2019-11-14 - Don't Believe in Anything That You Can't Break

This late at night, the weather chill and with what looks to be a rainstorm rolling in is the perfect time for Carver to be cleaning up the kitchen. The rear door to the balcony is cracked open by about an inch, bringing a chill but not unpleasant breeze, the scent of the sea and tell-tale prickle of the oncoming lightning slowly but surely starting to overpower the lingering scent of grilled cheese that's permeated seemingly every surface he's currently giving a cursory spray down and wipe with a fresh cloth.

Hope is nowhere to be seen, there's soft acoustic guitar playing from speakers dotted around, his phone docked on the breakfast island and lifted once or twice to wipe clean the surface beneath, and his waistcoat hangs over the back of one of the couches in the living room, a clear sign that he's done doing... whatever it is he does during the day.

Sutton comes up onto the porch just as the rain starts coming down, her pale hair blowing around in the wind before the storm. She's wearing a green knit sweater, thick and cozy, cowl neck pulled up to protect her throat from the chill. She smalls faintly of bourbon, having just had one at Two If By Sea with Mae, enjoying the pre-storm calm by the fire pit on the lower deck.

The key hits the lock and Sutton steps in shortly, toeing off her boots to leave them in the entry way. She wanders deeper into the house after removing her socks, barefoot padding along. She comes around the archway to see Carver in the kitchen cleaning. She makes her way in through the living area, making note of the waistcoat, then turns her gaze to Carver cleaning again. She heads for the kitchen. "This music is nice. Are you hungry, love?"

Carver slips something back into the pocket of his slacks as Sutton rounds the corner, having tensed only slightly during the slight break between someone unlocking the door and her coming in to view, greeting the sight of her with an easy smile and the cloth flipping up and over his shoulder like the most out of place bartender she's ever see-... actually she's probably seen more out of place. He's top six though, at least.

"You say that, wait until the lyrics kick in." Matt Elliot is not for the un-expecting. His accent sits pretty close to Carver's own, though, and it's something of a security blanket to stave of any sense of homesickness the guy might feel from time to time. Her second question gets a little curious purse of his lips, considering what he's actually had to eat over the course of the day before there's a little shrugged nod. "I could eat. You have a nice time out?"

"Had some tea, talked to Clayton a little bit. He didn't piss me off, which was nice. Good talk." Sutton leans against the island. Her gaze takes a travel down Carver's button down shirt. "I had a drink with Mae at the Deuce." God such an unfortunate nickname for a bar. Blame Easton. She thinks about the music for a moment, shakes her head. "I'm still going to like it when the lyrics kick in."

She watches Carver. Surely the lyrics will start soon. Then, because she isn't interested in waiting for that just now, asks, "Are you hungry, or can we eat a little later?" She presses her hands together on the island, then lifts one and holds it out to him, like she wants him to take her hand.

Carver knocks his hip up against the counter, glancing down at the cloth over his shoulder like he's only now conscious of it being there. It was a natural action to throw it over that he hadn't one-hundred-percent realized he did until this very moment, pulling it off and letting it drop next to the sink as Sutton goes through her day out. The corner of his mouth even curls a little more at the mention of the Deuce. Oh, that bar. "Don't think I know Mae? Sounds like a good use of an afternoon, though." He says. At night. Maybe 'Half a day' would have been more accurate

The two of them are still a good few minutes out from any lyrics showing up, so she's going to have to wait, and simply enjoy the guitar for a while. "Can eat whenever you like, pet." He's not particularly hungry, wiping a few cooking crumbs that linger on his fingertips away with the sly brush of a hand across his slacks before leaning forward to take up the offered hand.

"You'd know her if you met her. She's a heavily tattooed woman who works as a dancer at the Platinum Cabaret." Sutton holds up a hand to approximate Mae's height. "Long hair, beautiful. Sex walking." She smiles softly at that. "I really like her. She's sweet, and she's smart, and she takes no shit." She nods, "Was good. I learned a few things, thought of a few others." She watches him with the towel of course, a smile playing at her lips. "You look like you want to light my cigarette and ask after my day."

"You've had a grilled cheese, haven't you?" She may have smelled it when she came in. She takes his hand, her palm a little chilly in his, as she just came in from outside, and she did a bit of walking to get here. She takes solid hold of his hand, turns, and leads him along toward the stairs. If he comes with her, it's soon clear they're going up. "How was your day?" And up, and around into the bedroom is the destination. She doesn't hurry the path, bare feet quiet on the various flooring.

"I don't think I've ever met a dancer who did take shit." Carver's grin widens, but he gives a little nod at the description of the woman, then rolls his eyes at the follow-up observation of him and his towel. "Technically, I already asked after your day, pet. Let nobody fucking tell you I don't play to type when needs must." Hell, he was wiping down a counter when she walked in.

Carver, for a second, considers installing a bar. Then thinks better of it. Especially with the two of them and their methods of dealing with stress.

"Y'know, believe it or not, I haven't!" His pitches rises a little towards the end there as he's pulled away. It's not like she yanks him off his feet, but still, moving somewhere else is cause for a touch of confusion until they reach the stairs. "We've kind of been abusing the grilled cheese, lately. I was clearing out the vent filter above the oven and just... whoom." His other hand makes a mini explosion motion as they head on up. "The smell spread." Which means they need to start making pasta. Or something. The bedroom is as neat as ever. Sheets replaced since she left, everything tucked in and made, and he's even gone as far as cleaning out a couple of drawers to tuck a few of her things in there. "My day was pretty boring, all told. Hope escaped, came back. Napped this afternoon, then decided to clean up."

