2020-04-03 - I guess we have some time to kill.

"Go, move, get away from Minnesota winters, the rain won't be so bad..."

Grumbling, though somewhat lacking in punch, accompanies Garrett as he enters Espresso Yourself. The minimal grumbling is probably explained by his having had the sense to bring an umbrella with him, which gets dutifully collapsed and shaken a bit out the door before he makes his way fully inside. He's very clearly either on his way to or from work, if the brown khaki pants and lighter brown shirt with various Park Service patches and the like on it are any judge, sturdy-looking boots and bottoms of his pants more than a bit damp as he moves towards the counter, keeping a few paces between himself and it for the more decisive folks to get ahead of him while he considers his options, mouth twisting as he ponders.

Hazel is just finishing up a triple shot, extra deep, skinny latte with not-quite-no-foam-but-less with a dash of cocoa powder as was precisely ordered by the prissy woman who preceded Garrett's arrival. "Surf's out, water's fine. With a hint of clouds and chocolate," announces Hazel blandly and slides the large coffee cup across the counter beside the espresso machines.

Somewhere midway through Garrett's opening gambit, Hazel's attention slides to him and a startlingly sudden smile warms her features. She's dressed in a black blouse, black pants and a white apron, moving easily behind the counter. Thus the shoes are a mystery. "If you came here thinking there'd be less rain, sir, you were seriously misled," she greets Garrett, moving over to the counter beside the register. "Welcome to the java epicenter of the Harbor. How may I make your day better, O Ranger of the Hills?" Oh, she recognizes him. It's a strange sort of game she's playing at the moment. "Nice duds."

The order ahead of him, or more the way it's called out, gets an interested and amused look from Garrett, but his attention shifts quickly from the drink and its recipient to the maker, a smile brightening his features.

"Hazel! What a lovely surprise." He does not seem particularly surprised. Almost as though he knew she worked there, of not when. He glances down at his uniform and gives a small shrug. "It's vitally important not to look like I might accost a line hiker if and when I cross their paths," he informs her, grinning at the greeting. "Not as flattering as basic black, but such is life. How's the coffee business this delightful day?" he inquires.

Hazel leans into the counter as if the inch or two would put her closer to the man in the Ranger uniform. "Hello, Garrett. It's nice to see you." Did Hazel just say that? She did say she was good at her job. "Oh yes," She waves a pointed finger in a circling motion to indicate Garrett at large, "You're so very surprised. You're so surprised I'm considering digging out the smelling salts. Wait. No. We don't have smelling salts. But I was still considering it."

Hazel listens to the man spout the lesson he learned upon their first literal path crossing. "You are a wise man. Definitely vital," she agrees. She makes a show of surveying the man up and down. "I don't know. I think I like it better than basic black." How's the coffee businesss? "Caffeinated, for the most part," she replies drolly. "What am I buying you today, Mr. Canterbury?" She's still playing at the overly-British potential surnames.

"You're paid to say that to people on this side of the counter," Garrett teases, but his smile seems genuinely pleased to hear it all the same, amusement dancing in his eyes. "No smelling salts? But what are you going to do if some poor soul gets the vapors?" he asks with exaggerated concern. He follows her gaze down and up himself, then does the same in return. "Hm. Well, to each their own, yeah?" A grin, then a glance at the drink offerings. "Caffeinated is a good start. Hot. As for me, that depends, can I just trust in your expertise and say something chocolatey but still definitely coffee and put it in your capable hands from there?" he requests.

"No," Hazel counters with a completely different sort of bravado than she exhibited in the wild with no counter between herself and new acquaintances. "I mean it. The look works for you. Add the accent and, well, you know." As if he knows. If some poor soul gets the vapors, Hazel has just the thing: "A potent dose of espresso usually does the trick." Hazel's hip presses into the counter while she listens to the flagrant challenge that is creating Garrett anything her heart desires. "Only if you answer me three questions." She won't continue without a response.

"Well, thank you, Hazel," Garrett ends up going with, accepting the insistent compliment(s) with a small, sincere smile that turns to a curious cock of his head to one side. "Answer me these questions three, hm?" He makes a great show of resting his chin on his fist to consider the proposition, eventually giving a firm, decisive nod. "You've convinced me. Ask away," he offers.

Hazel's brown eyes positively sparkle at Garrett's willingness to play along. "Alright. First: Are you a whipped cream man?" She pauses and waits for that answer. Could there positively be some entendre there? Surely not! Then she queries, "Second: You spoke fondly of cream and sugar. How dark can you take it?" A challenging bit of a flash of that brief smile, "And finally, just how caffeinated do you intend to be when you leave this fine establishment?"

Garrett leans against the counter, expression turning Very Serious for the upcoming interrogation. Briefly, anyways. His own eyes twinkle in amusement at the first question. "I am," he confirms with a nod. "I'll drink black coffee if it's all that's available, it juts tends not to be my poiso of choice," he answers second, before giving the final answer a few moments of consideration. "Caffeinated enough to definitely know I've had coffee, not so much that I feel the imminent threat of a cardiac episode," comes answer number three. "Satisfied, I hope?" he asks with a smile that never seems to quite entirely leave his face.

Hazel slowly folds her arms across her chest as she regards Garrett and every nuance of his replies. She nods once to each answer. "Mildly." Satisfied? That's what she said. "Why don't you have a seat and I'll see what I can do to find the iocane powder." Whether or not Garrett catches the Princess Bride reference matters not to Hazel. She's already turning away and starting up the espresso brewer. She takes her time. There are multiple shots of espresso, a special container of chocolate sauce that she pulls from the refrigerator. A bit of heavy cream. Some frothy goodness. And then on top of that a generous dollop of whipped cream topped by grated bits of dark chocolate. All of this is held in a squat, deep porcelain cup that she places on a saucer atop a napkin with one pirhouette cookie beside it.

She briefly confers with the other woman on duty and then walks the dangerous beverage around to the table where Garrett has -- certainly obediently -- taken a seat. She slides it fluidly in front of him and then takes a seat at his table and slides one leg atop the other while leaning back into the seatback, wiping her hands on the towel looped into her apron. "Drink at your own risk, Ranger." She arches a brow challengingly.

Iocane powder? It gets a faux-suspicious look, then grin. "As you wish." He gives Hazel a nod and turns to find himself a seat, settling at a table near a wall, watching with unabashed curiosity what little he can see from this further, lower vantage. He sits up a bit straighter, anticipation on his face when Hazel makes her approach with the custom concoction, flashing another pleased smile when she seats herself across from him. He makes a bit of a show of wafting the steam that undoubtedly rises from the drink towards himself, contentment on his face. "Well it smells lovely," he decides before raising the mug carefully to his lips, taking a small sip, probably more out of concern for temperature than poison. That little sip gets a pleased look, though, as well as a momentary, quickly-wiped-away whipped cream mustache on Garrett. "If I didn't know better, Hazel, I'd guess you do this professionally."

It's definitely coffee based. The espresso scent is smoky and complex. But there are notes of chocolate that isn't simply chocolate. Something tart blended in with the bittersweet of the dark chocolate. Hazel pulled out her secret recipe. Dark chocolate sauce mixed with raspberry puree. The heavy cream cuts the smoky shock of the espresso. The whipped cream is slowly melting into that dark, heated beverage. Hazel watches curiously, perhaps wondering if he'll be able to tell that it's not your typical chocolate syrup. But she's not giving away her secrets.

Garrett did earn himself an unusually lighthearted laugh at his riposte to the 'Princess Bride' reference. "The sense of smell is too often overlooked in the world of java," she replies mildly. She could be full of it. Or she could be sincere. If he didn't know better?" She sits up abruptly, up and away from the chair back, lifting a finger to her lips and glancing around. "That's a secret."

"One that is safe with me, I promise," Garrett promises in a dramatic stage whisper and glancing around for would-be eavesdroppers. He gives the coffee a few moments to sit, watching whipped cream melt into the hot goodness beneath it. Maybe he's letting the flavors develop a bit. More likely he's letting it cool. Not very much, though, evidently, as soon enough he's taking up the mug once more and taking a larger sip, getting a better taste of things. Followed quickly by another eager sip. "I have no idea what's going on in this mug but I might be in love," he informs the barista.

Her secret is safe. Hazel nods with faux solemnity. Something about the counter, the shop, the apron ... something! It gives the woman a bit of space to be more open, a bit more loose, and certainly more personable. She doesn't rush his coffee experience with questions or commentary. She's one of those rare people who can sit in comfortable silence in the company of another person.

Her lips curve faintly upward though as he braves the hot coffee for further tastes. He might be in love? Hazel arches a brow quizzically. "So you're one of those. A little dark chocolate. Some raspberries. And you're giving away pieces of your heart? What would have happened if I'd served you a scone, too, hmm?" She taps her fingertips slowly atop her crossed knee, speculative. Maybe even faintly curious.

Silence Garrett can work with, being more than a somewhat used to it on days spent in the woods alone. A few more sips as the drink finally reaches an easily drinkable temperature, occasionally glancing across the table and offering Hazel a little smile. Then a curious look as she questions his willingness to hand his heart away, blinking a few times. "Well, you /did/ bring me a biscuit, which is close," Garrett points out. "And maybe I meant the drink, not the mind behind it, hm?" he suggests, raising the mug to his lips again, eyes sparkling with a playful light over the ceramic rim.

Oh my! That tips Hazel's brows upward. The food. She meant he was in love with the food! "I did," she agrees, possibly charmed by the Briticism. "I thought you meant you were feeling pangs of love for the coffee," she clarifies unnecessarily. "Definitely the drink." She waves a hand. "Pay no attention to the woman behind the espresso machine." Wizard of Oz anyone? Still, that sparkling, possibly playful look is mildly fascinated.

