2019-12-05 - Holding Hope In Your Hands

"No, Kitten. I don't like that story. Let me tell you this one, instead."

Long, long after all the good boys and girls should be finding themselves fast asleep, wrapped up nice and warm in their beds, Carver sits at home on the rear balcony of number 13. As is so often the case in Gray Harbor, A thunderstorm flashes and booms angrily over the bay, far enough away to not catch the reclining man in the rain, but close enough that the cool chill air of a December night carries with it the tingle of potential energy. Carver's sleeves are rolled, waistcoat on, shoes firmly tied. He's gained a new watch. Nothing exciting, but it's a marker on his normally bare wrist in blackened steel that rattles occasionally as he reaches for the tumbler of bourbon.

Which Hope, sat on the table beside it and far more intent on licking her front paw, is doing a terrible job of guarding. The closest she comes to even bothering to notice the damn thing would be when he places it back down after a quick sip, then slips his hand a whole three inches to the left to sink his fingers into her fur, never once taking his eyes from the storm.

"It's a short one, I promise. My memory isn't what it was, but I'm pretty sure it's Belarussian."

Yes. He's spent most of the night telling fairy tales to his cat. What of it.

Sutton took the long way 'round, but still, she arrives back at 13 Bayside by about 4AM after one beer that followed a couple of glassed of wine. She burned off most of that in the last hour, so when she comes up and keys her way into the house, she's sweating. Her running clothes are just starting to stink. Her cheeks are flushed and cold, nose pink. She kicks off her shoes as she comes in, padding in socks across the living area.

She didn't get caught in the storm, but it might have cut her run short, so she could come back and watch it roll across the bay. She heads past the touch and into the kitchen, tossing her keys to the counter. She stands there, hands resting on it, her bruised knuckles bleeding so, so sluggishly. At least the cold is good for something. She reaches up and pulls open a cabinet, tugging down a mug. Her fingers steeple over it. She waits. She waits. She grips the top of it hard with her left hand.

"A long time ago, Hope-" Carver starts up, ignoring the cat's change in tactic from licking her own paw to casually starting to gnaw at the hand sinking against her fur. "There was a farmhand. We'll call him... Karl. Because Jesus Christ I would massacre the actual pronunciation."

This would be where the door opens. His head doesn't even turn. Hope looks up for the barest moment, but time spent watching Sutton pad across the house and head for the kitchen is time not spent biting Carver. She's got her priorities in order. Priorities that come with a slight break mid-word in Carver's little tale to hiss through his teeth. He's noticed her, yes. He's noticed the lack of any greeting. He's noticed the time.

Carver... Carver notices a lot of shit.

"One day, he pissed off a paramedic and she threw him off a balcony. The end."

He tips his head back over the wooden re-purposed garden chair, looking at both the woman and his kitchen through an upside-down perspective. "Breathe, love. That mug was a gift. Break the TV, it's insured."

Sutton stands there in the kitchen for a few beats on the heels of Carver's request that she smash other things. She lets go of the mug, sliding it back across the counter. She turns to look toward the balcony. She pulls her hair back from her face, her fingers threaded through it. She holds it up off of her neck and faces Carver. "Are you telling stories to your cat." It's a question, really it is. The blonde walks around the couch, and heads toward the balcony. Maybe standing there watching the storm will help.

She wears a pair of short running shorts and a tee. She probably had a thermal on over that, but she lost it somewhere between jamming her last rent check in Byron's mailbox, breaking into Easton's place, and walking back into 13 Bayside. She must be freezing her ass off. So of course she steps out onto the balcony without bothering to find something warmer to pull on over her sweat-dampened running clothes.

"I'm telling stories to whatever wants to listen." Carver corrects, planting his feet down on the floor to slide the chair across the timber, turning at something of an angle to include both Sutton and the slowly encroaching storm in his view, with his hand slipping out of Hope's fur to snag his glass on the way. The chairs out here are pretty nice. Sure, wood construction, but they've arms wide enough to rest his drink on, can be made comfortable with the addition of the few cushions, and actually have a little pinion line to set them reclining if needs be.

Hope returns to licking a paw for a whole half second before thinking better of it, sliding down from the table to start wrapping herself around Sutton's ankles in short figure-eight's. "For a while there I figured it was just the cat, but I don't think she's paying attention anymore." He continues when she steps out to the balcony, shifting himself upwards in the chair to sit a little more upright. That and make his lap available. Sure, there's a whole second chair for her to pick, but that's cold. And covered in cat fur. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sutton glances down at the cat, pausing in her sock-footed progression to keep from tripping over a fuzzy body. She bends to scoop up the kitty, turning back to face the Brit with a black kitty upside down in her arms like a baby, belly to the sky! She might pay for this in blood, but whatever. She's already bleeding. She puts a hand on Hope's belly. It's a little while before she says anything, after Carver's adjusted his seat, after he's asked if she wants to talk. "Melissa wasn't a ghost."