Such an exciting life, man.

Sutton leads Carver up and around the landing, her grip on his hand firm but gentle enough he could escape it if he were so inclined. Then again, what man is really smart enough to disengage the blonde leading him up into the bedroom? "Right, but you didn't like my cigarette. Still, close enough." She leads him over to the bed. "You're right, I don't know any dancers who take shit either."

"I like grilled cheese, but we should probably switch to something with more protein and/or vegetables soon." She already took her shoes off, so Sutton reaches down to peel off the thickly knit sweater she wears. Underneath is a white camisole that hugs her body. She tosses the knit over the dresser, and stands there in a pair of jeans that ride low on hips they hug, material soft. They're old and ripped, knees entirely out — in other words the best pair of jeans she owns. "You cook and you clean. Do you know how I feel about that?"

"I'll tell you." She leans over brushing her hands over the bedspead. She straightens the seams of a pillow. "But first, a few questions." That's softly said, but the tone there. Might... set off... a warning... bell. She slides a pillow off of the mattress.

Spider Senses: Tingling.

But alas, poor Carver. Sutton was saying nice things, and leading him up to the bedroom, and throwing off her sweater. He sits himself down on the bed like there's nothing untoward in the world, folding his hands together in his lap and not even throwing a second glance to the pillow being slid away. "Protein and or vegetables just means I'm ordering takeout Chinese and Thai for a while. I need egg noodles and beef. I crave it." He had it for lunch, so, naturally, now the guy needs it again.

"It means you don't have to and that's fine?" Okay, now his eyes glance over. To the pillow. In her hand. "Ask away?" The slight rise in pitch from that final not-a-question question either means he knows what's coming and accepts his fate, or has no idea at all and so will be blindsided by the bitchslap of fate.

"Thai. Always thai. Extra basil." Sutton has things she likes and Thai food is one of them. Thai bail is one of them. Spicy veggie curries: one of them. The truth: one of them. "Oh, egg noodles and beef." She smiles at the mention of egg noodles. Something about that makes her laugh.

"Now I want Thai food. How late are they open?" That's a question she asks right before she slides the pillow behind her back, her hands laced together there. "Not important. I remember it was late and I'm pretty sure we have plenty of time."

"So." WHUMP! Haha! Surprise swipe of the pillow right to his midsection. "Tell me your secrets." She winds up again and softly whaps him again, this time in the shoulder. "Not the bullshit ones. Tell me. What you've been holding back. Or I'm going to beat it out of you with this pillow." Yeah, because those first two whacks were terrifying. She's standing between him and the door. There is no escape.

"Goddamnit. I brought this on myself." Carver mutters, casting his eyes up in the regret of there not being a Thai order already on the way. "It so is important, pet. I bet you there's at least one place still open that we can order fro-"

His eyes were drifting back down towards her when a pillow catches him at the base of the ribs. The look he gives her. Oh, the look. It's one of utter bewilderment, a hand coming up in the universal gesture of 'What the fuck?' just as the second hit comes to his shoulder, knocking the hand down and out of the way.

And for a moment, there's silence. His mouth hangs open just a touch, regarding the woman and her weapon with... well, it's something, that's for sure. "Secrets?" He finally manages to slightly stumble out, completely taken aback by this HEINOUS ASSAULT UPON HIS PERSON. "What secrets?"

Okay, that sounds like a cop out, but all of his inflection falls on the first word. It's more of a 'Please narrow this down for me' than an outright denial. Mainly because that's a down pillow and if she puts some effort into it, he could lose teeth.

Sutton already has the Thai well in hand. Well on the back burner! It's something she'll deal with after she's sure he's not going to make a break for it. She knows he's good at disappearing. She's seen that. She doesn't know how, but she knows! Whump! She doesn't give him a huge wind up before she whaps him one. "What secrets do I need to know?" Whap! Damn it is she even going to give him a chance to talk?

Harry takes a couple steps to one side, her hand turning, pillow dangling against her hip. "Tell me what you've been hiding from me this week." That's maybe a little bit closer, though it could still be a laundry list of things.

Carver laughs when the pillow whaps one more time, then does his best impression of someone desperately trying not to laugh more and therefore get in even more trouble. He's even starting to open his mouth to answer her first question when Whap!

That one actually had him covering his face for a second, the hand coming out as the pillow dangles by her hip to try and block the space between the two of them "Okay, okay, Jesus!"

Nope. Still trying not to laugh. "I totally looked up grilled cheese sandwich recipes the first night you came by and asked for them so I could make sure I was getting it right-right in future. Mels wasn't a ghost, she was a... creature?" Okay, he looks confused by that one too. Some secrets he keeps even he doesn't entirely know about. "Aaaand... uh." He stalls. Just for a second. Like he's actually looking for another secret. Or something. Doesn't quite explain why he looks sheepish during the next sentence, but it's clear this is the one he's sure she won't believe. "And I can move things by thinking about it, I guess?"

WHUMP!!

"What the fuck." It was the last one that really got her. Maybe it was the laughter. Either way she whacks him maybe hard enough to send him over onto the bed, keeping it to torso shots, not headshots. Headshots are rude, even with pillows. She dances foot to food like she's ready to dive in at any moment. "You looked up grilled cheese recipes for me?" She smiles. "Really?" She bites her lip and mms. "That's sweet."