"Glad we're on the same page, then," Garrett says lightly, setting his mug down and breaking the cookie in half, offering a piece to Hazel. "Come now, I think I'm well past the paying no mind to Hazel the Great and Powerful," he counters, dipping his own half a cookie very briefly in the coffee, nodding his approval as he takes a bite. "Speaking of failing to pay no attention to the woman behind the espresso machine, any notions on when I might next have a chance to continue not ignoring you? I believe a friendly race was suggested?"

Hazel leans forward to rest one forearm atop her crossed leg, stretching out her fingers for the half of the delicate, cylindrical cookie. She looks at it a moment, inspecting it with some interest, then takes a bite. "So be truthful, now, Garrett Windsor," she begins after swallowing her bite of the cookie. "If you could suggest some improvement for this ..." She waves the cookie around in a wide circle without sitting back and away from the small bistro table, her body language all about secrets and confidences. "-- shop, what would you suggest?" Hazel has a guess about what the man will say, but she waits with an expectant air to her expression for what he replies.

Garrett watches Hazel inspect the partial cookie with amusement. "Unless you put it there, no iocane powder, I promise," he assures before matching her lean, glancing about and looking contemplative. "I am always truthful, for one," he points out with a grin before turning to the actual question. "My first recommendation would be to get better consultants than the local park ranger who only stops in every other week or so." He gives a small shrug, looking vaguely apologetic. "Sorry. Not my area of expertise. Seems like a perfectly functional shop to me. Coffee is excellent. Service is also excellent. Can you physically move the whole place closer to my house?" he suggests playfully.

"But I assumed we'd both developed a tolerance for iocane powder over the years. To best any ill-intentioned foes," Hazel murmurs with feigned surprise. Garrett is always truthful? This tidbit is interesting and tucked away for later consideration. "Well, that's no good," she complains quietly. Her co-worker handles the afternoon lull just fine on her own. "I wanted the Ranger demographic's opinion." Hazel affects an unconvincing, perturbed look that melts away just as quickly. "It's functional. I would agree. Excellent service? I'll be sure to report that." She straightens in the chair, folding her hands together atop her aproned lap. "I'll see what I can do about relocation. No promises." Maybe this is Hazel's 'playful'. A person just has to see it for what it is.

Garrett heaves a heavy, dramatic sigh and looks down at what's left of his cookie, giving his head a small shake. "Afraid not. Suppose I'm on my way out, then." He shrugs and accepts his fate, eating the rest of the cookie before saying anything else. "I can convince some folks to stop in after work one of these days, if you'd like," he offers. "My boss is local, along with one other I've barely met. The suggestion that his 'advice' is given any consideration gets a small laugh. "I'll do my best to keep my hopes in check," he assures her, glancing about. "So, how long you stuck here today?" he asks, idle curiosity in his voice.

"You're definitely on your way out. But it's slow-acting. You may only have fifty or sixty years left." Hazel solemnly relays that fate of his. "Honestly, I was expecting you to note the distinct lack of live music. Not that mid-afternoon is a heavy flow time, but I know I'd enjoy some live music to pair with the java." He'll convince people to come to the coffee shop? "Oh no, I didn't mean you should ... there's plenty of business. Don't you worry." The worry might more be how a woman can live on only an hourly wage at the level baristas in Gray Harbor are paid. How long is she stuck here? "I skipped my lunch and this is my break. A few hours overdue. If I were playing by the rules, I'd be leaving oh..." She glances to a clock on the wall. "-- twenty three minutes ago."

"My life, cut tragically short," Garrett despairs, throwing the back of his hand across his forehead as he faux-faints. Those vapors he warned about earlier. They trouble resolved itself without Garrett falling from the chair, though, and he smiles across the table. "It was a joke. You wanted more input from the ranger demographic." Pause. "It wasn't a particularly funny joke, I admit," he says with a small shrug. He follows Hazel's gaze to the clock and back to her. "Hmmm, are you planning to continue being stuck here? Or are you theoretically kidnap-able now?" he inquires, then quickly clarifies. "A completely consensual kidnapping. No mace needed."

There's a hint of some response behind Hazel's serious brown eyes. Oh-so much underneath the composed figure she presents to the world. And the silence of it is all the more noteworthy when her cautious switches are flipped off. A person could easily enough translate it as arrogance or even aloof disinterest. But there are several, far less obvious options there, too. "Please don't faint," she murmurs dryly. "I don't feel like crawling on the floor. I've been here since four forty-five this morning." No wonder she's overdue to get off work.

She probably won't tell Garrett she was hoping for an extra shift if someone didn't show up. "Sometimes getting stuck can be lucrative." Close. "Theoretically? I suppose I am always --" She realizes strangely belatedly what the man is saying. "You shouldn't talk so dismissively about my pepper spray. It's a cathartic experience, really." She trails her gaze musingly over the man's shoulders, his hands on the coffee cup, the line of his uniform, and back up to his face. "Where?"

"I can accept no as an answer if you'd prefer to continue your decidedly more lucrative endeavors," Garrett says, sounding perfectly sincere in it before raising a brow when the pepper spray is mentioned. "Spraying someone, or being sprayed? Because if you say being sprayed is anything short of awful, I may be forced to call you a liar," he challenges... but the challenge fades to a smile readily enough when she seems inclined to hear out suggestions for where he might kidnap her away to. "Depends. Rain isn't too heavy, probably tolerable enough for a run. Or, given that you've been here. since before five, dinner?" he offers.

He can accept 'no'. Hazel tips her head just so and lengthens that regard. "It sounds as if Rebecca is going to show up for her shift. Unless she flakes at the last moment. And her flakery tends to be more planned out than that." A hint of a smile at the corners of Hazel's lips. "Well, perhaps if you add 'invigorating' to 'awful' we might come to some agreement. But I'm not entirely against hearing how you sound when you object. It's a mood I can't quite imagine on you, Garrett Wimbeldon." He makes particularly intriguing suggestions. "When a run is one of the options, I'll always choose that first. Did you actually come here this afternoon with kidnapping in mind?" Because that might just startle Hazel.

"The nerve, showing up for her shift when you were hoping to fill in for her," Garrett says, the disapproval heavy enough that it must be fake. "You are technically correct. It is invigorating, but much like being mauled by a bear is probably invigorating, it's something I'll just as soon avoid," he responds. "A nice run in the rain, though... that's invigorating," he says with a smile. "As for my intentions, no, kidnapping was not at the front fo my mind. Coffee was. Though I did choose here over, say, the kettle at home because of the possibility of the company I might run across," he admits. "Full-on kidnapping is a spontaneous choice, though," he answers.

Hazel waves a hand in the air in an I-know-right? sort of demonstration. Darn Rebecca and her fickle reliability. "I won't argue with your bear comparison," she replies with more of a smile. "If I have to use it, I absolutely want the full-grizzly experience for whoever it is I've decided to spray." Hazel is not at all a kind soul. At least not in that regard. A nice run in the rain. He can see her expression open up just a bit more at the possibility. It may also help that he claims kidnapping wasn't his purpose for the visit. "Do you kidnap on the regular, then? I wouldn't have tagged you as that sort of hobbyist." She unfolds her hands and slides her palms along the top of her thighs after uncrossing her legs.

"Ever consider a tazer?" Garrett suggests, apparnelty not joking since his smile is, if only for a few moments, fully absent as he asks the question. "Nothing stops someone quite like ten-thousand volts, yeah?" But then it's back to lighter topics, like hobbyist-level kidnapping, and he takes a moment to consider his answer. "I dabble," he eventually decides on. "Advice from a friend suggested it's a fine way to chase off unwelcome monotony, so I've been trying to put that to use," he explains. "Kidnapping isn't overly presumptuous, I hope?"

Hazel nods once. "I've considered it. But they're not easy to conceal and I don't want something that can be used against me if there is a struggle." It might be concerning to hear how thoroughly Hazel has thought through this hypothetical situation. He dabbles. "A charming, British, running, Ranging, sometimes-kidnapper. I should perhaps be more on my guard." That wouldn't be fun at all.

"Tell me about your friend and this advice." Hazel may just realize after she makes that request that she sounds far more interested than she intends to. "It's only presumptuous if you have complicated motives." She arches a brow and settles back in her chair, each hand atop a black pants-clad thigh.

"Valid. You can still fight back blinded by your own mace, not so much hit with your own tazer," Garrett agrees, seeming to approve of this (perhaps a bit paranoid-seeming) logic. His mouth opens in shock at the suggestion of being on guard, though. "On guard against what?" he asks, frowning. Not convincingly, most likely, but frowning all the same, at least until he shakes and laughs. "Better yet, no specific motives at all. Flying by the seat of my pants," he assures. "And the friend... what would you like to know about her?" he inquires.

Hazel nods slowly as Garrett puts it to words. "You're getting it, Buckingham." The petite barista regards Garrett for a stretching set of moments. "You're joking, right?" She quells some amusement, though it doesn't extinguish the sparkle in her eyes. "I just made a whole list of reasons you should be ..." What? "... off limits. It was a persuasive list. You can't deny it." He laughs somewhere in there and Hazel drifts back in to rest her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm.

"You want me to believe that you're motiveless. A creature of pure spontaneity. Hmmm. Maybe." Her attention flickers to the coffee cup and back to Garrett's face. "I'd like to know what sort of person encouraged you to kidnap people randomly. And perhaps I might also like to know what sort of company you keep. It says a lot about a man. Even if he's British." Her fingers half hide her smile.

It takes Garrett a moment, head tilted as he tries to parse Hazel's meaning, but it's visible in his eyes when it clicks. "Oh! Yeah, no, not off limits, no jealous others that may suddenly make a choice that lands then on the wrong end of a can of pepper spray," Garrett assures, then pauses. "Which isn't to say utterly unattached. Given what you seem to understandably have suspicions about what my motives may or may not be, there is some complicated mixed into that." Garrett pauses, clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee. that is getting sadly close to empty, and speaks again. "Sparrow is absolutely the sort to encourage spontaneity, yeah. Kidnapping was not, in her defense, an overt suggestion that was made." Pause. "She's also the drummer in Lowered Expectations and generally awesome. And part of aforementioned complicated." His smile is all but gone, obvious uncertainty having replaced it.