Oh, that's a great place to start. Good conversation starter right there, with no warning.

The blonde takes a couple of steps over to stand beside the chair. Before she says anything else, she sits. Effectively trapping Carver under her ass. Unless he throws her off. "Ghost can't touch anything. Ghosts are tied to things, people, whatever. But they're also not really the spirit of that person, right? They're just some kind of echo and all they know and are are the things you remember about them." She pauses, taking a couple of breaths. "Right?" This second 'right' comes out a little uneven, a little rough.

Hope's a pushover if you treat her right. With a hand on her belly fur and no chance to escape? She's a pushover. Even if she does yowl on the original pickup.

Carver, for his part, at least manages to finish off his glass before Sutton's coming at him without warning. See, man, this is what happens when you make your lap available for the seat. People take advantage. At least he doesn't spit the drink. He does lean forward to place it back on the table before he's trapped, face switching from caught-surprise to easy smile in less time that it takes most people to pull a trigger. Which, if you think about it, is a pretty good survival instinct. Or a terrible one. Letting her talk, his hands slide along the arms of the chair, body leaning to one side so he can at least look around the woman and only make the smallest of faces towards Hope. For a split second, right before Sutton sat down, they both had the same expression of 'What is happening right now.'

"Right." That comes too late to be a response to Melissa being a ghost. It come after a long pause. "Melissa was... a being given memory. Most ghosts you'll find are memories given being."

Sutton has Hope, Carver has Sutton. It's a cuddle pile. Sort of. With claws and a very tense-shouldered blonde.

She gives him just enough time to put his drink down before her lap hits his lap and she tips back against his chest, her shoulder pressing in against his chest. She turns her body a little in, her thighs across his lap. She's really more across his lap than wholly on his lap, and Hope's head is nestled against his chest. Sutton's touch on Hope's belly is soft, fingers tracing little figure eights. She doesn't say much of anything for a little while, her gaze on the kitty's belly. For a while it seems she isn't going to say anything. She doesn't look up, her chin down, her gaze on Hope, her lashes carefully lowered. She swallows.

"Eli's not Eli. Eli's my memory of... Eli."

Carver's eye drops to watch the slow circuling of fur going on with a finger. It's like watching a mouse wander around a mousetrap. You know eventually that bar is going to spring shut, but when. Probably not for a while, considering how hope only wiggles for a second before smacking her chops and settling into a soft ball of cat as opposed to a quick whirlwind of claws.

For his part, Carver brings a hand up to Sutton's far shoulder, arm hanging loose against her back. He doesn't look at her. Doesn't look at anything but the cat, really. Even when there's the low roll of thunder in the distance after the briefest flash of white. Fuck it, at least they're warmer this way.

"I... Yes. No. Sort of." That took a while, and it's quiet. So very quiet. "Knew someone who'd call them 'footprints.'"

Sutton swallows again. "Okay." Not okay. She's been chewing on that for a while, really since she left Easton's place. She slips a finger up to rub gently under Hope's chin. Silence again from her. "I feel like I've been having an argument with some kind of half assed residue of my brother. And it's just fucking cruel to keep doing it when it's not really him and he's gone." Or that's a convenient way for her to stop seeing him.

"Fuck." Softly spoken. Sutton leans back against Carver, loosening her grip on Hope to allow the kitty room to flee if she grows tired of being cuddled, but she doesn't stop gently scritching. Holding something deadly/soft in her arms made it easier for her to let go of the urge to smash. Only just. Maybe she'll go to the gym later.

"I don't know if that means I should let him go... I almost did. I almost buried his medal, but I couldn't. I was gonna leave it at home with mum, but what if he appeared to her? Mind fuck. She has enough to deal with." Not that he appeared to her in Seattle, if he even can. Her legs are nearly frozen after sitting out here in shorts for just a few minutes. She makes no move to get up. "What are you drinking?"

Nope. Hope's enamored. Or sleeping. One's as good as the other really, which means Sutton and Carver are both stuck there, lest she open an artery upon being awoken.

Carver's arm slips around her shoulder properly this time, giving a gentle bump of his forehead to the side of hers. "You're beating yourself up over this." Which could be right, could be wrong, could be a better option than her beating up someone else over this, and he's the only poor bastard around. Either way, he's not about to interrupt her talking her way through this, whatever input he has to offer being both unasked for and unnecessary.

