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He lolls his head to the side to look at her. She reminds him of Stella, a bit- the way she was before things got bad between them. Funny, pretty, smart, and totally aware that she's all of those.

"Had enough psych evals to know that's never true," he says, but he's grinning back a little.

She is aware of all those things. Hard not to be, when she's tried very hard to make herself the person she is, or at least seems to be. But it's always nice to know the effort is appreciated.

"Maybe you've just never had the right shrink before. Psychologists who go into law enforcement are pretty much a special kind of sadist, as a rule," she offers, the tiniest of smirks still hovering on her lips. She's known a few of them, though usually from the other side of a bare light bulb.

He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and points at her with it. "Exactly. I shot that douchebag cause he kidnapped a kid and threatened to blow up Sears Tower, not cause I got fuckin' anger issues, lay off me."

He thunks his head against the back of the chaise, wiggling his toes in his boots. "Anyway, you're not a real shrink, are you?"

She takes in his example without comment, exactly as a good shrink should. Not that it's because of the whole shrink thing; more because she can't really argue with the reasoning. She's shot people for less. And stabbed, and poisoned, and strangled, and...well, she's done a lot for less noble reasons. Children are one thing she's always considered off the menu, at least.

"Why would you think that?" Her voice sounds amused again, a little curious. "Do I not seem professional enough for you?"

"Hey," he points at her again, "That is not what I said. Maybe you are a shrink," he grumbles, chewing on the toothpick. "You know how to twist my words, at least."

"It's a talent, what can I say." That amusement is clear as day, and she taps her heels gently against the side of her desk. "If they put us all in places we're actually trained to be, maybe this won't all be such a disaster, anyway. You're a cop--they assigned you to security, didn't they?"

He shoots a glance at the movement, then starts relaxing again. "Nah. Got an engineering chip. Maybe they figured I already knew security, make me a whatchamacallit-- universe man."

"A renaissance man?" Though universe man would probably be appropriate, given their circumstances. "Guess it's possible. Maybe it's as completely arbitrary as everything else in this place. Personally, that doesn't make me feel any better about things." Her boots thud softly against the metal of the desk as she looks out over the tiny room, then back at him again. "Would it make you feel any better about me doing this if I weren't a shrink?"

He doesn't look at her, half out of avoidance, half out of plain laziness. "I got some experience with cars, but nothin' like this," he remarks, gesturing vaguely at the ship in general.

"'This'? I'm still not really clear on what you're doin', so I dunno. ...Probably."

Edited 2015-04-26 09:25 (UTC)

She almost laughs at that. If any of them do actually have experience with something like this, she might almost call it an unfair advantage. Hell, she's had plenty of experience with advanced technology, experimental aircraft, and beings from other planets lately, and even she's at a loss. Not that she's likely to show it, if she can help it.

"Picking your brain," she answers, and it's practically cheery. "It's my job now, isn't it?" There's clearly some private joke in there, somewhere. "I wasn't a psychologist back home, but maybe I should have been. Seems like an exciting career path."

"If you like listening to people whine about their problems, sure," he remarks. He stretches his hands out over his head and starts playing with the silver bead bracelet around his wrist.

"Anyway, I didn't ask you to pick my brain, so it ain't your job, and there's nothin' to pick at."

The phrasing has her smiling slightly, waiting a moment to see if he gets the implication. "Don't sell yourself short, Ray. I'm sure you've got plenty of brains in there." She takes her amusements where she can find them, and this is one she's not sure she's getting bored with anytime soon.

"But hey, suit yourself. What is this, then? Storytime? Tell me a story."

He grins a little at her joke, and he flips her off half-heartedly.

"Storytime, heh," he chuckles a little, like he's thinking of a private joke. "You mean like, caribou and Tracker Joe, that kinda stuff? 'Cause the only stories I know are cop stories."

Storytime. She's patient and waiting, all ears. See? She's looking right at him, and doesn't even bother with more than an arched eyebrow at his half-hearted salute.

"So tell me a cop story. I've always been a big Tom Clancy fan." There's something in the words that implies a private joke of her own. Sliding from the edge of the desk, she pulls the chair over, sitting with legs crossed and one arm on the back of the seat so she can watch him more easily.