Garrett's response causes Hazel to slowly sit up straight in her chair. "Um. I don't think I said what you think I said, Garrett." No last name? This must be serious. "But I think you're underselling yourself when you claim there isn't anyone who might feel a twinge of ... something." She shakes her head. Not possible. She has decided.

A name! "Tell me about Sparrow. Is she cute? Do you liiiike her?" There's a singsong quality there that almost harkens back to school days. Hazel's eyes dance. "Now we're getting somewhere. What kind of complicated? Complicated is interesting." Almost interesting enough to take her mind off running for a handful of minutes.

Garrett blinks. In an instant he goes from uncertain, then embarrassed, then laughing and shaking his head. "Sorry. Yeah. So it seems. Right." He finishes his drink and clears his throat. "What would you like to know about her? Her name, unsurprisingly, is not actually Sparrow but Philomena." This fact makes Garrett smile for a moment before he continues. "She's quite possibly one of the boldest people I know, in every possible way. And I am more than somewhat fond of her, yes," he answers, the fondness in his voice no doubt betraying that final comment before he actually says it. "Complicated, I admit, has a low bar when I have a history of naught but serial monogamy. We are seeing each other. More than occasional casual dating, but not a dedicated, monogamous relationship," he explains. "Complicated."

Oh, don't you think that Hazel didn't notice that smile after the name explanation. She nods once, slowly, perhaps even fascinated. And it turns out she was correct. Here Garrett earns himself a full-fledged smile. "Bold people are incredibly intriguing," she comments thoughtfully.

"So dating a band member, not exclusive, but clearly smitten. And not the sort to share, but sharing nevertheless. Oh my, Garrett. You live a complicated life." She holds her hand out across the table as if offering to shake his hand. "Hi. I'm Hazel Quinn. I like running and rarely find people interesting enough to consider running away with them." She might have added the 'away' bit of it.

"I did say complicated," Garrett reminds, but he's smiling again now, potential awkwardness apparently having been successfully side-stepped. "It's not nearly as difficult to navigate as it sounds, for what that's worth," he adds before his smile widens a touch. "A pleasure, Hazel Quinn," he says, taking the hand and giving it a firm shake. "I rather enjoyed the cliche last name game, but at risk of ruining it.... Garrett Marcus." Alas, the mystery dies. "Oh, have we shifted gears from consensual kidnapping to running away together? That does sound much better," he agrees.

He definitely said complicated. Though, in some way it makes the whole situation so much more simple for Hazel. There's a visible loosening of her shoulders. "Oh, it sounds plenty difficult," Hazel replies. "But then, like you used to be, I'm not big on switching dance partners with each new number." Does Hazel even do dance partners? Garrett shares his last name. "If you think I'm going to stop playing with your name, you've underestimated my tenacity a little."

She shakes that hand, having held it longer than she intended and abruptly drawing her own back. "If by 'running away together' you mean putting on some running clothes, getting our heart-rates up, and breathing heavily." She hmmms for a moment. "I think that came out wrong."

A grin at the assurance that name games shall not abate any time soon and Garrett nods, not looking offended if hands linger just a few moments longer than is fully necessary. "I should have suspected you'd have tenacity to spare, what with the running," he muses, nodding. He smiles, eyes bright with amusement at the phrasing. "You did specify putting clothes /on/. Hard to misinterpret that, even intentionally, however tempting deliberate misinterpretation can be sometimes," he says, chuckling. "Is that our plan, then? Escape all this pesky warmth and comfort in exchange for a nice, wet, cold run through the woods?" He tips back the last remains of his drink.

Hazel observes Garrett's grin like an anthopologist who has found a new tribe in Papua New Guinea. No, really. She's able to let go of the reins a bit and some of the personality that is usually well concealed slips out. "Yes," she agrees. "It would have been an obvious assumption to make." Tenacity. But now Hazel's smile lingers. He'll have to get used to that. She may be playing at relief or there might be some genuinely intermingled in.

"Definitely clothes on," she echoes. "I won't hold you to a run, if you're not feeling it. But now that it's on my mind, I'm going to have to go, myself." Where most women her age would take any excuse to avoid wet, cold woods, Hazel positively has a fire lit beneath her. She pushes to her feet, sliding her chair back as she does so. "You were hoping for dinner, weren't you," she states sadly on his behalf.

"Definitely not naked trail-running weather," Garrett agrees with a grin. Hoping for dinner? He shrugs. "Maybe, but only in the same way one might hope for chocolate ice cream and get strawberry. Certainly not anything worth complaining over." He grins and glances out at the persistent drizzle. "Besides, if I don't get used to running in the rain, I'm going to lose my edge, and then I'll look even worse if we wait for a dry day to run together. So I'm absolutely game to run still, if you're still okay with company?" And now he's standing, still smiling. "I only used the cap park the other day because I had the dogs with me. If you don't object to a touch of cross-country before hitting the trails proper, my house isn't far from the edge of the woods?" he suggests.

Definitely not! Hazel has the audacity to mock a shocked expression before laughing. "Okay, okay, Archibald. We'll get your ice cream." So now the crazy British names work both ways. "Running in the rain is my favorite. There's a hush but there's sound. You're so much more a part of all the living things." She pauses a moment. "And the crazies don't like getting wet." She nods. Still okay with the company. "I don't mind," she begins, but then considers the fact that she needs to go home to change. "I -- is your house easy to find with GPS?"

"It'll be a good reward for a run. You know, for those of us that can't quite call the run itself the reward," Garrett says with a faintly teasing light in his eyes. "I suppose I could see why that might appeal. And a spring rain here is still a fair bit warmer than a spring rain back home, so I'm sure I'm being a good bit more dramatic than it called for. Running in the rain it is," he agrees, then gives a nod to the at last question. "Easy to find without GPS, for that matter." Just in case, though, he pulls out his pen and pad of paper (because park ranger, of course he has those on hand) and scrawls his address on it, handing it to Hazel. "Meet you whenever you get there, then?" He flashes another bright smile.

"I won't be long," Hazel almost challenges, cutting through all the pleasantry and interaction. "Put your number down too, yeah?" After he does so, Hazel takes the piece of paper and remembers to smile. It's a distracted but genuine smile that holds no small amount of anticipation. "I'm expecting I'll get there before you've even got that uniform hung up." And with one last glance at the bright smile the man offers, she heads back behind the counter and into the back room beyond.

An hour later.

Garrett's phone rings. The voice is familiar if somewhat distraught. "Mr. Bond? Um... my car broke down. I'm on ..." She tells him what road on the way to his house she's standing on the side of. "Maybe it's too late to run?" She's giving him an out.

Garrett adds his number without hesitation, flashing another bright smile. "Racing already, are we?" he teases, then nods and gives a wave before he drops his mug and saucer off at the counter, making for the door and home.

An hour later.

Changed and stretching a bit, Garrett moves towards the phone, giving the unfamiliar number a look, a pause.... then answering.

"Wait, your... oh, hell. Uh, I can come pick you up or something. I don't know much about cars, but I can take a look, or at least get you somewhere that isn't the side of the road." His tone doesn't really brook discussion, and the jingle of keys probably carries through the phone speaker. "Be. there in, like, ten minutes tops," he says, heading out towards his car.

Hazel listens to the ranger run through his own thinking, silent on her end. Standing in the rain with the hood of that ancient civic up and staring foggily at the engine. "You don't have to --" Oh, she so didn't mean to make the man feel like he needed to play Superman. "Ohhhh-kay," she replies and ends the call. "C'mon baby," she tells the car. "You love me. You want me to be independent. You just need a rest. You'll start up fine in an hour. We good with that?" She pats the front of the car. Pat pat. "That's right. You just rest." Hazel is having more of a conversation with her car than she does with most people.

She's already wet. No need to transfer the wet to the seat of her car. Hazel turns around and leans her rear back against the front of the car, folds her arms (the hand holding her phone tucked beneath the other arm) and waits. It may even be that she's found some zen headspace by the time Garrett pulls up.

Coming from the other way, Garrett passes Hazel a few minutes later, presumably turning around somewhere convenient and coming back to pull up behind her. He has donned a raincoat over his black sweats and dark gray t he was presumably going to wear for running. His umbrella, still folded, is in hand as he approaches the front of the car. "Fancy meeting you here," he says with a glance at the car and a frown. "So, this a new development, or do you know what's wrong with it and it just decided to be temperamental today?" he asks as he offers Hazel the umbrella. "There's some blankets and stuff in my car if you're cold," he adds, offer obvious in his voice before he gives the engine a look, glancing between it and Hazel.

Hazel remains settled against the front of the car as she watches Garrett drive past, then sees him pull up behind where she's 'parked' not so much later. The offer of the umbrella is sweet. "Thanks," she begins. "-- but I think it's too late for an umbrella." She's wearing what were light grey running leggings and a red tee shirt beneath a now-completely wet gray hoodie. Beneath the sodden hood, it's likely her hair is tied up into a pony tail like the one she wore when they first crossed paths. "I'm so sorry, Garrett."

He asks about the car. "What, Betsy? She just has 'moments'. Most of the time if I give her a rest she starts back up after a couple of hours." Because Hazel doesn't know much more about cars than how to jump them, how to check and add oil, how to put on a spare tire, and where the gas nozzle goes. It begs the question: how often does she sit by the side of the road and wait 'a couple of hours'? "I'm so sorry I kept you waiting. I hope I didn't ruin your run. Maybe you can still go. I really didn't mean you had to drive out here or anything. I just didn't want to make you wonder who I had to pepper spray."