When she asks about the drink, his eyes flick to the empty glass. Then to the door. Finally, to the goosebumps flicking over her skin. "Maker's mark. C'mon-" His leg jolts. "Risk the cat, get up, get inside. You're freezing."

"When did you start drinking again?" Sutton seems to have forgotten that little incident with her missing vodka a couple of weeks back. "Makers is ok, but Bulleit is better." That might be true for her, but not necessarily everybody else. As with all tastes. "I'm not worried about Hope. She'll do what she's gonna do." She turns her head to his again, cheek brushing his. She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then tips forward a little. "You should keep a blanket out here. I don't want to go in." Her back is warm enough, but the clothes she chose for the day... not wise. She does kind of smell of sweat. She should probably shower.

"One glass won't kill me." Carver mutters, nudging her some at the immediate criticism of his choice in bourbon.

It's like she never left.

"What Hope is gonna do is lay there and look at you with adoring eyes any time you stop running fingers through her fur, then get bored, scratch one or both of us, and probably eat a seagull." His hand runs up into her hair, meeting the kiss at roughly the same time the thought may begin to linger that he's not joking in the slightest about the seagull thing. Which... he isn't. He's seen it. Recently. It might be a small part of why he's drinking this evening, and a large part of why Hope is so... calm. But hey, at least Carver has the most seagull-free balcony in all of Bayside. It's a lesson the birds only have to learn once.

And yes. Yes she does. Sutton definitely smells of sweat.

"Close your eyes, pet."

Sutton smiles when he nudges her. She glances back at him. "What was that?" She heard him say one glass won't kill me. She heard him, but she pretends she didn't. As if she's nagging him to drink less. As if she would. She's not a bottle stealer.

"You sound so sure." She brushes her fingers across Hope's belly again. "A seagull. Hope. That's disgusting." She's not kissing this cat. She will belly rub and that is the limit of her affection for Hope. Belly rubs. Done. "Go inside, close your eyes. The last time someone told me to close my eyes..." She snorts at a memory, but doesn't finish that sentence. She watches him. She doesn't say anything, but her gaze meets his, she searches those dark eyes. And then she closes her own.

"She's a monster." Carver's lazy grip tightens around Sutton's side as Hope is 'rewarded' for her noble and well-fought defense of the balcony with belly rubs and empty threats. The emptiest threats. Even if Sutton doesn't plan to, she has to sleep sometime. And then... yes, then, she will one time awaken to a mass of cat resting on her face.

Hope has plans. Hope has goals.

"Please don't finish that thought." He adds, long after a snort has cut her short. He doesn't need to know what happened the last time. Shit. Nevermind. He's already thinking about it. Why are there jugglers and whipped cream? Why are there jugglers and whipped cream? The smile as her gaze meets his only falters for a second. Just a second. Sucks you shut your eyes, Sutton. Totally missed it. Probably. Maybe. Maybe not.

What she can't miss would be that after a moment's silence, there's the definite feel of that oversized security blanket she knows all too well from a few of the early morning visits she made in her past falling over her shoulders. Falling over all of her, in fact. Yes. That includes Hope. There's a low noise. That's just their stomachs rumbling, right? Right.

He makes a mental note that he's probably going to have to hurt something in the future to balance that completely frivolous use out. Well. Not frivolous. Worth it. "Wanna fill me in on what the fuck's going on, by the way?"

Like the blanket just didn't happen. Or happens all the time.

"We're all monsters here," Sutton says softly, a little smirk on her lips.

She smiles at the please don't and the following silence, which goes on long enough that at least four thoughts have pinballed through his brain. She doesn't open her eyes, not even when a few strands of hair are dragged across her face by a breeze that kicks up. The storm's drawing closer, water growing choppy. She jumps slightly with the blanket comes down across her body, and Hope, and her shoulders. Sutton cracks open an eye. Blanket.Hm.

"Did you just..." Yes he did just. One arm cradled under the cat, she reaches up to slide her hand up across his shoulder, and along the back of his neck. Now she only has one arm on the cat, and no belly rubs are happening, and Hope's trapped under the blanket. She tips her head up and back and kisses Carver's jaw. "Thank you, love." She blows out a breath.

"Yeah, sure. I went to see Easton to throw his prosthetic off his balcony, but he was awake, armed, and wearing it when I popped the lock on his door." Awkward. Never mind the fact that Sutton broke in. That is not the salient bit. "Bennie left him when he told her he fucked de la Vega. I'm pretty sure she cried. And then she blamed herself for not healing fast enough from the trauma of his Gohl haunting." All of that in a rush.