Wow, those legs just go up to here, don't they? He tears his gaze away from her, shakes himself out of it, and then briefly closes his eyes as he thinks of what story to tell. He apparently settles on one, because he turns his head back to her (her face, okay) and grins.

"You're not gonna believe this one, but alright, here goes. So me'n my partner, Fraser, one day we run into this old guy who thinks he receives calls from the government through a plate in his head. Totally coo-coo bananas, clearly, but Frase, I dunno, he's got a weak spot for the weirdos." Clearly, since they're friends. "We chat a little, y'know, play a little chess, then later, bam!" He slams his fist into his open palm. "We hear gunshots, and this old guy Hanrahan's yellin' for help. We pull the assailant off of him, I get in one punch and he goes down. Flat-out gone, and he's dead."

He sits up, draws one leg underneath himself and looks at her. "I'm thinking shit, did I just kill this guy? 'Cause I got a mean right hook, but it's not a killing blow, I'm not the Terminator. But when Mort checks it out, turns out he's got this thing in his tooth, cya- cy-- poison." He sits back like he's still experiencing the relief from that.

"So I didn't kill him, but what's up with that, right? Poison in your tooth? Somethin's funny. So Fraser says, he says-- could be a Russian spy, cause he had all of this-- Russian crap goin' on." He can't be expected to remember all the details, come on. "But I can't get any info on this guy, none whatsoever. But my partner, right, he's Canadian, so he hops onto the piggybank or somethin'. Says there's this ex-KGB Russian armed group known as the 'Colonels', and they were gonna try and intercept a weapons shipment made by another bunch of Russian spies. So now, because the Russians figured him for an infiltrator or somethin', we hafta put up Hanrahan and his girlfriend in my apartment, as a witness-protection type of thing, only, you know how old people smell? Gross."

He sits back again, kicks up his boots. "Anyway. This other Russian guy gets whacked, it's getting a little out of hand, and then I get a visit from a lady says she's the old guy's daughter, ooh, she's just so worried about her father, and I fall for it, dumbass that I am. So we're in the car on our way over to my place, when all of a sudden she goes from nice all-American lady to crazy Russian spy." He pitches a falsetto and grins, imitating a terrible Russian accent. "'Hang up ze phone, take me to him or I shoot!' But I don't let a little gun action psych me out-- I crash the car, bam, and I get away.

So me 'n Fraser, we get to the docks, right when they're loading up the ship with a buttload of illegal weapons. Only, here's the weird thing, everyone keeps talking about some 'Nautilus'-- everyone's afraid of this Nautilus type, even the Russian spies. We try to arrest the Russians, there's a little gunfight, but suddenly, outta nowhere, it turns out that Nautilus is the old guy's girlfriend, and she's there, ready to shoot our heads off for figuring out who she is. This little old lady pulls of her wig, points an AK-47 at us, and Hanrahan tackles her."

He'd been getting more and more worked up towards the end of the story, and with this he falls back against the sofa.

"We arrest 'em all, they all go away for being slimy Russian scumbags, and I give the old guy a medal for service to his country. Ta-dah, there's your story."

One of the things that's very clear about Ray despite their limited interaction so far is that the man has little to no control over his expressions. Everything he's thinking or feeling is right there on his animated face. Maybe he's a little better at concealing his thoughts when he's working, in detective mode, but otherwise? Apparently, it's all right out there, including that long look at her legs. It's fine, though. She can appreciate a little forthright behavior. It'll make her work here (the learning people, the finding a way to navigate until she makes it home) that much easier. Not to mention the way it simplifies shipside interaction. So she waits patiently and watches as he searches his brain for a suitable story, and she isn't at all disappointed by the story itself. Or the way he tells it, for that matter, body language as eloquent as his speech.

For a moment she wonders if he's somehow guessed her background, the content of the tale being what it is, but it's a consideration she mostly dismisses. He'd chosen something outlandish, silly in parts, practically a movie plot, because it was a fun story, she's pretty sure. Ninety percent sure. And that Russian accent...oh god, that accent. She can't help a brief snort of laughter at it, wondering what he'd do if he learned she was Russian. Or a spy, for that matter, though she was considerably more than that.

Regardless, it's an entertaining story, and she's still smiling by the time he finishes, shaking her head at it, before fixing him with a look. "A medal, hm? I didn't know they handed out medals for tackling terrorists. Sounds like you and your partner handled some serious business. Ryssian spies are usually a federal government thing, wouldn't you think?" Her tone is very clearly amused. Maybe a little disbelieving. He could have exaggerated parts of that, easily enough. She'd be more surprised if he hadn't.

