2019-12-17 - Hope-a-Dope

It's late when a storm rolls in over Gray Harbor. A thunderstorm flashes in the clouds above Elm Street, though they have yet to open up and let the town have it. After the close of the Bake Sale at Kelly's Gym, Harry Sutton pushes through the door, wearing her favorite jeans, a fresh tee, and a pair of low-heeled ankle boots. She yawns, covering her mouth with bruised knuckles. She may have tenderized Everett, but she did it with unprotected hands. Waving to someone behind her, she lets the door drop closed and heads along down the street. She pauses a few steps along, and glances down a nearby alley, adjusting the fit of her messenger strapped across her chest.

"... Hey." Sutton squints into the shadows, and those shadows move.

Sutton bends. "Come on home with me, sugar mama. I'm gonna stop by the diner. If we hurry, maybe we can make it back before the rain really starts." Yeah, fat chance of that. "If not, baby girl, we can get a Lyft together. What do you think?" She clucks her tongue and continues on, careful not to step on the kitty. "Let's go get some eggy sandwiches and strawberry shakes." She pauses briefly. "If you want a cuddle-walk, say the word." And off she goes, headed down Elm, enjoying a casual, chilly little pre-storm stroll under the street lamps, leaves skittering along across the way.

Every now and then, Hope pounces one like the fierce hunter she is. Other times the kitty disappears entirely, fading into the darkness.

The woman and black cat turn southwest over to Spruce Street, where all the beautiful elm & pine trees grow. "Gonna need some ice for my left hand, babygirl. You want some bacon?"

With the sun below the horizon, the evening turns cool, humidity in the air adding an extra bite. Sutton shrugs out of her bag, unzips it and digs out a hoodie. She puts her bag down on the sidewalk to pull it on shrugging back into her back just after. Hope doesn't react, busy as she is eviscerating a leaf. The blonde glances around, as you do when you're a woman walking alone through darkened streets.

She makes her way down to the lights of the diner, pushing through the door to make her way to the counter, pulling some cash out of her back pocket to pay for an order already ready to go. Two strawberry shakes and eggy sandwiches, double bacon on one, a side of bacon, well done fries, and a single piece of pie. Double fisting the shakes, she tucks all of the food safely into her back, rejoining the little patch of shadow for the rest of the walk home.

"Don't look at me, fuzzy. I didn't make it rain." Sutton stands there sipping one of the shakes. "I got you some bacon even though you didn't answer me."

"Get in the bag, kitty." Sutton crouches, putting the shakes and her bag down, unzipping it wide. It's warm in there, and cozy. "Get in babe. Lyft isn't always pet friendly, and you scare the civilians." She points to the bag. "Don't eat all the bacon." She nudges the kitty closer.

When Sutton puts the bag back on, she wears it on her front, so she can keep an eye on the kitty. A couple of minutes after she picks up the shakes, a car pulls up and she slips inside, never saying a word about Hope riding shotgun. She pretends, for the whole ride, that her bag isn't quietly purring.

Some ten minutes later, after hitting several lights through downtown and along to Bayside, Sutton exit the Lyft and hip-checks the door shut. She makes her way up to the porch of number 13, the chilly patter of fat raindrops behind her. There's a moment of jostling, then she pokes the doorbell with her elbow.

There's a distant but also distinct mutter from somewhere far to the other side of the door. It sounds like 'Mrphrfuffffkeh'. It also sounds suspiciously like 'You have a fucking KEY.' If one were to have a book draped over their face. Guess what? Carver has a book draped over his face. In fact, he'd fallen asleep on the couch sometime ago, mistakenly holding a copy of Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince above his own head until finally he slipped into slumber and the pages slipped across his face with a dull thud that failed to wake him.

This would be why it takes a little longer than it really should for the guy, clad in a long pair of navy boxers and a too-large shirt that states 'Massachusetts Tee-Ball Hall Of Fame' to answer the door, pulling the handle and swinging it open at the same time his other hand comes up to press against his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle a yawn.

"Hiiiii?" It might be the yawn that has the word rising at the end. It might be the confusion and the question mark. Hard to tell. "Fuck, that's chilly. In in in in HUSTLE." That... that's as clear as can be. He steps out the way, bidding her entrance. And stifling another yawn.