"What do you mean she was a creature? You told me you didn't know what she was?" She winds up to whack him again! Never mind that he just said he can move shit by thinking about it. "Elaborate quickly!"

From his new position, flat on his back on the bed, Carver takes up the professional combat defensive mode known as 'CURLING UP IN TO A BALL AND HOPING THE ASSAULT STOPS', taught to martial arts fighters all around the world. Even her smile about the grilled cheese is missed, his face pressing down against his knees as they are. "When she died I got really pissed off and I guess it turns out I threw all the shit I could do away and something in that other place got all that power and used it to I dunno take form or something and so what I thought was my best friend was just something using all the shit I used to be able to do as a source to survive OR SOMETHING."

Yes, that's all one sentence. All a singular breath. It even roughly gets to the point.

"Please not the face!"

Sutton heaves out a sigh and stops smacking him about with a pillow when he curls up tight like that. It's no fun once they're balled up in submissive posture like a roly poly bug. She tosses the pillow onto the bed, and then she climbs up onto it after him, kneeling on the edge, sitting back on her calves in prime 'get pushed off by a teenager' posture. If she was having this fight with a teenager, she'd have done been eating air and then floor.

"That's seriously fucked up, Alistair." She touches his shoulder, her hand curling over it. "You literally threw all of your grief and all of your power into conjuring up your best friend." She swallows. "Fuck." That's a short, short syllable.

More quietly, "Fuck." She doesn't really get the Veil. Or Dreams. Or the why and the why and the how. But this concept? She gets. She gets the fantastical theory of this. She has a full sleeve tattoo that says she's a fan of myth, fable, folklore, and fairy tale. Obviously she reads or read stories that prepared her to have the capacity to hold all of this in her mind even if she doesn't get the chemistry or the math or the biology behind it.

Wait. Wait. The assault has stopped? The assault has stopped! Chalk up another win for cowering in fear. Slowly unfurling himself, Carver's arms spread wide, chest rising and falling with the pace of someone a little exerted. Most because of the laughing, sure, but also that initial flight or flight of being under attack took it's toll, pillow or no pillow. His hand dreps over his face for a second, pushing up his hair from his forehead, then dragging down over his face as he lets out a little calming "Whew."

"Pretty much. Yeah. Fuck indeedy, pet." He looks at her for a second without moving his head. And then sighs. "My shit's kinda fucked up, and you're obviously kinda new to all of this. So... secrets." He shrugs, looking a little apologetic.

"But hey!"

'Whap.'

Without Carver moving at all, the pillow she just threw down casually bounces off of the side of her torso. "I got some of it back."

Sutton was working up to something approaching a feeling about that whole tragic best friend loss thing. She even had to blink twice, just in case. She almost falls off the bed when a pillow flies in its own to hit her. She flails back to try to catch it, and over corrects with the move. "Fuck!" One last f-bomb and then she slides off the bed backward with nothing to grab onto. Her body pulls into a curled posture, so when she lands, it's on her back with a heavy, solid WHUMP!

She lays there for a little while, waiting for her body to unclench so she can breathe again. Wind knocked out of you is a little scary, but you get used to it. She's had worse, and the whole telekinesis thing takes a minute to get used to. "... Ok."

"Is there anything else I need to know about you and me?"

"Ohshi-" The next thing Sutton would see is Carver's head poking over the side of the bed, a look of abject concern on his face from the sheer noise of her hitting the floor. At least it's carpeted up in here. The hardwood downstairs would have no qualms about teaching some of her vertebrae what for. "You okay, duck?"

The expression of relief at her 'Ok' is palpable, immediate, and coupled by him sliding off of the bed and half on to his bare feet to somewhat crouch beside her, offering out a hand.

A hand that lingers and hovers as he rolls through a couple of potential answers before settling on "Like what, pet?" So casual. Which means not at all casual.

Sutton, saved by carpet! She takes a breath, a full, deep one once her lungs have remembered what breathing is. Knocked the wind out, but she does seem okay. She reaches up to take the offered hand. She grips his wrist though, rather than his hand, and uses that to pull herself up, so hopefully he tensed enough to help out, otherwise... both of the are going back to the floor.

"Would you like me to get the pillow again?"

Of course Carver knows to tense when helping someone up. He even actually puts some work in to helping her up. Really. You think the guy hasn't been pulled up from the floor by others enough to know how to do it himself?

Well, he does fall back against the side of the bed some, so, more practice needed, obviously. He slips down, shifting his legs forward to rest his back against the bed frame, and butt on the floor, rubbing his knee idly with the free hand and watching her with only a touch of thinning lips. "I mean, no. I don't think there's anything else you need to know. Not right now. Not with all the shit you're saddled with at the moment." Ah, there it is. There's the shrug. "I figure you've worked out I prefer it when you're here than when you're not."

Sutton pops up to her feet and then goes right over, diving onto the bed she just fell off of. She bounces a couple of times and says, "I said I was going to beat you with a pillow until you asserted yourself." She reaches over and drags the pillow over and tucks it under her head, laying there with her bare feet hanging over the ledge near his head. "I can see this is going to be a bit harder than expected. The pillow beating may continue well into the morning."

"I didn't ask you if you think it's the right time, or what ..." She huffs out a breath, pulls the pillow out from under her head, and smashes it down on her face, both arms folded up and over it.

Carver doesn't spring up on to the bed. Nope. He watches her go, actually stifles a small laugh at the idea she told someone about this plan beforehand, then slaps both of his hands on his knees, dropping his head back against the side of the mattress so that Sutton, were she not pillow-covered and facing the wrong way, could totally see the top of his head.