Garrett's stare into the engine is blank. Nothing has obviously exploded. As far as he can tell, everything that looks like it should be connected to something is still connected to something. And thus expends his expertise. The declined umbrella gets an understanding nod, but the apology gets a raised eyebrow, amusement written across his face. "You called a man who literally rescues stranded people for a living and didn't expect him to hop to?" he questions, grinning. "It's fine. If you recall, I was low-key hoping for dinner, not running," he reminds. "Some jumping jacks, push ups, and stretching were probably a good compromise," he decides. Then he looks back to Betsy. "...you're not really planning to just stand at the side of the road for a few hours, are you? It's not /that/ warm out." Pause. "I'm glad you didn't have to pepper spray anyone."

It's true. Everything connect-y is connected. No evidence of explosions. It looks like a weathered car engine. He describes himself as a man who rescues stranded people for a living. It may be that Hazel never quite thought of it that way. "Well, think of it more as me not playing damsel very well. Distress? That's even worse." But that's all Hazel's issues and nothing to do with Garrett.

Isn't that the way? He mentions the temperature and then Hazel shivers. "I definitely don't intend to keep you from your dinner, Sherlock." What was she planning? "I -- maybe I was." Planning to wait. Is that so wrong? The last statement slides a quiet smile over Hazel's usually-neutral features. "Me too, Garrett. Me too."

The engine still looks absolutely engine-y, so Garrett's attention stays squarely on Hazel. "The distress is marginal, at worst, I'd think. Wild animals and exposure risk are both low enough, all things considered," he muses, looking around before his eyes fall back to Hazel.

"Sherlock, hm?" Garrett quirks a brow upwards. "Well, I'm obviously in no position to make you do anything, so if you want to wait in the rain for a few hours..." He trails off a bit before continuing. "Or, we can go find somewhere warmer and dryer, eat something, then try seeing if Betsy is feeling more cooperative," he offers as an alternative. "I bake a mean frozen pizza," he adds with a grin.

The talk about Sparrow.
The fact that he's only here because she called.
The iocane powder.
Or maybe the fact that Garrett professed deep feelings for her dark-chocolate-raspberry java concoction.

Something leaves Hazel less discomfitted by the thought of frozen pizza at Garrett's home than she might otherwise be. "You heard me." Sherlock. "Okay. If it's not an inconvenience, I'll try some of your legendary pizza." She pushes away from the car, pulls the hood back down and ... locks the car door? What crazy person would even contemplate breaking into her battered, ancient car? She does a passable job at hiding how disappointed she is that there isn't going to be a run. "But you're going to play your guitar, too."

Garrett does his best not to put forth any pressure while Hazel decides, giving the engine a glance in case it decides to do anything unexpected. It doesn't. When his offer is accepted, though, he looks back towards Hazel and grins. "Beats standing around in the rain, at least. And no, not an inconvenience at all," he assures. The demand that he will not only feed but entertain gets a small laugh and nod. "As you wish." Run? Might be on the table when she sees that the woods are, in fact, not that far from Garrett's house at all. "Oh, uh, heads up, there's a third dog you didn't meet there. Edgar isn't quite the runner the other two are." And with that he's heading towards the Jeep to taxi them both to his place.

Garrett is a wise, British-Minnesotan gentleman who learns quickly. "Yeah, probably," Hazel answers. "But I'm waiting to taste your supposedly great frozen pizza before I make my final verdict." Even if she doesn't smile when she says the words, he might be perceptive enough to begin to recognize a playful, warmer-than-indifferent light to her eyes. One more homage to Princess Bride. It might just earn him points. As for a run? With Hazel? A run is always on the metaphorical table. "A third dog? You might qualify for some sort of status at this point, Garret." Just what status that might be, she doesn't elaborate.

Hazel appreciates that Garrett doesn't do the gentleman-opening-the-passenger-door thing. She climbs into his Jeep and pulls her door closed, reflexively reaching to fasten her seatbelt. His place is pretty close, and Hazel contents herself with familiarizing herself with the last few turns for future reference. You know, in case she has an emergency only an official Park Ranger can solve.

"Nice place," she states sincerely when they walk inside. And she means that. Most anything is a step up from her home-sweet-home. She isn't so bold as to just wander his house when he lets her inside, but she does explore any rooms he leads her through, looking for hints at the kind of person Garrett is from his living environs.

"Well, I was only supposed to really have a dog and a half. Edgar was supposed to be shared, but then Kelsey went out of town for a bit and asked me to take Edgar and dog-sit Wishbone, and now here we are," Garrett explains. He sounds a bit upset, and probably not about the influx of dogs in his life. He /does/ do the gentleman act at the front door, but that's mostly on account of his having the keys. "Thanks," he says when his place is complimented; it's not particularly impressive, a slightly run-down 2-bedroom house, though it's kept nice and neat, either through attentiveness or not being there enough to make a mess. "Right. So. Pizza. Meat lovers, supreme, or sausage and mushroom?" he asks, moving towards the kitchen but still mostly looking at Hazel. "And did you want some dry clothes or a shower or anything? Clothes'll be baggy, big shouldn't be too comically long?" he offers.

"Here we are," Hazel agrees existentially. "You're a good friend. And it sounds like this Kelsey person is either a bit of a flake, or there's something more worrisome going on." If you don't mind her candor. Yes, the one with the keys should probably open the door. It works better that way. She explores the neat, if slightly run-down, abode as much as her roving gaze will allow as they walk to the kitchen. "Supreme," she answers easily. She doesn't do the wilting violet act. Really, it might be that Hazel doesn't do acts. You may just get what you see.

Here or there she has to fiddle with a tchotchke or picture frame. There have to be hints about Garrett other than the fact that he is neat. Her roving attention slides back to Garrett as he looks at her across the kitchen. Does she want warm, dry clothes? There is a long hesitation at the offer. Of course she does. But what does that translate to, leverage-wise? Does she give over some power in the situation when she's already without her own transportation and in a place that isn't hers or neutral? She has already spring-boarded away from her general choices and behavior. Why not another step? "Yeah. That would be nice if it's not too much trouble." Clothes.

"...probably more the second," Garrett says after a moment of hesitation, sighing softly, shaking his head as he starts to warm the oven, pulling the pizza in question out of the freezer. Knick-knacks are sadly lacking. There's a single picture on the wall of him and two women who, judging by skin color, eyes, and snowy background are probably mother and sister. A guitar case leans in the corner at the end of the couch in the living room, a well-worn armchair opposite it.

"Clothes, warm and dry, coming up," he says with a nod. "Help yourself if you're thirsty," he offers before dipping off into the hallway. The fridge has a variety of options; soda, water, orange juice, beer. A few Tupperware containers of presumed leftovers of some sort. Another picture held up with a magnet is attached to the door of the fridge, him and the probably-sister again, though it's decidedly less snowy in this one, sun and a lake in the background.

Hazel ends up leaning against one end of the kitchen counter, watching the complex process of putting a frozen pizza into the oven as if it were fascinating. Or as if she were abruptly very hungry. The guitar case is noted. It might be that she wonders at there being only one. He heads to get her some warmth in the form of dry clothes and Hazel unzips her hoodie. The red tee beneath is far less damp than the outerwear and the spandex pants that started out light grey. The wet hood is pulled off her head to reveal the expected ponytail.

He's gone for a bit and she peeks into a random cupboard, a drawer, then opens the refrigerator. From there she pulls out some sort of cola -- whatever he has on hand -- and pops the cap before taking a drink. Probably not the best choice for someone who is now shivering almost constantly. But there's sugar. That helps. She strolls around and looks at the pictures, but doesn't want to dampen his furniture by taking a seat. Mother and sister have a softening effect. He has women in his life who he clearly cares about. Hmm.

Garrett reappears with some black sweats, a dark gray t-shirt, and an electric blue hoodie over an arm, quietly watching her check out pictures before clearing his throat and smiling. "My mum and sister," he explains, holding out the dry, slightly oversized clothes. "Loo is second door on the left. Towels in the closet just before it if you want a shower before you change," he directs. There's a bit of time before pizza is ready, after all. Once all the immediately-pressing host duties are handled, he flashes a quick, friendly smile." Need anything else?"

Hazel turns her attention from the details of the man's home to the man himself as he returns. She sets down the can of soda to accept the offered, blessedly dry clothes. She nods once thoughtfully as he confirms that the women are his family. Then the offer of clothes. "Thanks. This is ... um ... not what I usually do." The words fall flat. Not what she usually does when she's at a relative stranger's house in wet clothes, without a way to leave independently? This may be completely new ground for Hazel. "No thank you." Need anything else? Not that he can provide in this particular reality.

For lack of anything else to say about the situation, the barista takes the clothes that are offered and heads for said loo. A hot shower would be bliss just about now. But the added vulnerability of taking her clothes off and leaving them off for an extended time is just too much of an opening to leave the violent universe that she fights against every day. So, it's no more than eight minutes before she emerges once more. Thank goodness for a drawstring on the sweats. She decided to go for it, given the fact that she even took off the damp tee shirt.

She swims in the man's shirt and the hoodie hangs to her thighs. It's an amusing, not particularly attractive sight. Go ahead. Laugh at her. "So ... thanks. Being not wet and warmer is a million percent better." She picks up her abandoned can of soda. Even leaving that unattended was a pretty big deal. Say something, Hazel. "So, what did you do today when you were Rangering?"

"No problem," Garrett says, smile a bit softer, sounding sincere. He checks the pizza while she goes off to change, getting himself a glass of water and settling in the armchair to scroll idly across Netflix offerings while he waits. He doesn't have to wait long, and the side of his mouth does tug upwards in an amused half-smile at the decidedly oversized clothes. "Glad I could help," is all he says, though. It's only now that a dog (Zeus) pokes its head out of a door down the hall, giving a lone bark before leading the way to investigate the person that is definitely not Their Human in the house, Wishbone and a squat bulldog of some sort trailing behind to give a thorough sniffing, though they all seem to have the good manners not to jump. "That's Edgar," Garrett introduces, nodding at the bulldog absent from the run the other day. Only then does he address the question posed to him. "Nothing exciting. Sat in a tower and made sure the trees didn't try to run away for half the day, went to check out some shenanigans someone got up to at a campsite. Spray paint and axes seemed to be the weapons of choice." His usual smile is replaced by a sternly disapproving scowl.