Sutton, despite having full hands and a chest full of stinky gym clothes, takeout food, and a little slide of furry hell in a bag across her chest, takes the time to slide a glance down Carver's current ensemble, then slowly back up to his face. She watches him yawn, tucks the straw into her mouth and takes a slurp of a shake while he moves out of the way and tries to verbally hustle her inside so his knees don't freeze. "You look like you rolled through a donation bin and some of the clothes magically stuck to you and so you brought them home, love." She steps in, leans over to brush a strawberry-flavored ice cream kiss across the corner of his mouth and steps inside. "Are you hungry? We got eggy sandwiches, extra bacon, and strawberry shakes."

Oh, the royal we is it?

"Is..." Carver looks confused for a moment, ruffling his hair into something more suitable for someone in his current state of alertness. "Is that not how you buy your stuff?"

He sounds so, so very sleepy. Looks it, too. Right up until someone mentions eggy sandwiches and extra bacon, throwing it in with a double-whammy of flavored kiss to the corner of his mouth, resulting in a placid smacking of his own lips to try and figure out if she's wearing strawberry lip balm. Yes, he just saw her sip milkshake. No. He is not awake. But the mention of food? It does something, at least. Not enough to get grabby hands going, but definitely just the right impetus to start steering Sutton towards the couch. "Sounds like you got-"

"Wait. We?"

Sutton wanders into the house and turns toward the living room, headed for the couch and the coffee table beyond. She drops to sit, putting the shakes down first, before she unzips the bag a little more, she tips back on the couch. Ziiiip. The bag opens and inside is just darkness. That is until it blinks its eyes. "Look who was waiting for me outside the gym. I promised her some bacon. She wasn't thrilled when it started raining."

"Were you having a good sleep?"

Carver, settling himself back down on the couch beside and slipping his book over to the arm, stares into The Void. The Void stares back, letting out a small little 'mew' of satisfaction at just how warm her makeshift bedding of food is on a night like this.

Carver blinks first, bringing his head up to look at Sutton with some combination of amusement and amazement. "And uh..." Eye dart down to Cat. Back up to woman. Over somewhere towards the ceiling. "Fuck how well I was sleeping She just let you put her in a bag?"

"We walked all the way from Kelly's down to Spruce and then we got stuck in the rain downtown." Sutton reaches into the bag to scritch her right between the ears. "She's a reasonable lady when you present your case and a warm, dry nest when she's upset about getting rained on." Look at her pretending the chances weren't pretty equal between Hope walking away, Hope getting into the bag, and Hope taking a finger. "Wouldn't you get in the bag if you could have the sandwiches?" Now the problem seems to be getting hope out of the bag. "Move your ass, kitten." She gives the bag a jiggle. "You want bacon, I need the bag."

She reaches into to give the kitty a nudge with her hand, poking her butt. She talks to Hope in full sentences like she can understand English. Of course.

Hope seems more than content with just sitting on her nest of-Wait. Did she say she needed the bag for bacon?

Hope, slowly and ever-so-casual, like the idea was hers the whole time, slips out of the bag, turning around to stare at Sutton. And then the bacon. Or at least where the bacon should be. The message is clear, and Carver gets to contend with a slowly whipping tail smacking him on the knee.

Carver, for his part in this, allows himself to be smacked on the knee with a tail, slipping back into the couch and shifting his head from side to side in long, slow motions to try and work a few aches from his neck. "I feel like I should be more concerned about the cat being all the way down by the gym. That's not exactly a short distance. And I could swear she was here when I fell asleep."

Hope gets a tiny finger poke somewhere in the middle of her back. She doesn't care. Bacon.

"Did you have a good night, pet?"

"Yeah, I did." Sutton reaches into the bag, pulling out her takeaway bag, peeling it open. The eggy sandwiches might be a little bit squished, but they're still delicious. She pulls out the first one wrapped in deli paper and hands it to Carver. "Yours." Extra bacon has greased up the sides a little bit more than the other one. She pulls another, then opens a little container of bacon, sets out a napkin like a place mat, rips a rasher to shreds and drops it on top of the coffee table for Hope. "Good girl."