"It pissed me right the fuck off."

"Anytime." Carver's hand reaches up to tuck the blanket around her shoulder and up against her neck properly, tipping back a little at the soft press against his jaw and the hand tucked up around him before giving a little peek to make sure her feet are also covered.

And then he listens for a while, closing his eyes against the low sound of a rumbling storm and learning his head against hers as she speaks. Hope kicks him in the thigh at one point, then distracts herself by clawing at the underside of the blanket. When she's done catching him up, he 'Hmm's. Out loud. Then allows it to hang in the air for just a moment. "And you didn't wrestle it off of him anyway?"

He leans his head away to look at her with a quick blink and a soft smile. "Feeling a smidge empathetic, or did you just want to drive a couple of nails home?"

Which might as well be Carver for 'I'll prepare the guest bedroom just in case.'

"I'll prepare the guest bedroom just in case she needs somewhere." Ok, nevermind. That's Carver for 'I'll prepare the guest bedroom just in case.'

"You heard the part where he was armed when I broke in, right?" Oops, she said broke in. Sutton brushes her fingers down the back of Carver's neck, then slides her arm under the blanket. It's hard to snuggle up properly with a bundle of cat in your arms. "I thought about it." Sutton really did think about it. "But then I punched him in the mouth instead." That explains her knuckles.

"It just made me really sad. He nuked his relationship on purpose." She sighs. "I wanted to hit him again, but I had some wine before I went over there. It's not a good idea for me to engage in physical violence when I'm drinking." At least she knows that much. "We're going drinking. I'll let you know when. I'm pretty sure we're gonna come back here wasted, and she might need a place. I offered her mine too. I dropped my last rent check and notification that I'm not renewing my lease." Surprise.

"Thank you. I think she might need it." She pauses, then turns her head to look at him again. "Turns out I'm going to need it a while too. After I pack up all my shit back up into boxes." More boxes. She only unpacked a couple of months ago.

"Sutton." Oops. She said broke in. No, wait. Carver's words came far, far too late for it to be about that. The guy's quiet for most of her continued explanation, in fact. Also as if sometimes he's not in love with the sound of his own voice and is more than happy to shut up and let someone get whatever they need to off their chest. That or he's just scared that if he speaks too loud, Hope is going to really start digging that claw in.

Whichever it is, he makes a pretty good attempt at getting a proper cuddle on, shifting his hand around to grasp around her upper arm. Lightly, but enough to pull close. "I already told you you're welcome here. Any time, for as long as you like."

And that's a squeeze. A hell of a squeeze.

"We'll figure out your rent."

"What?" She asks, sometime after he says her name. She hmms. "Well, I mean... you said that, but now it's real. Like, this is me, pretty much homeless in a couple weeks. Merry Christmas, you have a new roommate." Which is really nothing new from the last month, except she was out of town for a good deal of it. Crashing versus living here for really real. "I'm not worried about rent. Just figure it out and let me know."

At some point, the kitty wiggles down into her lap, freeing her arm. Sutton turns a little, cat-lump moving down the blanket, along her legs, suspiciously toward her feet.

She goes when he pulls her in closer, and turns her head in against his shoulder. "Let me know if your leg goes to sleep." She shifts a little, pulling the blanket up a little when she turns more toward him. "If you'd like to come out drinking, you're welcome. I think we might go to the Firefly Club."

"Y'know, technically it'd also be a birthday present." Carver muses. It doesn't get any more than that. Just 'cause he missed her birthday, it'd be entirely unfair to linger on his for more than a few seconds. "And you're not homeless. Look." He jerks a thumb towards the house. Which... well. His hand's under the blanket. It's not really all that effective. He's also terrified about what the movement may do to goad Hope into action. "House. Right there. Can't miss it."

Oh, yeah, it's a difference between occasionally crashing here and staying for really real. One he's ignoring. Completely.

And there's little he can do to hug her more, so when she turns, he just leans in to it, making sure her feet stay well and truly covered by the blanket, and tucking his chin down to trap the edge of it beneath his jaw. "I have no plans nor intention to join you on a night out drinking, pet. I am going to hide here, with my cat, safe and clear from the accurate hatred of all men."

Hope's getting a Christmas sweater.

Sutton glances over. "What, yours? When's your birthday?" She doesn't seem to get that he's talking about something being a birthday present for her. "Wait, what would?" Hope has paused at her knees, pressed in between her calves. She doesn't move her feet much, just in case. "Yes, it's a sweet house, with a gorgeous view of the ocean." She looks toward the storm. Smarter people would have gone inside already.