The soft, sincere smile may win Garrett points he didn't know he needed. Hazel returns to find him scanning Netflix, and carries her can of soda over to the living room space. Instead of taking a seat, she leans against a sofa/chair. Zeus's bark draws Hazel's alert attention, and then warms her features with a smile of recognition. "Hey, Zeus-y. Where's my buddy, Meriwether?" Here comes Edgar. "Hi, Edgar." Conversational again. Someone ought to tell Hazel you're supposed to use a silly voice when you talk to animals. "There he is." Hazel relaxes a bit when her friend, the mastiff makes an appearance. She takes another drink of her soda and finally sits. That was the tipping point. All dogs who visit her get friendly pets. She doesn't get down and roll around on the floor with them, however.

Her shoes have been off since she changed clothes. Just damp socks on her feet. So when she sits, she pulls her feet up beneath her in a sort of sitting-curl. "Like Rapunzel?" Sitting in a tower. Hazel's lips quirk with amusement and teasing. "Spray paint and axes sounds moderately serious. What do you do when you come upon people mid-act? Do you have an official voice?" Hazel's gaze briefly flickers to the television screen and then back to Garrett, one brow still faintly elevated. She looks like someone shrunk her 20 percent of her original size but left the clothes the same size. But she also looks warm. And more relaxed. "I think I'd like to meet the commanding Park Ranger Marcus."

The dogs, unsurprisingly, are happy to be receiving attention, heads nuzzling against letting hands with no lack of enthusiasm, Garrett looking on with a smile, sipping his water. The Rapunzel comparison gets a laugh. "Yes, just like a male, short-haired Rapunzel that can leave whenever he wishes," Garrett confirms, nodding,laughter fading as focus shifts back to vandalism. "You know, official rules are detain, call police, et cetera, but given there's close a million acres of park.... odds of catching anyone in the act are pretty low," he explains. "So haven't had to find out if I have an official voice yet." A small shrug, then a little grin over at Hazel. "Well, there's bound to be better ways to meet him than vandalism, just so you know," he informs her.

Hazel pets the dogs until they lose immediate interest and head off to do their doggy things. Then she takes another drink of her soda, apparently not particularly concerned with the current cleanliness of her hands. At least not for drinking a soda. So then exactly like Rapunzel. Hazel's warm laughter is brief but lovely. It may even startle her. "Detain sounds daunting if you're dealing with a group, drunk hunters with guns, or anyone with malevolent intentions."

She nods slowly to the prospect of the unlikelihood of crossing paths with said nature-criminals. "Do you like it? Park rangering? Does it suit you? Did you do something like this in Minnesota? Do you have to have a college degree to do your job?" And suddenly! Questions! Better ways to meet Park Ranger Marcus. Hazel quells a far-too-ready grin and arches her brows. "Like...?" she prompts.

The other doggy things mostly consist in flopping into a pile of dog near Hazel's feet and napping. Very important dog things. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure the unofficial protocol is remember what they look like and file a report later," Garrett clarifies. And then the questions come rolling in. "I do like it; I get to spend all sorts of time in the woods, and it's about the only pastime I enjoy anywhere near as much as I enjoy music. Minnesota is where I got all hooked on the nature-y goodness, but never as more than, like, an avid camper." Pause. Breathe. Drink. Continue. "I... may be somewhat over qualified for my position, but a degree certainly doesn't hurt. I double majored in environmental engineering and forest and natural resource mamagement, so.... yeah. I don't know that I actually /need/ those degrees for what I do, but they can't hurt." He smiles, then arches a brow in return. "Aside from getting one's self stranded in inclimate weather, you mean?" he asks far-too-innocently, eyes sparkling playfully.

Garrett relays the unofficial protocol and it sounds satisfactory to Hazel. There's another of those assessing head-to-toe and back again looks as he speaks, contemplative. She also takes in the pile of assorted dogs on the floor in front of where she's curled upon one end of the sofa. How did she go from making coffee to this? There's a whole string of events for her to take a few moments to review. Ah yes. And here she is.

His answers to her questions are received with genuine interest. If he loves the woods nearly as much as he loves music, that seems to be saying something. "What's your favorite part of the job?" She only asks this after he finishes all those other answers. Nature-y goodness, indeed. That speculative gaze returns when he shares his double degrees. There's something else there, but it's hard to tell what. Oh. He waits until she's comfortable to tease her about the fact that she 'got herself stranded'. Brown eyes widen, but Hazel mostly swallows the protest. "You don't really think I manufactured this whole --" She waves the hand not holding the soda to generally indicate herself. "-- thing, do you, Rupert?" Maybe. Maybe there's a suggestion of a smile underneath all that.

His degrees? That glint to Hazel's brown eyes could be a glint of envy. As for whether or not she's smiling beneath the mild objection in the form of a question, it's there. A rare warmth that she doesn't display much of. But there's something not so standoffish now. Isn't there? Maybe.

"Faorite part,..." Garrett takes a moment to consider. Only one, though, his Thinking Face on for only a few seconds before he nods. "The field trips. Specifically, the field trips with the little kids, since they're all clearly excited to be there, you know? As opposed to older kids, about half of which are glazed over and on auto, and maybe half of the rest are genuinely interested while the rest are busy being little shites." The smile suggests the good outweighs the bad, though. That flash of maybe-envy makes Garrett's smile fade slight, attention briefly diverted to the pile of dogs, at least until his unintentional accusation is denied. He looks back up to Hazel and laughs, shaking his head. "Not at all, just suggesting you now have experience in being stranded and calling the nearest ranger for aid," he clarifies with a smile. "The easiest way, of course, would be to ask when I'm next due for a patrol day. After all, I can't be blamed if a hiker decides to spend part of their day walking through the woods with one of the on-duty rangers, can I?"

"You like children," Hazel observes. It might be insulting that the answer seems to catch her by surprise. Or not. "Little shites," she echoes with a curving smile. "You're right. I did call the nearest ranger. But I wasn't calling for a ranger. And I don't think I got the commanding one. I got the nice-guy-who-doesn't-let-you-sit-in-the-rain-with-your-grumpy-car version."

The commanding one? "That's who I meant. Stern but not quite so self-certain he seems arrogant. Maybe a little dangerous. You know," she repeats. "Commanding. Get out of that tree, right now. Put out that campfire! You're having sex in poison ivy." She curls closer into the corner of that sofa. "That commanding Park Ranger Marcus." Playful. That's the look that hides beneath her serious demeanor. It's just that few people have learned that part of her since she moved to Gray Harbor. Not the real version. Maybe the work version.

"I like people that like nature. Children just have a convenient habit of falling into that category more often than not," Garrett clarifies with a grin. "It is true, you got off-duty Garrett, not Ranger Marcus. He's pretty approachable, too, though. Haven't really had much cause to be commanding yet," he says with a shrug. "Sorry to disappoint," he adds. with a comically exaggerated sigh. Then ponders a moment, then laughs. "I'm not sure I'd even say anything if I stumbled across a couple having sex in poison ivy. Seems like a good learning experience for both of them, and honestly, at that point it's probably already far too late," he reasons. "But now it's your turn, Hazel Quinn. Tell me a bit more about yourself. All I know is you like running and make excellent coffee beverages. And have a car of dubious reliability."

He likes people who like nature. Perhaps that's part of why their first meeting went unforeseeably smoothly. She nods in agreement about which version of him she 'got'. "Yeah, he's approachable. Might be a little too nice. But we all have our weaknesses." Sure, he's beginning to notice when Hazel is being friendly. But can he tell when she's teasing? Maybe not. Maybe she really intended to be critical of his personable nature.

"You're not sorry," she argues before taking another drink from that can of cola. "See, I don't think it would be too late. There's some poison ivy, then there's much more poison ivy. I'm pretty sure if I had to choose one of those, I'd go with the former." She probably didn't mean to make any innuendos about having sex in the forest. "My turn? Ohhh-kay." She stretches out the agreement a bit, flickering a look to one side, then back to Garrett. "But you don't get carte blanche. I'm not going to start with my parents loving each other very much. You've gotta ask what you want to know." He knows so much more than most people know. This is uncharted territory. Hazel's still toying with how she feels about it.

"As far as weaknesses go, I think I can live with being too nice," Garrett decides with a tiny nod, then ponders. "Well, you're not wrong. Less is definitely better where poison ivy is concerned. I'd /probably/ say something to help, ah... minimize discomfort. But I also wouldn't blame someone for walking away and letting them learn the hard way about the importance of situational awareness where outdoor intercourse is concerned," he settles on, nice and diplomatic-like. The ready enough acquiescence to his turn to play interrogator gets a grin and he considers a moment. "Hobbies when you're not running or conjuring caffeinated concoctions?" He starts simple, shifting a bit in his chair to better face his guest.

Hazel begins to smell the pizza as it cooks. She draws her knees in a bit to quell the sound of her stomach when it growls. Being too nice? "Yeah. It's not one of the worse weaknesses. Though I haven't decided if you sacrifice yourself too much for other people's happiness. If that's a thing for you. Or if you're less sincere than you appear. That could be a thing. Or if you're just really damned good at hiding far less easy-going motives." There's a compliment buried somewhere in there. But if he does indeed have darker motives, being at the man's house, wearing his clothes, and waiting for his pizza could be problematic.

Garrett would probably say something to help the members of an amorous tryst. "That's right friendly of you, Dr. Watson." He starts her off easy. And she's willing to bet he did so on purpose. He's demonstrated some wit and strategy. It hasn't been lost on Hazel. "You already heard these," she begins. "I enjoy thrifting. I draw whenever I get the chance. And running: it has to be listed. I'm pretty much addicted to it. But otherwise, I don't have much time left for other interests." Or money. Definitely not money. "The outdoors make me happy, too. Especially in inclement weather."

