens a little.

"Sometimes, love, you're absolutely exhausting."

Carver's eyes lid at the feel of her fingers skimming his cheek. At peace. A sense of calm and relief washing over him right as she flicks the fuck out of his ear.

He flails. Not much, considering he has a Harry Everly Sutton leaning on half of his body and snagging up his arm, but he certainly gives it a good college try, one leg kicking and the rest of him attempting to curl up into something of a ball, free hand reaching out to protect his face from any future attacks.

"Jesusufuckingchristwhatthefuckaughgodfuckyoufuckyouhowfuckingjesusyou'vegotnailslikeironwhattheshityouabsolutecow OW."

Done grousing, Carver?

One eye pops open, his head shifting slightly to peer at her. Okay. Yes. He's done grousing. And flailing.

"I deserved that, didn't I?"

Sutton presses back against him to keep him from curling up, trapping his body between hers and the couch. Suck on that, Carver. She presses her lips together when he grouses fast flailing flargle of sound. She tries not to laugh, but soon her shoulders silently shake, and then a chuckle escapes her lips. She recaptures his hand, drags it around and tucks up under his arm again. "Yes. You very much did."

The blonde pulls his hand and arm around her body, tucking his hand up under her chin, like he's a blanket. "Shush. Let's watch some ass kicking."

"Mrrffrassfrassnsmrf." That's not muted, or muffled. Carver straight-up says those letters in a faux-grumble, giving it one attempt and huffily folding his arms across his chest, soon thwarted by the fact that he's not really trying and Sutton is the stronger of the two anyway.

"Fine." He says. Eventually. Not at all smiling but also totally failing to hide a small creeping smirk as he's turned into a blanket. Totally against his will even if he doesn't fight it at all.

"But I'm rooting for the antagonists."

"Mm." Sutton murmurs that sound. "Me too."