"She was waiting for me when I came out of the, um, Bake Sale." Yes, the bake sale. "Jacob totally showed up with two trays of brownies. It was pretty much perfect." There's a little smirk at that. "Oh, got some fries too." She pulls out a bunch of food, laying it out on the paper bag between them. "I knocked a six-five biker with pretty hair on his ass. It took forever to get him to put his face in range." She'll have some bruises developing beautifully by morning, some aches and pains too, but she's still feeling pretty good now. "Won a little money, donated it to the women's shelter." She glances over at the arm of the couch. "That's what you're reading?"

Carver's eyes glance to the book, but for a bare instant. The sandwich is much more important right now, and with a little lift of his arm as he reaches out for it to let Hope take a little jaunt across to the coffee table and spread out across her belly to paw and nibble at the torn up shreds of bacon.

He, on the other hand, leans back in the couch and carefully adjusts the paper to try and keep grease spillage to a minimum, tucking in the corners around the side of the bread to achieve some facsimile of 'contained.' "You know, I think there are worse places to take brownies to." He muses right before taking a giant bite, undoing all his hard work and sending a droplet of grease directly onto the first 'S' of his shirt. "Glad you showed 'em what for, pet." Mouthful. Bacon. Egg. But at least he's being supportive. As supportive as can be for a guy who hasn't eaten since long, long before she left. A napkin's nabbed to dab at the corner of his mouth, a tiny piece of yolk visible until it's wiped away. "That is what I was trying to read. Feels far too much like learning."

There's a long, thoughtful chew after that.

"Biker, huh?"

Sutton lifts one hand as high as she can indicating big biker. Big. Carver is forgetting important details.

She unwraps her eggy sandwich and takes a bite. The bacon is just a little chewy, egg slightly overcooked but a little yolky still, but that happens when you travel diner food, bread soft and rye (on hers), cheese melty and sharp. "I brought home some special brownies and some regular brownies." She pulls half of her sandwich from the wrapper and takes a huge bite, reaching into the bag to pull out four brownies. "They're not labeled though." Whoops. "They also smell about the same, so I don't know how strong they are." Or which is which. Surprise!

"Yeah, I tried to read that in college. Nope." She kicks off her shoes and leans back on the couch, crossing her legs on the cushion. Once she's holding still, it's easier to see some swelling in her hands, reddened knuckles. "Try spark notes."

Carver notices the knuckles before anything else. Before the words about brownies that he's now certain he needs to stay well clear and away from. He just chews, nodding a little apologetically at his monstrous ignorance regarding just how big this biker was.

His feet slip up onto the coffee table, bare and showing a slight reddening down the side of his left foot. It's a side effect of doing as much walking as he does in shoes made for boardrooms, not sidewalks. A side effect Hope becomes well acquainted with as a toe idly pokes and plays with a slowly meandering tail. A side effect she explicitly ignores because bacon. "Brownies are all yours, then. I uh..." Carver can have bad Dreams. Normally, not an issue.

They're somewhat of an issue when they have an AOE effect. Then she's talking spark notes and the choked laugh he catches nearly sends a piece of egg across the room. It may be overcooked, but he sure doesn't seem to mind. "I'll keep that in mind. You happy with the photos where they are?" TOPIC CHANGE: GO. It stops him bringing up the knuckles, and hey, she obviously put some thought into the placement of the photos that used to live in her old apartment.

Sutton takes a few more bites of her sandwich, quietly eating while he's busy fiddling with the kitty tail. Hope has a long memory, and the bacon pile lasts only so long. She touches his arm without saying anything when he mentions the brownies being hers. Her hand slips down his arm, fingers brushing along the back of it. She tips forward to reach for her shake. She glances up at the landing, not that she can really see the photos upstairs from here. "Yeah, I think they're good there. I couldn't sleep." So floor to nearly ceiling: photos! "Every time I hang them, the configuration changes."