Hazel stretches over to set her half-consumed soda on a nearby surface, then tangles her fingers together while she considers Garrett along with how not-horrible this whole situation seems thusfar. Is there another shoe? If so, when will it drop? It also could be that Hazel's along for the ride at this point. Willing to see just how far the unusual streak of non-awful will take her.

"Could be worse. Could be lactose intolerant. The worst weakness, really," Garrett idly muses, giving the speculation of possibilities behind his kindness a dismissive wave. "I don't like seeing people unhappy. If I can help, I help, and it makes me happy to make someone else happy. Pretty much how it looks on the surface, I promise." Another soft smile, then he's listening to the listed hobbies, nodding. "I did, but you might have forgotten something or just didn't feel like sharing with the stranger the first time." The list is the same list, so apparently not. Coffee table and end table are both in easy reach of the couch; flat surfaces abound for soda placement, and Garrett lets Hazel re-situate herself before question two. "Family? Siblings and whatnot? Pets?"

Hazel nods with that subdued smile, "It would be a less fulfilling life without cheese and other dairy products." She listens. "So you're the British version of a Good Samaritan. That's almost too good to be true. You've got to have some vices."

He promises. "If that's really true," she begins. "You're a rare sort of person, Garrett Marcus." Not even a silly name accompanies the statement. Her pop can ends up on the end table. It's closer. And there aren't dogs to reach across.

"Family," Hazel echoes. "No siblings. No pets." That's the easy part. "My family story isn't full of happy pictures. My mom left my dad and me when I was in middle school. As I got older I reminded him too much of her. He ended up trying to drink the resemblance away and started leaving me for longer and longer amounts of time. I worked as hard as I could to keep us afloat. But, it became clear that he couldn't live with me as a constant reminder of my mother. So I left and came here. I've been here since last spring. And there's no other family to speak of."

She raises her brows. "I have no idea why I just told you all that." But that would be fitting for this whole situation. What is she doing here?

"I'm sorry, can Brits not be Good Samaritans?" Garrett teases, then shrugs. "I'll be honest, I think it a bit odd if someone doesn't take some pleasure in making others happy. And I'm probably a bit judgy sometimes." That's like a vice, right? The family story gets a sad nod and a glance at his few pictures. The only two are, perhaps noticeably, missing any sort of father figure. He blinks several times at the story as its given, sympathy in his eyes, smile having faded as the tale unfolded. "Hell. Sorry," he murmurs, the tone in the room getting a lift of head from Wishbone and a little whining sound before he resumes napping. Cue potentially awkward silence.

"I mean... sure Brits can be Good Samaritans. But it's stacking the deck. You already sound charming and brilliant. Then you add active good intentions beneath that? That's a lot." Hazel emphasizes that last word dramatically. He's judgy sometimes? "What kinds of things are you judgy about? Name one that I'd consider poor form. I dare you, Churchill." She doesn't look as though she's prepared to believe what he throws out there.

As for her family and that whole situation? She tells it in a matter-of-fact tone that suggests she's separated herself from emotions about the topic. That can't be healthy. Maybe she's just that damned composed. He looks sympathetic and she simply regards him levelly. "Yeah, it's a shit-show. But I've been fending for myself for awhile now. I'm fine." She says this while wearing someone else's clothes and without her own transportation. It's Meriwether's/Wishbone's sympathetic note that briefly erases the composure from her face and leaves a bit of vulnerable there that she so jealously hides (exceptionally well) in most cases. It lasts no longer than the span of three breaths before the level expression resettles.

It takes Hazel a bit longer to recognize the silence as awkward. Her gaze flickers from the mastiff to the man sitting adjacent to her in his chair. "Your turn, Abercrombie. What sorts of things don't you share with people you meet trail running?"

"To be fair, I only sound charming to you lot. If you'd all just speak the Queen's English properly, you'd all sound charming too," Garrett says, comically exaggerating his accent to a parody of itself. "Judgy? Hmm, mostly just when people are coming off as selfish. No. Not sure that's the right word. Indifferent? Like, if you'd called someone else and told me next week your car broke down and your mate couldn't be bothered, I'd pretty immediately take a strong dislike to them." He shrugs, then opens his mouth as if to continue before there's a beep from the kitchen. "Be right back," he promises, rising from his seat. "Need anything while I'm up?" he ask s before heading off to check the pizza.

There's sounds of things shuffling about, a soft creak when the oven is opened, the sounds of things in the fridge opening and closing. Eventually he returns with whatever may have been requested and takes his seat again. "Right. Things I usually don't tell people right off the bat," Garrett says, half to himself, considering for a few moments. "I don't know. I'm bad at just talking about myself with minimal prompting. Any prying questions in the back of your mind you've been dying to get an answer to?"

"I think you might be underestimating the depth of your charm, Sir Ben Kingsley." Hazel isn't positive that Kingsley is British, but he's a 'sir' so that covers it. "Indifferent people. Careful, Garrett, your gentle side is showing." Her mate. She smiles at the Briticism. She can't help it. And that smile softens her features a bit more. "Would you feel that way about anyone? Or does it just apply to people you know?" She's pretty sure she knows the answer to that question. She opens her mouth to say something, but Garrett is excusing himself to the kitchen where the food smells far better than it ought to, to Hazel.

When he returns, Hazel has scooted down a bit on her corner of the sofa to lay the side of her head against the sofa-arm, her eyes only slowly opening as he speaks from the same room again. "When we met," she answers when he requests a more specific query, "-- you said the story about why you were here was ... something you didn't want to go into. Does that verdict still stand?" She's warm and comfortable. There's food that smells good. And this might actually be starting to feel like a somewhat safe place. Head still resting on the cushion, she regards Garrett thoughtfully.

"Oooh, I'm a Sir now," Garrett notes with a little grin and a raised brow. "I didn't realize I was meant to be hiding my gentle side," he counters with a faint shrug, then takes a moment to consider the question. "Like, if we had just met for the first time at the coffee shop and you happened to somehow tell the stranded story? I'd still think your mate was a wanker, yeah," he confirms with a nod. "But I suppose I'm willing to give random strangers not helping other strangers a bit of a pass. For what that's worth."

Specific query received. Garrett's relatively cheerful mood visibly fades, a glance given towards the picture on the wall of him with his mother and sister. "Right. Yeah. Uh, it's pretty straightforward. My, uh... my dad died, so my mum finally accepted a professor position that Minneapolis had been dangling at her for a while and here we are," he summarizes. "I was ten," he adds. "Spent a lot of time outside after we moved, wandering in the woods and all that, made a career of wandering in the woods and here we are." Another small shrug.

Hazel curves a slow grin at Garrett. Yes, he has been unofficially-casually knighted. "Most men do. I mean, the men who have them." Gentle sides. "It's societal bullshit." He's willing to give strangers actions a pass, and for some reason that pleases Hazel.

She watches the cheerful expression evaporate with a faintly crestfallen glimpse of expression. "I'm sorry about your father. But all in all, it doesn't sound like a bad story. Your mom got a job she wanted. You went to school to study things you enjoy. And I've heard good things about Minnesota." He spent a lot of time in the woods. Hazel can relate. "Why did you come to Gray Harbor?" Give her an inch, and she takes a mile.

"Eh. Cowards." Garrett shrugs at the notion of the men that do their best to always put on a macho, unfeeling front, sounding vaguely agreeable to the 'societal bullshit' assessment. The fact that it is, in fact, not that bad of an ending for a potentially very sad story gets another shrug, this one smaller, but soon followed by a tiny nod. "Yeah, could've been worse. Could've ended up trying to make a go of music, living over East End in a flat with like six flatmates living on leftover pizza." The oven beeps again, and he laughs. "You know, as opposed to fresh-baked frozen pizza with a friend. Be right back." He excuses himself again, and this time when he returns it's with the pizza, paper plates, napkins, and all the other pizza necessities. There has very obviously been more cheese added to the pizza, judging by how no other toppings of the supposedly-Supreme pizza can actually be seen.

"Right. Yeah. Gray Harbor. Work, mostly. I applied basically every national park I could in my last year of school, Olympic said yeah, they'd be happy to have me. Gray Harbor is close and not overly expensive to live in, so here I am." He cuts pizza as he talks, giving the pile of dogs a stern Look as soon as they lift heads in response to the pizza in close proximity.

Hazel pushes up and away from the sofa arm as Garrett returns from the kitchen with the extra-special more-cheese edition of the pizza. "That smells fantastic," she raves quietly, sounding entirely genuine. "That would have been a different life. But not necessarily a bad one." Hazel isn't one to argue against the Bohemian lifestyle.

She watches him cut the pizza, scooting in those too-large sweats to the edge of the sofa, her hands on the cushion on either side of her, gripping a bit more than one might expect. "Of all the gin joints... or something like that," she begins with a rueful bit of a smile. "Here you are. Are you happy here?"

"I'll have you know I slaved over a hot oven for entire seconds to make this, so it should," Garrett says with a grin, kneeling by the coffee table to finish cutting ip pizza, offering Hazel a plate and first choice of whatever slices she may want. "Yeah, probably wouldn't have been so bad. Definitely different. That hypothetical Garrett probably wouldn't know what to make of me," he muses, then raises a brow. "I've never actually seen Casablanca," he admits, then takes several moments to give that final question some consideration, claiming a couple slices of pizza and returning to his chair while he ponders. "Most of the time, yes," he eventually settles on. "What about you? Happier here than you were?"

Slaved for seconds. That draws a warm, albeit brief laugh from Hazel that seems to startle her. She takes the offered plate, but is abruptly shy about taking food first. "No, you choose the first piece. It's auspicious, a friend of mine once told me. She was a strange sort of friend, but I choose to uphold that particular belief." Once Garrett has some pizza, Hazel reaches for one of the smaller pieces and sets it on her plate. The cheese is still quite hot, so she doesn't try to take a bite just yet. "That hypothetical Garrett would have made something of himself. You're just going to have to trust me on that."

