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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."

He moves a lot. Nervous tics or just old habits, touching his face, gesturing, rubbing his knees or the couch. Not very good at sitting still, she thinks. But that's okay. She can be, often is very deliberately still, but she still prefers to be moving.

"It is," she agrees simply. She could make it complicated, but this at least doesn't need a complicated answer. "If you need someone to remember it with, you know where to find me. Or you'll be able to find me pretty fast. It isn't exactly a big ship." A bit of a wry smile at that. She's likely going to be taking refuge in this room, more often than not.

He would've been called hyperactive if that's the kind of word that had been used when he was a kid; as it stands he was just a pain in the ass, and he's made it his own.

"At least you got your office, right? What do I have, the vents?" He doesn't seem to mind, though-- he's smiling again, and he gets up from the couch.

"The vents," she agrees with a wider smile, and there's that teasing glint in her eyes again as she stands with him, looking up. "And the engine room. And pretty much anywhere you want to be, I'm sure, as long as it isn't the bridge. Polly seems to have claimed that as her own. You can always come back, if you need a little space. I might be convinced to share."

"You're right, I got it pretty good," he says, starting to make his way out of the room.

"Thanks, Natasha." He's smiling, but it's more serious than he's trying to let on. He's glad that their conversation went so well, that he won't have to feel quite so nervous around her from now on.

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tothefly - 2015-05-20 01:32 (UTC) - Expand