The back of his hand slaps the side of her foot. Gently.

"You really want me to be assertive, huh?" Oh. There might be a warning tone there.

Sutton huffs out a dramatic breath into the pillow. Dramatic.

"Look." She says this mostly into the pillow, since it's on her face. "Do you fucking speak English?" She absolutely told someone about this plan beforehand. Mostly she told Mae about her intention. Plan is more of a, well, a plan. She just basically had pillow + carver + repeat until he reveals everything he's been hiding, which, let's face it, could take a while.

"Fucking yes." The GAWD is implied. "Fuck. What the motherfuck else do I have to fuckin' say?"

Did she hear the warning tone?

Carver moves on to the bed like this room suddenly has extra gravity in it, hauling himself up like it's the hardest task in the world for a man filled with takeout and cheez-its. There's grunting, a few slips of his hand across the bedding, and he eventually has to settle for grabbing her knee to help him scrabble up and flop down on his face beside her.

Which is great, because it means Carver's assertiveness is unleashed upon the bedding, muffled just as much as her dramatic breath and everything that followed. "I spend half my fucking life in what people in this town seem dead set on calling 'Dreams.'"

He manages to air-quotes that even while face down.

"Which means on more than one occasion I've had drinks with a lovely fuckin' fella named Zeke who is, shit you not, literally missing half of his fuckin' brain. And head. Even that fucker could see that what you got yourself into was some sweet fuckin' bollocks. You came to my house with fuckin' bruises around your throat, Sutton. Your fuckin' throat. I was never pissed that that guy was a cop. Not once. Not fuckin' ever. I was pissed because the first bloody time I met the guy he had all the attitude and mannerisms of someone who saw you as a fucking possession to keep to himself and then fuckin' bailed the second he realized I was on to him."

Okay, so his accent slips a little more into the more potteries angle, but the emphatic hand movements? It's worth it just for those. There's SO MUCH POINTING.

"And then you fuckin' kept going back!" At last, his head pops up to look at her pillow. "He best have a fucking dick like a forearm holding a bloody bowling ball."

There's a lengthy silence after that in which Sutton's pillow doesn't move, Sutton doesn't move, and maybe she's dead, except she's totally breathing. Her camisole is tight enough to see that, at least. At great length, after he's said bowling ball, she pulls the pillow off her face, her lob thoroughly mussed, tangled pale blonde hair tugged across her face. "His cock is actually quite average."

"It's more the way he puts his hands on me, like he knows exactly what he wants to do with my body, and then when I tell him to do something else, he does that too." She glances over. "The bruises were... yeah. He almost killed me. If I didn't get my heels against his pelvic bone before he came down over me, I'd likely be dead right now, because he's far stronger than I am and he had me with both of them." What started out angry transitions to something more raw. Her voice drops, soft-spoken still.

"I should know better than to get pregnant by a drunk Mexican nearly twenty years older, especially one whose life was fucked up, and I knew. I knew that. Eli told me. I figured one and done, fine. A hot fuck and down the road we go, hasta luego, tacos. And then he bent for me, and did what I asked him to, and then he walked out on me, refused to answer me, and almost died. The same way my brother..." Her voice cracks. "I held my hands over his chest like I held my hands over Eli's chest. It's sad and it's traumatic and I'm all fucked up."

"And then he tried to kill me between fucking everyone who looked his way and I went back. I needed punishing and he gave me the best kind. I'm a mess and that's it. He's a mess and that's it. Before he put his hands on my throat, he was dying. He basically died in the bed by his own hand. I revived him and Eli told me to leave him, and he snapped." She's going backward and forward in the timeline and it's all a rush of words.

"So I fucked him and went back to him even after I knew about his drugs. After he walked out on me when I got pregnant. After he said he wouldn't ever be faithful and I said fine, and then he got mad at me for that, too. So what." She drags her hands through her hair. "He has a daughter my age and he's not there enough and he never answers my fucking questions. He's the last part of Eli I have and the marks he leaves on my body don't matter. Wouldn't matter. If I thought he would ever... ever have room for a family and me. He will destroy me if I stay with him. I know that. He'll take what I have. I know that. He'll keep saying I love you and killing his body with drugs and either he'll eat his gun or OD. And it'll wreck me. I know. Fine. Done. But why is it you care?"

Carver actually has to hide a smirk at Sutton's first words, relief palpable that she wasn't gearing up to choke the life out of him. By the time her voice drops, his head is resting on his hand, watching the side of her face closely as she talks, the shift in her skin over cheekbones. It's a middle ground. Not looking near her eyes. Not looking at her mouth. Not looking somewhere else completely. Just that one singular spot, his other hand reaching out for an instant and then drawing back when her voice cracks. It was going to be a reassurance. Instead, last second, he thought it would just be an interruption.

The silence when she's finished is much shorter than she gave him. Carver's good at noting down details, and he'll most likely remember that explanation word for word for the rest of his life. Or, at least, until he wipes the slate clean with vodka. In fact, he had an answer ready and waiting for her question the second it came. Actually, he'd had one ready and waiting for months. The problem is, it would be a lie. It would be a joke. It'd be a deflection. And yet, still, it would probably be a more satisfactory answer than the truth.

The 'Goddamnit, Melissa' goes unsaid. Be the Carver she knows you can be, huh?