Edited 2015-04-29 17:32 (UTC)

The story choice is completely innocent- he'd tried to tell it once before, and it was only really then that he'd noticed how crazy it all sounded. It's fun enough, and she'd wanted a cop story, right? But nothing about it is exaggerated, and the fact that he hadn't realized until later how weird all of this was is proof of the fact that he'd been working with Fraser too long.

His life was so much easier before Canadians came into the equation.

"Hey, what the feds don't know can't hurt 'em," he says, with the stereotypical hate of federal agents only city cops can have. "And we got that medal at a medal shop, but Hanrahan was a happy guy, so whatever." He shrugs.

She had asked for a cop story, and he'd definitely provided. Outlandish, maybe, but either he was way better at lying than she'd pegged him as, or it was all entirely true. To be fair, she should know better than most people just how likely that sort of situation is, at least the weapons trafficking and spy parts. Maybe even a bit about the little old ladies in disguise. Just a little. And her own life has gotten pretty weird the last few years, so there's really no room to talk--he'd probably be even more skeptical about Banner's Other Guy.

"The feds would probably disagree," she points out, but it's clearly amused and not argumentative. "But sounds like you handled the situation. You and your partner do that sort of thing often? Rescue kooky old men from scary Russians?"

He gives a little amused sound at that-- like he cares if the Feds disagree-- and then resettles, comfortably.

"Nah," he says, quirking a grin, "they're usually scary Americans."

"Ooh, even more intimidating." Her own amusement is twofold. First scary Russians, now scary Americans. This story gets better all the time. "I'm sure the world owes you a debt for your service, Detective. How did you end up with a Canadian partner? Chicago's a ways from the border."

"Hey, I already got those citations, the debt's in print." He points at her to emphasize his point. In print, so there.

He blinks a little at the unexpected question. "He came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father," he hears himself say, before he even realizes that he's parroting Fraser's little spiel. "And he stuck around at the Canadian Consulate, works as a le-- a lay--" He grunts, instantly frustrated at himself. "Works with the Chicago PD." He breathes a little, looks up at the ceiling.

"He used to work with this guy Vecchio, only he had to go undercover with the mob. So they needed someone to stand in for him in Chicago, so no one'd get suspicious." He points both thumbs at himself. "And presto, suddenly I got a Canadian partner who's got a wolf buddy that follows him everywhere."

It shouldn't be all that unexpected, he did mention his Canadian partner. Then again, Natasha's mind has always worked better in tangents; it's part of what makes her so good at her job. Or jobs, now. She still thinks being assigned as a counselor is a joke, but it's one she can turn to her benefit.

"A liaison," she offers, but it's not condescending. Just a helpful word in the right direction. It's unusual, but there's precedent. Law enforcement looks after its own, whatever the flavor. She can respect that, in a sense. It doesn't work so well these days, or does in the worst ways, but that's a problem for another person.

It's the last sentence that gets her, though, that has both eyebrows twitching slightly. "A wolf. Literally, a wolf." She can buy mob talk, Russian arms agents, secret old lady spies, but a wolf? That follows a cop around. Now he's just screwing with her. "How does one even get a wolf through customs?"

He just makes a non-committal sound at her correction- he's messed it up often enough, and Fraser's corrected him often enough. Sometimes his brain just doesn't make the connection, as frustrating as it can be.

"Half-wolf," he says, like it's not a big deal. "I guess he stays in quarantine or something." He notes that skepticism, though, and with a smug grin he throws in one last thing: "He's deaf, but he reads lips, so we communicate just fine."

"Your partner, or the dog?" Her own bemused skepticism is as audible as it is visible. Maybe it's not just what he's saying, but how he's saying it--like he keeps expecting her to call bullshit--that makes her more likely to believe him. Besides, a wolf hybrid that reads lips is more believable than a cop who lies better than she does. "Canada must be a magical place. Your partner didn't mention unicorn farms, did he?"

He gives a little laugh, says, "The dog, Natasha," then swings his legs over the side of the couch. He puts his hands underneath his thighs, wiggles his toes.

"Nah, Canada's just got tons'a moose, not a unicorn in sight."

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