"You could come out. Is it that you don't want to come out because one of us should be sober? Or are you worried we'll decide to have a drinking contest and end up in the hospital? Come on, I'm not going down the hating men. I think most of them are morons this week, but that's just part of being people." She mms. "Ok, if you stay behind, you have to have pizza ready." Something to soak up the booze. "Fine, good.I have a lot of boxes. I think I'm going to sell most of my shit. I'm tired of carrying it around." Not the clothes, though. NOT THE CLOTHES.

"I need a shower. I can smell myself through the blanket. Sorry, love. You probably need a change now too." Sweat transfer.

Carver's hand slinks out of the blanket, fingers peering out from under the edge first as he scratches his chin. "27th." Turns out he is considering it a birthday present for himself after all.

Smarter people wouldn't be out here in the first place. It's not exactly warm. Under the blanket it is, sure. Sweltering, even. No. Wait. Sweatering. That's not actually a word, but it is part of the reason Hope is slowly trying to escape. Which Carver just scratches his chin. More. Even more. She's running through ideas and potential outcomes for the night out, and he's just letting her finish.

"You're rambling."

Aaaaaand he's probably going to get sucker punched. Wait, no, this is Sutton. He's going to get punched, see it coming, and not be able to do anything to stop it. "I'll-" She's given a little nudge. With his shoulder. The universal sign of 'Get up.' "-Have pizza ready and waiting when you all get home. Yes, men are morons. Sell your shit if you want, but I have storage space and I don't care how many boxes you bring, and-"

She's given one last little sniff. "Go. Shower. I'll join you once I've thrown this sullied suit away and burned it."

"Twenty-seventh of this month? You got screwed, didn't you?" A birthday this near Christmas is the worst. Sutton shakes her head. "Wait, what's a birthday present for you? A bunch of drunk women in your house arguing over what goes on the pizza already ordered and waiting for us when we get back?" Subtle hint.

"I'm not rambling, pet. You were unclear." He was unclear and she's rambling.

"Oh my god. Stop being so fucking English." Like that could ever happen. She sounds pretty fucking English herself right now, courtesy of being in the same room with him, though her accent trends a bit more prim, somehow he's turned up the volume on it one more time (or it was that couple of weeks in Seattle with Mum). "The problem isn't the boxes. The problem is I don't wish to carry the boxes." Or pack them. Or unpack them. Again.

"Fine." Ugh. She shuffles her legs out from under the blanket and up and over Hope, dragging the blanket with her. "Storm's still going. At least we can watch it from bed." With that, she finally gets to her feet, clear of the chair. "Don't be such a baby. If you think this is smelly-sweaty, you wait till I've run a marathon." She laughs and heads for the doors back into the house. You wait, Carver.

A birthday this near Christmas is why Carver generally doesn't celebrate his birthday. "I'll carry your damn boxes. Jesus."

Carver will NOT carry her boxes. Carver will find people who will carry them for him. He won't find people to pack them. Or unpack them. Again. When she slips from his lap, he takes the chance to stand, Hope dropping to the floor with the soft footfalls and gentle hiss of someone who WAS JUST GETTING COMFORTABLE WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY CLAWS WERE OUT I HAD NO PLANS. "The storm-" he grunts. Old man style, hands pressing on the arms of the chair to get him upright. "-will be going for a while. Abuse the absolute fuck out of my hot water, pet. I'll clean up down here and be up in a minute." Because cleaning is honestly a happier use of his time than thinking about Sutton morning-bombing him with marathon level stank.

And she might see it. She might not. Once Carver's stood and Sutton's reached the door, he takes a little moment to lean up on the railing of his balcony, breaking the atmosphere only slightly with the soft hiss of "Ah! clawsclawsclawsclawsclaws!" as Hope hops up onto the table, then up on to the back of his waistcoat, digging in to scramble up atop his shoulder and waiting patiently for the hand that soon comes to scratch at the top of her head.

"I know, cat." He mutters to nobody in particular. Not even the cat. "Normal life is weird."

Sutton disappears into the house with a snort at the I'll carry your damn boxes. She knows he won't. There are far too many. That's what she's going to end up paying someone for. Eventually. And then there's the issue of her motorcycle... the one that went off with Cristobal a couple of weeks ago. Which she needs to ask about. As the blonde disappears inside, wrapped in that blanket, she mutters, "I'll abuse the fuck out of something."

Hey. At least she didn't throw the mug.