"Because-" He flops on to his back, bouncing the bed a little on the way. "A while back, this beautiful, idiotic, completely blind woman invited me to her workplace and shared her sandwich with me while it rained." He raises up his hand between and above the two of them, snapping his fingers together. "Just like that."

Sutton struggles with her breath after that. She doesn't look over for a long time. Maybe she startled herself with the sheer amount of shit she was drinking back with wine and bourbon, all those things she couldn't say to anyone else, and a lot of things she probably shouldn't have said to Carver. She takes a breath, releases it.

When he speaks, when he gets to the phrase white it rained, she sucks in a halting breath and there's a half second before tears spring to her eyes and Sutton is crying. Just a couple of tears sliding from the corners of her eyes and into her hair at the temples. She reaches up to touch the wetness, her fingertips slipping through the tear track like that the hell is this. She raises her fingers to look at that evidence of tears. And then she reaches over to touch him. She happens to press her hand down against his chest.

"Just like that."

Just like that.

"You looked hungry, love." That's barely whispered.

Carver was probably holding his breath up until the point her hand touched his chest. Maybe out of concern that any addition movement might see her giving up after such a potentially lackluster answer to an important question. Perhaps because he said nothing about all she just unloaded on him. But then again, maybe not. See, if you asked him, he'd probably say that Sutton didn't say any of those words to him except the final question at the end. He might be wrong. He might be right. At the end of it all, does it really matter if he is or not?

What does matter is that his hand falls on hers immediately, giving the slight pull and offer of a hug if she wants it, and a shirt to ruin with tears if she needs it. "Y'know what? I was bloody starving."

"I know," Sutton says, pulled into that hug and rolling up onto her side to get it. She drapes an arm across his chest and plants her face against his shoulder. She doesn't say anything for a while, at least as long as it takes to wipe her face on his clothes. Her tears won't ruin his shirt, though they'll dampen it a little, and only then in a couple of patches. There weren't a lot of tears. She's not a crier. "I know you were."

"Do you know I really think if you and I were standing at an altar in a church and someone in a frock asked you if you do, you'd give them a story about a skeletal monkey and some hilarious heist, and completely and utterly fail to answer the fucking question."

She sniffs loudly. "Fancy a curry, pet?"

It's true. Carver really was starving. His arm tucks around her when she's full face-planted against him, a hand slowly rubbing soft circles on her back in something that could be considered a soothing gesture if you so chose, cheek leaning against the top of her head while she totally dampens his shirt through the tears of a not crier. "Not a chance, pet. First-" He begins, patting her once or twice before settling back in to the rub. "That assumes they let me in churches any more. Secondly, it was an alpaca and an embezzlement scheme."

He sounds honest. As honest as he ever has. His head peels back to press a kiss against the top of hers, and her hand is given a little pat of it's own, stopping only to give her fingers a little squeeze. "No. I fancy putting a place out of business for the evening because we're ordering all of their stock."

"That's a bit excessive, don't you think?" Sutton brushes her fingers through her hair and then settles her hand on his chest opposite her head. "We should limit it to four menu items, don't you think? Give everyone else a chance." She brushes her fingers across his hand and then sits up, finally, or rather pushes herself up, her hands on Carver's chest.

"Don't be stupid. Everyone's allowed in churches. Even me, and I'm not into that whole... thing." She looks down at him, and brushes her fingers over his collar. "I'm always going to think you're full of shit."

She falls silent, glances down at his shirt, and the little tear stains she left there. She doesn't say anything about it, or anything else really, thinking about all the things she just said, and how later, some of it's going to pop into her head, and she's going to wish for a bottle of wine. Or three.

"Gawd. Fine. We'll be normal." Carver begrudgingly accepts the idea as she pushes up and off of his chest, slipping his hand free from her back to lock his fingers together with both hands, tucking them under his chin with an expression of beatific innocence as she looks down at him. "Sounds like someone never proved a statue of the Virgin Mary suddenly sprouting tears was just a leaking sewage pipe. That'll get your name on Catholic watch-lists." And let's not even begin on what he did to the Methodists. "And good. You should."

His hand comes up to tuck a little line of her hair behind her ear as she watches his shirt, palm settling and stopping to cup her jaw, thumb grazing light across her cheek. He's well aware there's going to be more bottles for him to find and re-hide later. "Always assume I'm full of shit. Just so long as you assume you're welcome here whenever you need it, and I care about your dumb, if fantastic, arse."

Sutton closes her eyes at the last bit, though she barely looked at him for all the rest. She reaches up to run her hand across the back of her neck, pauses when her fingers dip across the bare back of her neck. She then she reaches down and pulls a medallion on a chain out of her back pocket where she left it. So she's had this thing in her pocket all day long. So that's great.

She turns the chain around her fingers, the Saint Michael dragging across the fabric of Carver's shirt. "You shouldn't. After all that. You should ask me to leave and..." She fingers the rounded edge of the pendant. "Go deal with the massive mess I've made." She turns the medallion over in her hand. "I'm going to Seattle for a one year anniversary memorial for my brother. I thought I might take the train. I'd be gone a few days. Maybe a week. I don't know. Mum asked me home for dinner at least. So ... Monday."

Carver snerks. Even with the sight of the pendant and all that probably entails right now, the man's head sinks back into the bedding and he holds in just enough of a laugh for it to become a full blown snerk, thumb and forefingers coming together to pinch ever-so-lightly at the skin of her cheek before her cups her chin lightly to lift her eyes up to meet his, dragging them away from the medallion if need be.