Hazel's brows tip upward. "You've never seen Casablanca? I mean, even I've seen Casablanca. Maybe if I can get my dvd player happy again, you'll come over and watch it." If she can find a copy to borrow for free from the library. And that is not an invitation anyone else in Gray Harbor has gotten. But it's a whisper rather than a shout of a first. Is she happier in Gray Harbor than she was in the life she described in Seattle? Hazel looks down at the piece of pizza and fingers at the crust as she ponders that. "Not so much happier as more ... I guess the word is peaceful. I'm not waiting for the next bad thing as much."

Garrett doesn't argue with pizza distribution superstitions, just giving a faintly amused smile as he takes his food to his seat and promptly sets it aside to cool a bit. "Oh? I'm going to hold you to that, Hazel," he 'warns' with mock-seriousness, quickly letting the expression fade to a grin. "I look forward to it. I'll send some thoughts and prayers towards your dvd player," he assures, finally taking a bite out of a slice of extra-cheesy pizza, chewing and swallowing while Hazel gives her answer. "Well, that at least sounds less unhappy, so that seems like a win," he offers up, tone optimistic.

'As much', she said. There is absolutely a significant measure of her consciousness that is wary and waiting on an attack of one kind or another. "Don't hold me. Hold my dvd player," she says with a wry bit of a smile. "Are you a religious man, Churchill?" She finally lifts her piece of pizza up and takes a moderate bite, chewing it politely. It's a win, according to the optimist who made the pizza. "Maybe you're right," she concedes. "So why don't you name a couple of your favorite movies -- give me something to work with."

"I'm not sure my holding your DVD player will make it work any better," Garrett points out with a smile, then gives his head a shake. "Not particularly, no. So I'll follow up my empty offer with one of hosting movie night here if your DVD player remains uncooperative," he offers. "As for favorite movies... I don't know. I'm a bit of a Marvel nerd, but who isn't these days? Or Lucky Number Slevin. Seen it?" he asks. "Push is pretty decent, too," he adds.

The fact that Garrett would even consider inviting Hazel back to his house on a different occasion catches her off guard. "Well, sure... I mean, maybe ... um... whatever works out." Hazel shakes her head slowly. "All the superhero movies kind of run together in my head. But I don't dislike them." She pauses and thinks. "I don't think I've seen either of those two. But a movie not on my own sounds oddly intriguing." As if Hazel doesn't think of movies as a non-solitary thing. Or as if she didn't a moment earlier make an arguable date for Casablanca. "I suppose I'll have to withhold further judgement until I've seen one of those." She takes another bite of the pizza. "So good," she murmurs after she's swallowed. And she means it. Her face tipped down, she sneaks a look at Garrett, her expression thoughtful, musing.

Garrett's head tilts a bit as the surprise uncertainty appears. She did, after all, mention the idea first. "Yeah. We'll see how things shake out," he agrees, now sounding uncertain himself. But then back to the movies themselves. "Lucky Number Slevin is... a mystery, I guess? Generic drama? The dialogue is amazing, though, and that's what's important," he says, enthusiastic. "Push is semi-generic action, but enjoyable all the same. In my opinion." As if he could have someone else's opinion. A small smile appears at the praise for the pizza. "I aim to please," he says. "Glad you like it," he adds, lapsing into a decidedly-less-awkward, at least compared to before, silence as he eats, glancing over towards his guest now and then.

He can almost see Hazel roll that over in her head. "Good dialogue is maybe the most important part," she may agree. She finishes off the rest of the piece of pizza in (for her) comfortable silence, wiping her hands on one of the napkins that Garrett brought out with the pizza. "I'm getting that," she replies with some of the musing expression remaining. That he aims to please. "You know, Buckingham, you're so simple I think you might be complicated." Good luck finding compliment or insult there. She plucks with the hand not holding the napkin at the nearer leg of the sweats, thinking. Always thinking. There's a rich tapestry of thoughts under the surface and all those mildly awkward silences. "When you finish eating, are you going to play the guitar for me?" Expectant, yes. Teasing? Who knows?

"It really is," Garrett agrees of the good dialogue, nodding, then turning to vaguely contemplative, or maybe just puzzling as he tries picking meaning out of her.... compliment, he apparently settles, hesitantly, on, judging by the uncertain, "Thanks?" he replies with. His own plate is soon empty, Garrett not wasting time in claiming more pizza, waving a hand towards what's left in a clear 'help yourself' motion. The request (?) gets a grin and a glance towards the hard case leaning in the corner. "I could be persuaded," he admits.

Only when Garrett has taken another slice does Hazel do the same. She settles back into the sofa cushions, drawing her sweats-clad knees up a bit and devouring the cheesy goodness as if she hadn't had pizza in ... quite some time. She does slow, however, as she gets to the second half of that piece. There's an inner struggle between feeling full and really wanting to finish that piece of pizza. Finally she takes the last bite and smiles around it -- mouth closed -- at Garrett. Food contentment. She's not cold. She's startled to find out she enjoys Garrett's more home-y version of hospitality -- more home-y than, say, running in the rain -- and she hmms quietly to herself, likely not even aware she made the quiet sound. "No, I mean. You're not what you could have been." She stops and watches him the realizes she should add, "Better than advertised." She's really not very good at this compliment thing.

There's a faintly pleased look on Garrett's face when Hazel follows suit and helps herself to more pizza, just a hint of a nod given. And then she talks, and he opens his mouth as if to object to that initial comment, but the amendment comes before he can say anything. "Well. That's a good thing, right? Or were the trailers just awful, so the bar was set a tick low?" he asks, easy smile in place once more.

"Better than advertised is always a good thing," she agrees. "You're just so --" Hazel waves a hand vaguely in the air. "-- easy. I'm used to 'easy' being guile and self-serving motives. You're a little hard to believe is all." She doesn't do herself any favors with her elaborations. But he's smiling, so maybe her foot isn't in it as deep as she might guess. It sincerely seems as though she's a bit social-blind, at least in this scenario. "What are you going to play for me?" Because she's not letting him drop that request-offer. "I can clean things up if you want." She slides her damp-socked feet from the cushion to the floor, carefully navigating reclining dogs to pick up all the pieces of the dinner that remain in an attempt to carry things back to the kitchen for the man.

"Well, I'll call it a win, then. Hopefully the expectations weren't so low they were impossible not to exceed, but even slif they were, a win is a win," Garrett says, still smiling, then raising a brow. Easy? "Did you just call me loose, Hazel Quinn?" he asks, very clearly teasing. He doesn't press the matter, and makes no move to stop her when she follows up her offer to clear the things with action. "Thanks. And I don't know. I'm sure I'll know once I'm playing," he says, rising to fetch his guitar. He's situated himself at the end of the couch when Hazel returns, the arms of a chair not being conducive to guitar playing, the case open in front of him. Curious eyes might spot a picture of a very young Garrett with a thirty-something man taped to the inside of the guitar lid as he checks tuning and plays a few chords to quickly warm up his hands. "Requests?"

Hazel can't quite escape Garrett's smiling gaze, though she tries to turn her head, still watching him sidelong. But he achieves critical mass. The woman laughs. It's quiet, it's brief, but it's god-damned genuine. Did she call him loose? "If I did, I think I'd be wrong. Because if you were setting off those detectors, all you'd see would be road-runner clouds." Still. Her full name. There's something about a kind, warm, hospitable Brit speaking it.

He'll know once he's playing? So he's truly an artist and Bohemian after all. Hazel did as much clean up as she could in the kitchen, even seeking out some aluminum foil to wrap the remaining pizza in to tuck into the refrigerator. Utensils and various lingering items are washed. And dried. She's thorough. And it helps a bit with that feeling of owing the man something. You'd best believe she takes it all in. This includes the guitar case and the picture inside. He's now on the sofa, so Hazel sinks to her knees on the floor within arm's reach of one of his knees and watches him expectantly. "My request is that you play whatever is floating in your brain at this very moment."

"Next thing I know I'm running into a painting of a tunnel in pursuit," Garrett laments of his imaginary coyote alter-ego, complete with dramatic sigh. "To be fair to people who are loose, they can be without being aggressively so," he argued for just a moment, but with an indifferent, hypothetical tone more than one of actual, vested interest in the subject. Idle guitar strumming continues, Garrett looking curiously from Hazel on the floor to the remaining seats on the couch off to his right along with the now empty armchair, an eyebrow arched upwards, but not saying anything. She's an adult and can sit wherever she likes. Then the sort-of--request is given and Garrett nods, a quick flicker of eyes to guitar case, and he drops his guitar pick to use his fingers instead, voice joining the guitar after the brief introduction.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
take these broken wings and learn to fly...."

Hazel's amusement flares again behind her brown eyes at the coyote's plight. "You can be fair to loose people all you want, Thatcher. I'm going to keep my prejudices all wrapped up just how they are." The strumming causes Hazel's gaze to lower from Garrett's face to the strings and his hands on them. She catches herself staring with parted lips and closes her mouth abruptly.

She wants to sit facing him. And unusually closely. The spot on the floor suits that purpose. She can watch his fingers skim deftly over the instrument so much better from here. But the song he chooses ... oh that song. It's so soft, so gentle, the message so ... touching. Hazel lifts a hand to brush tendrils of hair that have escaped her ponytail back behind one ear. She tips a bit forward on her knees, closing her eyes to listen as he sings. Her expression relaxes with the music and she looks ... something. Younger? Certainly different than he's grown accustomed to.

Garrett just grins at the refusal to adjust judgments of hypothetically loose people. "As you wish." The last comment before playing commences, clearly a song he's played many, many times before, eyes closed for most of it, hands moving on their own as he sings. When they do open, they occasionally flicker to Hazel, but mostly look to the guitar case.