She glances down, wrapping the other half of her sandwich in a napkin to catch any yolk that escapes. "Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

Carver doesn't withdraw his arm at the touch. Like, at all. Sandwich and Hope are more than enough to make up for any slightly awkward memories flooding to the surface, but the soft feel of fingers are a lovely added extra.

And yes, Hope is totally going to murder him for all this toe poking. That continues on unabated. Poke. Poke Poke. She's running low on bacon, buddy. Be careful.

His eyes follow hers to look up at the photos neither of them can see from down here, reaching out with the back of his hand to offer a little reassuring pat to the thigh. "Glad to hear it. I think they look great." As a guy that hasn't really decorated other than furnishings? Yeah. He's telling the truth. A little bit of personality goes a long way to making the place feel a little more like home. "I noted a few had a new layout." More sandwich. In mouth. The guy doesn't really seem to mind about societal rules for eating and talking. Why limit yourself?

Which means he's chewing when she asks about Christmas.

"Do I look like a guy that plans for the holidays?" He has no family, he's thousands upon thousands of miles from home anyway...

"I was thinking nap. Just all day."

Sutton works on a melty third of her strawberry shake, tucks it in the crook of her knee, and reaches over to rest a hand on Carver's knee. She sits there like that, quietly finishing off her sandwich while Carver responds to her, mentions the photos, does his thinking, chewing, and talking. She looks over at Hope, who's really mowing through her porky prize. That cat's going to smell like bacon all night.

"That's a terrible plan." Sutton wipes her hands off on a napkin, hers retreating from his knee just long enough to do so. She crumples it and tosses it just past Hope's nose. The cat barely twitches, but the napkin is probably going to be murdered shortly too. When she's finished with the bacon. "Would you like to come up to Seattle with me for dinner? It's about four hours by train, or an hour and a half if I drive." Probably best not to let her drive. It takes nearly two hours for most people. There's more she has to say about it, but she keeps it light, lets him respond to that before she says anything else.

Carver eyes Hope.

Carver finishes off the last of his sandwich, wiping both fingers and mouth with a napkin before patting the back of Sutton's knee-resting hand with his own and drawing his foot out of immediate revenge-strike range from the weapon of mass destruction laying prone on the table. "Most of my plans usually are." He agrees, tossing his own napkin past Hope. Oh, the target rich environment she has now.

Sutton doesn't have to wait long for an answer. It comes immediately with an easy smile and a soft look of 'Huh, really?' in his eyes. "Love to."

Sutton tucks her feet a little more securely under her own knees, legs pulled up on the couch and crossed as they are. Best not to wiggle any toes while Hope's over-stimulated and high on salty cured fats.

The blonde isn't looking at Carver when he answers her, but once he does, she turns her gaze to his. She looks at him for a beat before she words really sink in. There are only two of them so it shouldn't be hard to comprehend what he said. A little smile quirks the corner of her mouth. "Great. Mum will love you." She says nothing about how 'Pop's' gonna feel about it, but he's her father and Carver's a man she's going to bring home at Christmas. The math is simple. Just don't think about the fact that Harry's father is an enormous marine instructor.

It'll be fine.

"We'll take some wine, buy a bunch of those macarons Vydal makes, and be good to go. Mum's cooking is sometimes hit or miss, because she likes to experiment, but Christmas dinner is traditional and always good. If you have a favorite food from home, she'll make it for you. Everyone gets to select a single dish they love to incorporate. And then your job is simply show up, don't set anything on fire, eat."

Oh. Oh. That kind of visit Seattle. Carver bails backwards over the cou-

No of course he doesn't. What he does do is slide sideways along the couch until the two of them are bumping shoulders, listening to Sutton give the rundown on what exactly Christmas could entail. Yes, he notices the distinct lack of mention on how her father would feel about it. But, c'mon, that's not hard to guess.

It'll be fine.

"My family Christmas usually involved microwaveable roast chicken and the driest potatoes you've ever tasted, pet. If your mum can make passable yorkshire puds, then she could fill the rest of the plate with sprouts and I'd still call that a win." Carver is.... Carver is taking this far too easily in stride. The hell.