"Sweetheart." It's a low voice, a little serious, but said through a smile regardless. "Do you honestly think I seem like the kind of guy who would tell someone to go fix a mess? I don't think I've ever left a situation better than when i found out, and I'm not about to ask others to pick up my slack."

Only after that does his hand drop to her shoulder, then run down her arm to the elbow. "You know I'm happy to come along. Take you, if need be. But I figure you've already had plenty of offers for that. Just know I'm around if you need it, and this place'll be here when you get back."

Sutton pulls a face when Carver pinches her cheek. She does tip up her chin until her gaze meets his, though. She drops the little silver chain and pendant against his chest and looks at him while he's speaking. "Don't be stupid. Why do you say stupid things like that. You give people advice they don't take. That doesn't mean you've left a mess. Of course you've left things better before." She scowls at him. "Why do you always talk about yourself like you're a burden. It's starting to piss me off."

One might think Tuesdays and the color blue piss her off as well, and that might be true, but she rarely scowls at them. "Jesus, Alistair."

"Yeah, it's a four and something about train ride to Seattle from here, and then mum drives like she's trying to break a land speed record, blinkers optional. Do you even think you're ready for that?"

She huffs out a slight breath though, when he reminds her his place will always be here. That he's around. Not that he wants his key back, because fuck all that.

Carver just looks at her.

That's it. Just looks at her. After a moment, even with the scowl coming his way, his lips start to break into a smirk. Then a smile. Then a full blown grin, dark eyes catching just enough light to remind her that hey, yeah, they are in fact brown. "Because I make you grilled cheese, gave you a key, and let you crash here whenever anything else gets too much." He follows up with a pat to the elbow his hand rests against. "If I was always assertive and didn't think about myself as a burden on top of all my charms, what chance would anyone else have? You'd never leave."

Then he blanches a little at her statement of what the trip would be like, doubling up his chin a touch as he drops it down against his chest to look at the bundled up silver chain that rests there. "God. She'd see right through me, wouldn't she?" It's only a quick glance at the silver, then back to her eyes. "That or worse, I'd double up her accent, too."

There's a smaller smile at that. One with thought behind it. Which is either reassuring, or, you know, incredibly ominous.

Sutton looks back at Carver, her eyes narrowed slightly. It's the smirk transitioning into a smile. That look on his face always spells trouble. Even someone who didn't know him at all could probably suss that out. "Don't deflect." Like that would ever happen. "It's annoying." It's ever annoying and ever will be annoying, and it's definitely how Carver must protect himself against insidious dangers like blondes with funny accents.

"I'm really not sure what would happen if you were assertive and didn't think of yourself as a burden," Sutton murmurs back. "Destroy the town, I expect." She's kidding, but she has no idea what his abilities may be, aside from hiding things and apparently throwing pillows hands-free. "If you knew how to make toasted philly cheesesteaks with salty au jous, then I might never leave."

"She'd see right through you, love. Mum sees through everyone. You think you take the piss?" She shakes her head. "... Actually, when I come home from a visit with mum, you'll see. You double my accent. She doubles my sass." The blonde tips in and presses a kiss to the corner of Carver's mouth. "Now then. What is it you want from this Thai Table place?" She slides her phone out of her pocket, drops it on his chest, and fires up the ordering app.

Carver's tongue puffs out his top lip, running along the line of teeth as he only looks mildly offended, "Careful, love." Her elbows gets a little shake. "You're in a pretty fragile glass house to be throwing stones with such abandon. Or did you forget what your love of wine is a pretty solid sign of?" Oh, those eyebrows. They're up. They're way up. There's a touch of humour to his tone, attempting to make the statement a little bit of ribbing on the same level as being called annoying, but coupling it with a reminder that neither of them deal with things in the best way.

Which, yeah. That'll work just fine.

"If you're coming back with double the sass, then it'll have to be Beef Massaman and coconut rice." He oofs slightly as the phone lightly fwaps his chest, the previous answer delayed only slightly by the touch of bewilderment at the kiss placed to the edge of his lips. That was a lot to deal with all at once, but the idea of food put him back on track.

"Yeah, my love of wine is a solid sign of a love of wine." Sutton doesn't glance up from her phone, tapping along the screen while he's warning her about the greenhouse she lives in. "The problem comes when I branch out to vodka or tequila, which is a vile drink and honestly makes me act like a complete and utter whore. Except I don't get paid for it." She taps a few more screens. "Which I should, damn it. I'm at least passably good." She frowns. "Do you want... mm coconut rice sounds delish." She taps a few more things. "1-10 scale, how hot?"

Tappy, tappy go her fingertips. Her gaze remains on the screen of her phone perched against his chest.

"I think I'll have drunken noodles with beef and extra spring rolls." And some soup. She adds on a couple orders of the spicy, burn out your sinuses chicken coconut soup with extra lemongrass. "My Captain is going to shit a brick when he sees the slip I dropped for another week off." She doesn't sound too concerned about it.

"Suuuure." Carver mhms, nodding while he's being used as a phone stand, letting his arms drop away from Sutton to tuck up behind his head, lacing the fingers together as they join. "Because showing up half a bottle in is the sign of a healthy and well spent day with absolutely nothing you're trying to ignore going on." Says the guy who was rocking a hangover of the ages the first time they ever met. And the second time. The third time he was actually drunk, so that doesn't count.

