driftfleet | single mingle!!!

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."

Of course the dog. How could she have thought otgerwise, really, especially after that story. Natasha shifts in her chair, leaning back slightly and crossing her arms, looking at him with a glint in her eyes. "Maybe they just hide the unicorns from the tourists. Or just the American law enforcement."

"After all that liaising Fraser did with us? That sounds like obstruction of justice, and we got the guns."

"Obstruction of justice might be going a little far," she murmurs, still entirely too amused by this conversation. "So I guess you're used to weird. All these people being from different worlds doesn't bother you?" He seems a little awkward, but if she's reading it right that's just more or less his natural state. Even if the whole space thing is bothering him, he's still handling it remarkably well.

He shrugs with one shoulder, waves a hand dismissively. "Nah, it bothers me. But I've always been a sort of go-with-the-flow kinda guy, no use in lingering." He jerks his chin at her. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm a practical kind of girl," she says, and while it's said in a matter-of-fact way, there's a hint of that obscure humor in it, as seems to be the case with most of this conversation. "I'm here, much as I'd like to consider this all one big hallucination. No point in trying to deny it, or anything else I've seen. I'm just not much of a fan of cages." An understatement, and probably more about her personally than anyone else has gotten, thus far. She shrugs, looking him over with head canted slightly to one side. "You miss Chicago?"

He takes that for what it's worth: a little hint, an insight into who she really is. But he can wait for the rest: like she said, he's here anyway.

"Yeah, a little. You can't really be anonymous here like you can in the city. And I miss work, stupid as that sounds." He misses the car chases, the adrenaline, the satisfaction of a job well done. He misses Fraser.

"You miss where you're from?"

From the looks of things, they're going to be spending a lot of time together. No sense in rushing all the good parts, right? Save them for when they need the ratings bump. Maybe it's a cynical way of thinking, but it's just how she is. Ray likely wouldn't argue it either.

"It's not stupid. Staying busy is always easier than being bored, or having nothing to do. Nothing important," she clarifies. Maybe she misses work just a little, too. Things had slowed down just a little, but they were still racing to outrun the repercussions of SHIELD's collapse. She wasn't sure exactly what good she'd done, what good she could do, but there was fresh blood on her hands and she didn't like being stuck here. It shows just a little, a shadow that passes over her face as she looks through him a moment, finally shrugging and running a hand through her hair. "I'm from all over. Harder to miss a hundred places than it is one. I'd still rather be back on my own planet, though. Space is beautiful, but it's not exactly my natural environment."

"Be kinda weird if it was, right?" He sees that shadow, and he wants to help, so he gives her a lopsided grin.

"We earth dopes gotta stick together, I guess."

It's sweet. Unnecessary, but perhaps that's what makes it sweet. His smile is returned with a slightly wry look, her head cocking slightly to one side again. "Even if it isn't the same Earth?" It's an interesting theory. Honestly, all things considered, some of the Earths she's heard of are different enough from her own they may as well be different worlds entirely.

"I'm not saying we should make some big earth club or somethin', but sure, yeah. Talking about home's gotta be worth something, right?"

"You make it sound like we've already said goodbye." Like it's reminiscing, remembering a place they'll never see again. Maybe it's just her, but she's not planning on being here long enough to get nostalgic. Not that anyone ever plans to end up stuck in a place like this, but she hasn't been here long enough to resign herself to anything.

"You think we'll be here long enough to need a support group?"

"Hey, you're the shrink here, not me." But he looks a little harder around the edges: he doesn't think that, can't think that. He's going back, they all are.

"I thought we'd decided I wasn't a shrink, not really." He looks more grown up, with that expression, but seeing it Natasha's reasonably certain she likes the other look better. He's a competent cop, she's sure, but he doesn't seem like the sort of man who's meant to have sharp edges. Not like the kind she has.

"If you want my opinion, though, people cope in a variety of ways. If it helps keep you focused, talking about home seems like a pretty good idea."

It's what has saved him from the temptation he's seen so many other cops fall into: laziness, bitterness, corruption, all of that shit. He can almost get it on some days, but then he's running after some crook and he remembers why he'd gone to the Academy in the first place.

"Yeah," he says, vaguely, "I guess." He rubs at his mouth, then wraps his hands around the edge of the sofa. "Nice to remember that stuff, ain't it? The good stuff."

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