" You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

He finishes the song and his eyes open fully, moving from guitar case to his audience of one, his smile a little sad, but still sincere. It turns more pleased when he gets a better look at Hazel and how much more relaxed she seems. He doesn't say anything, instead just going into another song, somewhat less well-known than his Beatles opener, taking just a moment to throw a capo on the neck of his guitar before beginning to play and sing.

"Baby doll, do you believe they'll catch you when you fall,
And when morning comes, the sun is gonna shine..."

Annnnd they're back to Princess Bride. Hazel quells a little grin at that. His hands move so easily on the guitar. Familiar. Adept. Maybe even a bit charismatic. And it was a charismatic that Hazel didn't plan for or see coming. Once he looks back to her, Hazel is watching him again, her attention flickering from the fingers pressing the chords against the frets, to his face, to the strumming hand, and back to his face again. Those sharp brown eyes are soft. This roadrunner is soothed to stillness.

"I like that one," she tells him when he finishes the song. But there's sad there to see. Hazel's smile wavers and starts to slip away.

The change in tempo, in key, in time signature: it all settles around Hazel like Garrett somehow has the ability to strum her mood into existence, whichever one he chooses. She tips her head as she listens, lets the lyrics flow around her and falls into the rhythm of the new song. At some point she reaches out a hand and sets it lightly, high on one of Garrett's sock-clad feet.

What?! Say it isn't so!

Garrett doesn't have /quite/ the intimate familiarity with this song, actually watching the fretboard for the duration, but is still more than familiar enough to sing, sadness replaced with enjoyment in his smile as he continues. Eyes flick away for a brief moment when he feels a hand on his foot, smile widening a touch as he continues. His brow furrows just a touch as he ends, alternating between chords and picking between final 'Baby doll's.

His smile lingers as the final chord fades, gaze shifting back up towards Hazel, not immediately transitioning to another song. "So. Now you've heard me play guitar. My end of the bargain has been held up, I trust?" His words suggest he's just checking a box by playing for her, but he's obviously enjoying himself and makes no move to put the guitar down.

Hazel is clearly fascinated by the art form and the man wielding it. But when that last chord is struck, she pulls her hand back to her knee. "I ..." Hazel has to stop and rewind through what she wants to say. "I'd argue --" she begins slowly. "-- that I've only just started to hear you play your guitar. I mean, to borrow your lingo, you could be great at two songs and 'shite' at anything else." There's a glimmer of a challenge behind her eyes, even if she knows her ruse is not a particularly good one at all. "Yes, you do, dont you." Trust. "I'm not sure whether to envy you or pity you." But she stirs as if to get up. Is she leaving?

No. Hazel is climbing onto the sofa adjacent to where Garrett is sitting, settling in a curl with her hip to one side and feet tucked behind her. "You're good." That comes out of nowhere. And it's arguably an understatement, unless you factor in who is saying it.

Garrett laughs at that, delighted by the 'challenge', such that it is, and nods. "A perfectly fair point," he concedes, twisting just a bit when she moves to the couch so he can still partially face her as well as not be shoving the headstock of a guitar in her face. The second comments get a curiously raised eyebrow, a slight tilt of the head, but no comments offered otherwise. "Thank you. You're not so bad yourself," he says softly, sincerely, before plucking at a few strings, moving his capo. "Long as I'm playing Fratellis songs..." he says, half to himself, and beginning to play again.

"Well it's a big, big city and it's always the same,
Can never be too pretty, tell me your name ..."

So if she's lonely, why'd she say she's not lonely? It's just like her to come and go. That silly girl.

The chord progression is charming. Hazel quells a hint of a laugh as Garrett whistles his way through the middle of the song.

He agreed that she had a fair point. Hazel's brown eyes positively sparkle at that. She's not so bad herself? Abrupt bewilderment. She's not the one playing the guitar and singing in a dreamy voice. She'd argue that, but he starts singing and it's just too good. It's only after he strums the last chord that she says, "I like the music you choose. Did you write those last two?" Hazel doesn't know the Fratellis. Unless we're talking The Goonies, which they most certainly are not. "I'll bet all your friends do this." Make him play for them. Because who wouldn't, knowing what the man can do with his voice and a guitar? Wait! A briefly panicked look from Hazel. She wasn't at all implying that she was one of his friends. That would be incrediby presumptuous. Plus, she really doesn't do friends. Or at least she hasn't. Not so far on the tragic journey of her life.

"A girl like you's just irresistible."

The song ends and he's still smiling, a smile that widens when he's asked if he wrote the songs. "I bloody wish. Nah, Scottish band called The Fratellis. Babydoll and Whistle for the Choir, respectively. I'll let you figure out which was which." He adds the last with a teasing wink, then ponders a moment. "All of them have heard me play, but it isn't something they just up and request, no." He pauses, then looks at Hazel. "Not that I object in even the slightest. I'm enjoying myself, and suspect you might be. Just a little bit," he guesses. "But I can shut up and put the guitar away, if you want," he adds. Is it presumptuous to assume friendship when he already asserted as much earlier?

Hazel lifts her elbow to rest it on the sofaback so she can lean her head against her fist while she watches, listens. That smile. So many others would have given up long before now. The reward for the patience and artistry is a return smile that Hazel doesn't remember to rein in. "I definitely like The Fratellis. You're kind of okay too, Mr. Bond." His friends don't request music? "What's wrong with your friends?" She just said that out loud. He's enjoying himself. That would be a mutual sentiment at this very moment. She lifts her other hand and holds two fingers slightly apart to indicate how much she just might be enjoying it. "Please don't," she answers simply. If asked why, the answer might not be so easy to put to words.

"Of course you do. You're not deaf and they're brilliant," Garrett says, tone matter-of-fact, but expression pleased by the approval in his musical selections thus far. "You'll forgive me if I stray away from the sentimental and play something a bit more entertaining next?" he guesses, removing the capo from the guitar and tossing it in the case. "As for my friends.... Sparrow has different interests in music than I do. Most of what we both like doesn't lend itself well to a lone acoustic guitar. Ash and I are usually out doing something or other. Same with Elias." Pause. "...I'm not sure Kelsey ever heard me play." He's sad for a moment, then clears his throat and shakes his head. "Right. Next song." And with that, he starts a slightly staccato strum pattern vaguely reminiscent of a sea shanty. Which makes sense when he starts singing.

"We are two mariners, our ships' sole survivors, in this belly of a whale...."

I guess we have some time to kill.

She not deaf, it's true. Hazel dips her chin in a bit of a nod. "More entertaining?" she challenges. Her gaze follows the toss of the capo to the guitar case and flickers back to Garrett. "I'm sorry about your friend," offers Hazel softly. But Garrett stirs himself and starts to play the upbeat, amusing song. How can a person not laugh just a little when listening to those lyrics? Hazel's clearly thrown her usual caution to the wind at this point. She watches Garrett's showmanship with the ditty of a tale. Somewhere mid tune, she shifts herself on the sofa, drawing her knees up against her chest and settling her chin atop one of them as she listens, clearly entertained. And swimming in those sweats.

Lacking anyone to provide vocals for the mother in the song, Garrett pitches his voice to a harsh rasp rather than attempt any sort of falsetto to hit the notes as written. He makes a bit of a show of the building speed at the end, fingers moving faster and faster until he's obviously missing notes and finally ends with a decisive chord, taking a deep breath, grinning. Then rubbing his throat a bit. "Okay. I need a minute and something to drink. The mum bits in that one always kill me," he says, resting the guitar on the case as he rises, turning towards the kitchen. "Need anything?"

Hazel watches as Garrett ramps up through the song, laughing when he adds in the mother's part, her attention divided between his singing and his finger work. She's clapping by the time he strums that last chord. "Please don't instantaneously combust on me, Tony Blair." She reaches over and lightly patpats Garrett's knee. He needs a drink. "No thanks," she answers. "I should probably check back in on Betsy." She glances down at herself. "And give you back your warm clothes." She pushes to her feet from the sofa to head toward the 'loo' and the clothes she hung in there in hopes of them drying even the slightest bit.

"I give you my person spontaneous combustion-free guarantee," Garrett assures as he rises, Hazel's cheerful reaction to his performance fanning the flames of his own good mood. The drink he needed when he returns is just water that gets half-emptied in the first drink. The observation that she does, in fact, have a car on the side of the road that needs to be checked on gets a flicker of disappointment, but then an understanding nod. "I know where you work, don't worry about the clothes for now. No sense getting all warm and dry just to put wet clothes back on, yeah?" he offers.

"Guarantees are dangerous things, Garrett," Hazel replies. "You're pretty much teasing fate. And fate's a fickle bitch. You know that, right?" Hazel doesn't swear much. But she doesn't abstain, either. She turns to look at him as she reaches the hall, then walks slowly backward. "Really?" She really can't argue with staying dry and warm. And there doesn't seem to be some sort of tat he's expecting for the tit. She sidesteps into the bathroom and collects her clothes and the running shoes she left there when she changed. Padding back out to the living room, she collects her bag, too. "You'd better get me back to Betsy. She has her moments. And I give her space. But if I leave her too long, she just gets more tempermental." Hazel settles to a chair and pulls on her running shoes, murmuring a little mumble of an addition: "And if I stay here, you'll be singing 'til you don't have a voice." Take that how he will.

Garrett returns her to her car and Hazel doesn't display any anxiety about her odds of having a car that's well and truly dead. Sure enough, she gets in and says a few encouraging words, pats the dash, then turns the key in the ignition and the ancient Honda starts up as if there were never an issue to begin with aside from nearly four decades of wear. The rain has abated as well. Hazel rolls down her window and smiles a glimpse of the more genuine smile he earned somewhere between pizza and music. "We're running soon, Sotheby. Stay limber." And with that she does a u-turn on the rural two-line highway and heads back toward town. It's dark out, save for the moonlight.