Then his mouth opens. Just a little. Eyes wandering everywhere but her face as he thinks of a response to her statement about getting paid. Luckily, he distracted her with talk of rice! Score! "Score!" Shit. Meant to think that. "Uuuh, Seven, wait, no, where are you ordering from? If it's that proper place, four." If it's the place he's thinking of, they gave up on doing 'white person levels' years back, and now treat spice orders like they would within their own family. That is to say numerous people have made 911 calls post-spicy beef stir fry thinking they're about to die.

He starts to twist his back, trying to get rid of a small creeping ache, then stops short when it threatens the stability of the phone, making him settle for a sight and a slight arch instead. "Fuck it. Mark it down as trauma leave then sue them if they fire you."

"You want a four, love. I want a seven." Tappy tappy tappy. Note: never share with Sutton when it comes to spicy food from the spicy place. "It's funny, sometimes the day cook around lunch does much lower spice levels, and then people decide to order for dinner, unknowing." She smirks. She probably has gone on several of those 911 calls for people thinking their heartburn is a heart attack. "It's pretty funny."

"Right to litigation." She glances up finally. "You have been in America for a while now." She mms. "They won't really fire me. Too many people get eaten in this town. Besides that, I'd just go work dispatch until he calmed down and took me back." She scrolls down to review the order, then ticks the place order button and tosses her phone aside. Whatever else she has coming will be a surprise. "Probably." Maybe.

Carver watches the phone fly aside, immediately taking the opportunity to twist out his back properly this time, hands coming out from under his head to stretch his arms up and away as he does so. There's a few soft popping noises, and a look of immediate relief. "Exactly. You're..." His fingers click. "Not indispensable, but there's a word like that but not quite as good. You're that." What? It's not like he can ego boost her too much. That shit's dangerous.

What's also been dangerous today are pillows, one of which is snagged by a now-wandering hand to slip under his head, the other folding lightly over her own hand, wherever it may end up, watching her face for a moment with an expression of... well, it's casual until the suspicion creeps in, his eyes beginning to narrow. "Did you just order me a seven and that's your big plan? Kill me with spice, claim the house, solve all problems?"

"I believe the word you're looking for is well-trained enough to be more hassle to replace than it's really worth." Sutton smirks. "Our turnover rate is high in this job anyway. Add into it this town's proclivities for disappearing and breaking people." That smirk fades slowly. She just had a conversation similar with Alexander...

Really, it's amazing the mental statuses in Gray Harbor don't all tick the box for emergency town-wide intervention. They practically need a 24-7 puppy cuddle station downtown.

"No, love." Sutton looks up, her gaze fixing on Carver's. "If I'm going to kill you, you're going to see it coming." She smoothes a hand down the line of buttons on his shirt. "It's not your house I'm after, Alistair."

Carver's hands eventually settle down beside him, one of them juuuust about touching Sutton's knee, his brow raising at the little comment about turn-over rates and the like. "Okay, so we'll go for 'irreplaceable.'" Yeah. That works. He looks pretty satisfied at that descriptor. To the point it might raise questions to whether or not he's still thinking about the GHFD.

"Awww!" And that sounds genuinely pleased, his non-knee-touching hand coming up to take a hold of hers, interrupting the button trailing most rudely, but dragging it up to place a little kiss on her palm to totally, one-hundred percent make up for it. "You'd stab me in the chest like a friend. You're a sweetheart, sweetheart."

... ... ...

"...Wait." His face drops. "Are you after my cat? You-" He starts to faux struggle against her hand immediately, trying not to smile, trying not to laugh, and trying his best not to pull the pillow out from under his head and fwap her with it. "You're not allowed to kill me for my cat!"

Sutton mms. "Of course I'm irreplaceable." She probably isn't, but it's pretty to think so. That thought very clearly skitters across her features before she pushes up to sit on the bed, drawing her knees along it to prop up with an arm. Her legs touch Carver's hip. "Food in about 30 minutes." Give or take a horrifying Vespa accident. That delivery girl they have nights is questionable. She smiles at that little kiss pressed to her hand. "You're right, I would definitely tell you so you could see it coming, then do it from close range, because snipers are pussies." Well then.

"I think you should worry about your cat killing you for your cat." Have that thought, Carver! "Hope's a free agent."

It's Gray Harbor. A paramedic that can beat down a werewolf with a table leg is always needed. At least, that's Carver's initial thought. The second thought would be that Hope is probably listening to this conversation and planning to murder them both some time in the near future.

He actually looks worried for a second, casting a quick eye around the room just to make sure she's not about to leap out of the shadows at them. Wait. He wouldn't be able to see her if she were. Shit.

"God, if you're not it, that cat's going to be the death of me." He honestly states, glancing up at Sutton with a little look of 'Oh well, whatcha gonna do?' and a shrug.

And a hand, sliding up the outside of her leg as far as it can reach, fingertips barely managing to touch her hip. "So before I die by you, cat, or 7-rating spice, give us a goddamned cuddle before I'm driven insane by your not looking entirely sure what to do with yourself."

Sutton watches Carver roll through the mental list of ways he's likely to die, not knowing exactly what it is he's thinking. Which is probably for the best. She's already nervy about wolves. She doesn't need to think about werewolves too. She shakes her head at his shrug, though she doesn't say anything. Her usual devil may care attitude has been replaced, since that deluge of information and feelings earlier, by a more subdued something. It's hard to pin down.

When he asks her for a cuddle, she says, "That would be the bit that bothers you." She slides her hands up his chest, then tips on over to snuggle up to the Brit. "I didn't order you a seven. Calm your tits."