"Of course she can make Yorkshire pudding. I can't. I don't know what's wrong with them. They collapse. It's stupid and I resent it." Just in case he had any ideas about Sutton's culinary talents (but at this point who would?). "Pop likes brown sugar ham, but she does a roast too, mashed potatoes, ginger glazed carrots are her favorite, don't ask. Pecan pie for me, and s'mores for, um..." S'mores for Eli. Sutton leans against Carver, sipping her shake. Her other hand rests palm up, fingers loosely curled, on his thigh. She doesn't reach for his hand or otherwise invade his space, but the proximity is familiar and in time ways intimate.

"Roasted sprouts because something green has to hit the table." Of course. She glances over, straw tucked into the corner of her mouth. "I didn't think you'd say yes." A beat. "But I'm really glad you did." Does he have ulterior motives?

Carver fucks up the 'familiar proximity' by dropping his hand in hers and nailing all out proximity. Because to hell with it. "I exploded one once. Rose perfectly. Then kept rising. Then burst." There might even be a little grimace there for a moment. Don't trust the man with an oven. "I think I accidentally made a Yorkshire cake."

He then offers her a little jab in the side for every piece of food she just mentioned. "I've just eaten a sandwich, Sutton. Quit. Mentioning. More. Food." Is that a way to take attention away from the hesitation on Eli's name? Damn right it is. Sometimes he can be hard to read. Sometimes, like this one? Notsomuch. "Of course I'd say yes. Free Christmas dinner? I'm in." Not 'I'd like to meet your family.'

Not even a 'I need to see the people who raised someone who turned out like you', which would be a far more Carver-esque phrasing. Definitely ulterior motives. Even if that motive is just not wanting to have her visit Seattle alone again.

"Gimme shake." Sorry, it was getting too personal. He makes a grabby motion towards the milkshake's straw. With only his face.

Sutton's fingers tangle with Carvers. Ohnoes, laced hands. "So was your Yorkshire cake any good?" She tips the shake toward him so he can have the last of the melty ice cream in her cup. He's lucky she likes him. She doesn't jab his face, rather slowly puts it in proximity so he can smoothly serve himself.

She leans over to open her mouth and bite his shoulder, not hard, just making a point. "I think about two things after a long fight, and one of them is food." Does she know this is a covering tactic meant to let her get away with Eli and also distract her to a different subject? Maaaybe. She lets it happen.

"Free food home cooked by someone else always tastes better." She didn't mention back or dwell on the microwaved foods, because, well, talking the other things and feeding Carver shake to chase down his eggy sandwich seems preferable. She makes a mental note to send Gina and the staff there, including Bennie, something for Christmas. They've taken care of a lot of orders, many of them late at night, quite a few to feed her and Carver.

"Thanks." She says that quietly, much more quietly than the rest. "For saying you'll go." For not making me go alone is the subtext, absolutely unspoken.

"It was terrible." Carver confirms all of the suspicions Sutton probably had about his culinary prowess when the cooking method is anything other than 'Grill this' or 'Fry that.' He might have had further thoughts, but those are soon interrupted by the ice cream milkshake heist of the century!

Which still somehow manages to give him the lingering sensation of oncoming brain freeze. "Theoh-ers-huh-hin, woight?" Would be his guess at the second thing she thinks about after a long fight, but God knows what it means. He just got bit on the shoulder and is pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to try and stave off the incoming headache, so it might as well be Sanskrit.

He releases that pressure about the same time as her voice goes quiet. Headache averted, honest emotions all up in this living room. His lips thin in to a little smile, and there's some more sliding sideways to gently tap his forehead against Sutton's temple. "You're welcome, pet. I'd be dumb to let you go alone again. Especially when there's free food on offer."

His hand pats hers, and it's given a little squeeze as he exhales softly.

"Besides, there's no way anything could go wrong when your parents and I - FUCK"

Sutton sits back on the couch and laughs, her shoulder pressed to Carver's, her head tipped against the cushions. "Yeah, pet, that's the other one."

The blonde reaches for a brownie Jacob made, and unwraps it to take a bite. "Mm. When she lets you go, we'll disinfect that." Until then? She reaches for the remote and turns on the television. Oh, look. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing. Until then, it's just Sutton, Carver, Hope, and the Island of Misfit Toys.