"I will never calm my tits." Carver huffs, splaying out an arm for her to slip over when she tips into the cuddle, curling it around so his hand can find her shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like Sutton's more subdued nature is nothing to worry about. There may have been feelings on either side earlier, but now? Well, that's seemingly in the past, and things are same as they ever were.

"This..." His hand comes up to make some semblance of attempting to cup his chest. It's not easy, and ends up being more a case of spread fingers wrinkling his shirt as he more pulls flesh taut than jiggles anything. "Is my businesses tiddy. It's high stress, all the time. And you-" Hand. Hair. Nails running a slow line through her scalp. "Are laying on party tiddy. Will never be calm, an is usually trying to start a mosh pit."

"Could you never," Sutton begins, "Ever." She rests her cheek on his shoulder and finishes, "Say tiddy in this... in any context ever again. That would be great." Sutton brushes a hand across his chest to hook it across his ribs, elbow draped low. "You're really going to have to take all of that back, I think." She nods, her cheek brushing across his shirt. "Yeah, you have to do it. Right now. Because I'm not drunk enough for —" She does pause in her lazy bitching when his nails trail across her scalp. She tightens her grip on his midsection. "That."

She turns her head and buries her face against his chest. She doesn't say anything for a while, though it's unlikely his business/party pectorals have sent her into a state.

Carver doesn't say anything for a while either. Instead, he just winds a meandering pattern with his nails through her hair, elbow dropping down to rest against her shoulder and his other hand when he turns and leans slightly to drop a kiss atop her head without a word once she's buried herself in.

He's comfortable. That much is for certain. His chest slowly rises and falls with calm, deep breaths that occasionally bring her hair close enough to his face to cause a little twitch and a sniff from his nose, the guy pressing back into the pillow to escape in case of a sneeze that never actually comes.

It's after a while of this silence that finally, without any prompting or change in activity or manner, he ever-so-quietly mutters: "Tiddy."

She lays there with her face against his chest, breathing slow, relaxing against him and breathing in the scent of whatever that bodywash is. Her hair lays soft and tousled across her cheek and against his throat. Sutton is just relaxing enough to let her shoulders ease, to slide her hand up his side. She starts to move when he speaks again, and the freezes.

At the repeated intonation of tiddy, she opens her mouth and bites the shit out of him. Seriously, that might actually leave a mark.

Carver's hands start to push against her head at the bite, no noise or screaming, just the hiss of someone both surprised and in pain. At least, then, he has the foresight to realize that pushing away someone biting the shit out of you might be a terrible idea. It's his fault, really. He smells like fruit, of course he'd get bitten.

"Okay okay okay okay!" He repeats, like someone attempting to calm a dog that's clamped on to your leg because duh you smell like bacon, his hand leaving her head to press to the now damp spot. "I'll never say it again until I totally do!"

Her jaw relaxes and Sutton releases him from her bite. Only after he says he won't until he does. She seems satisfied with his conditional submission. "You smell nice." Are these two things correlated? No, probably not, but it's not the first time she's told him he smells nice. "We should go down and wait for the food." Yeah, Carver smells like fruit and the blonde is hungry enough to order extra spring rolls.

"I'll make you some tea this time. And my train ticket." She slides her leg across his lap, sitting on his thighs before reaching down to take hold of his shirt by the collar to help pull him up into a sitting position.

"You'll make me some tea and a train ticket?" Carver runs a hand through his hair once he's released, dropping it down to resume rubbing at the bite mark and throw out a nonchalant comment of "Yeah, well, you smell nice toooooo!" Can you guess when he suddenly got sat upon and pulled? You get three guesses and the first two don't count.

One arm, at least, remembers that after pushing himself up she should totally get an arm around her lower back. The other? That's still busy rubbing the bite. It's definitely going to leave a mark, and right now stings like a motherfucker. Upside? He's forgotten just how hungry he is. At least for a few minutes.

His eyes wander for a moment, from her face, down her camisole, to where she sits on his thighs, and then a slow, meandering drift back up to meet her with a slight smile. "...Hi."

"I mean I'll book my train ticket." Sutton says this to him, hands still wrapped around the collar of his shirt. "I'll book my train ticket and make you some tea. And make myself some tea, too." She smoothes her hands up his shoulder, ignoring the rubbing of where she bit him, like she didn't just do that. She seems to think he deserved it for what he said. "You should really invest in some other scents, like coconut or vanilla." So he can smell like cakes too.

"Hi." Her hands slide over his shoulders, in from the outside to press against the base of his throat, again trapping his collar. She looks at him for a while, and she's watching him while his gaze meanders across her body. "Is it really okay that I'm here?"

"Aw." Carver actually looks a touch disappointed, finally easing up on the rubbing to slip his hand around one of hers instead of just making that damn bite feel worse. "I gotta say, pet, I kinda hoped you had this fantastical counterfeiting scheme going on." Would it surprise him if she did? Maybe not as much as you'd think. And yes. He does. Notice her plan. To make him smell like cakes. He also considers it. That or he could just pour strawberry icing on his d-nevermind.

"Dinner jacket." He mumbles, finishing a thought Sutton would have no idea he had, his eyes darting back up from where they drifted as he zoned out for a second there. The hand on her back pulls her. Well, it pushes her. Well, she's stronger than he is so really it's more of a casual squeeze of additional pressure, fingers toying with the fabric after a moment. "More than okay. It's better when you're here than when you're not." Aw, look, he held eye contact for a whole three seconds.