2019-09-12 - We Like Bike

It's early afternoon at Espresso Yourself, the custom being in that slight lull between the lunch-break swell and the mid-afternoon rush of people looking for an excuse to leave work early. Which means the staff look the perfect mixture of relieved and bored, one of which is handing a large lidded cup over to one Viktor Kovacs, bag on shoulder, dark jeans showing the tell-tale signs of kevlar reinforcement and knee padding. It makes sense, considering he's also wearing a reinforced leather jacket, some heavy black boots, and has a motorcycle helmet hanging from a loop attached to the underside of the small backpack.

He was on the morning shift, so now is coffee time. "Kovacks?" The barista asks, tilting her head to one side as she does so.

He shakes his head with a genuine smile, actually giving a gentle chuckle at the attempt. "Closer! 'Ko-vatch.'"

"Ko-vatch?"

He pulls the cup away from her, glancing around for a spare table. Or couch. Then he flicks back around to look at her and point a finger, then a thumbs-up. "Good enough for government work!"

Love has been in the coffee shop for a bit, though she detoured to the ladies some time ago, after she ordered, so there's an unaccompanied cup of something iced-latte-looking at the end of the counter. It bears no name, just a heart. Very cleaver, baristas.

The tall woman walks out from the back in work clothes, which, for her, are black leather ankle boots, fitted skinny jeans with a low-rise, and a plunging halter top. A few inches of skin show between the hem of her top and the belt across her hips. A lot of inked flesh, too, her chest piece, neck tattoos, and both sleeves show. She's about six-foot-two in her relatively low-heeled boots (those start looking tame when your coworkers were 5 inch platforms). Her waist-length, gunmetal grey hair is down, worn in loose waves. A long rosary hangs around her neck. "Is this mine?" She comes around just in time to meet Viktor at the pickup area, inked fingers going for the cup there.

Viktor's actually making moves to head right towards a vacant table, even going as far as giving the barista a small finger-wave when Love re-emerges. Custom's been low enough in the ebb that she went in back before he even entered, so the appearance? Catches him off guard. Mainly because this would be the first time he's actually seen her with heels. Partially because this would be the first time he's seen her under light less harsh than a hospital hallway. There's no lingering look, nor any appraisal of ink or outfit. There's just a short nod in greeting that might be mistaken for an answer regarding the cup, and a soft, Upper-Midwestern voice stating:

"You get taller, Miss?"

Love picks up the cup, since hopefully it's hers. She gives it a spin, makes note of the heart, and glances over the counter. "Really, guys?" She comes in here just about every day, sometimes twice. "Beautiful day." Doesn't even look like rain. She glances past Viktor, smiles distractedly to him, but obviously didn't really process that he was talking to her. She looks right at him and has no idea where she's seen him before. She tucks the straw into her mouth and sips. "Afternoon." She seems to be trying to decide where to sit.

Well, it ain't Starbucks. A fact which was probably made obvious by the lack of the signature green and white awning, and compounded by the hipster-esque decor. A couple of twenty-somethings leave, in exchange for a middle-aged Hispanic fellow in about two thirds of an off the rack suit. The jacket's nowhere to be seen, and all 190 pounds of him is tucked into a crisp white shirt with the sleeves turned up to his elbows (shit, that's a lot of ink), and tucked into a pair of dark belted pants. A pair of aviators is slipped off as he enters, and he squints up at the menu, in search of something resembling jet fuel. Maybe he's nursing a hangover, or maybe just recovering from an exciting night. A couple of other patrons are noted idly; Love in particular, whom he seems to recognise. Though she looks a little taller than when he saw her last.

Well. That went... well.

Viktor's free hand comes up to run through his hair, blue eyes looking away from the woman who obviously has absolutely no idea who he is. Which isn't awkward at all. Nope. "Uh." He glances at his shoes. Then hers. Back to his own. "It is. Afternoon, Miss."

The slinking. Oh lordy the slinking he does away to that table he spotted. He might as well have just assumed a complete stranger waving was waving at him and waved back.

Love only wore heels to work the one time, and wanted to die at the end of the night. She got pretty drunk, which is probably the only reason she made it through that body shots shift. These are considerably lower heels than those. Ultimately, it's being called miss a second time that has her grey eyes turning back to the man with the motorcycle helmet. "How are the roads for riding?" Something about that guy is familiar, but he's turning away by the time she notices. She does have the presence of mind to note his motorcycle gear.

She's watching after Vik and the cop comes in from the same direction, opposite way. She's served and taken his drinks from him. "Hey." The greeting is light, and she makes her way to a small white-painted table, one with a puzzle box on top. It's opened, but the puzzle, only partially completed, has been abandoned. It looks like lilac fields on the cover. She takes a seat and crosses those very long legs, long legs that are exactly the same length as the last time everyone saw her last.

Ruiz isn't so sure of that. His gaze tracks the grey-haired woman until she sits, and then skims the length of her legs in a fashion that could be construed as a little bit lewd. Certainly inviting, if she'd been watching him at the time. Which she most assuredly isn't. Then it's his turn to order, and he digs his card out of his wallet while mumbling something about an americano. Yes, room for milk, Gracias. Viktor's measure is taken briefly, too, as he slinks off for a table. People around here are strange.

Nope. Love got taller overnight. That's the only way this is possible. Casting Love a little "Hit the highway, maybe Bayside. Anywhere else is a crapshoot." in reply before finding his place at the empty table, Viktor slips the backpack from his shoulder, lowering it with a little care and a slightly backwards shift to make sure the helmet isn't dropped underneath it. Placing the cup beside him, the bag is unzipped, a hand sinking in to pull out an old dog-eared paperback, the cover showing the title of 'The Hero With A Thousand Faces' for a scant second before he's resting it down on the table, opened up to where a dark red leather strap acts as a bookmark.

And that's where his focus mostly lies, skimming over the words in front of him as he blows a few cooling breaths into the lip of his cup. Those blue eyes glance up at the arrival and ordering of the cop, watching him for a few seconds, then shift aside to the incomplete puzzle on the table that Love returned to. Then back to his book.

Oh yeah, he's still feeling sheepish.

Love tips her head back to look up at the ceiling, her iced latte on the table's edge. Her hair falls long, swinging across the back of her chair. She reaches back to pull it over her shoulder, sinking into her chair in what could be termed a slouch. She asks the ceiling, "What do you drive?" The question is lightly conversational, polite.

The handle of something sticks up out of her back pocket, knocked a little loose by all her shifting and slinking down in the chair. She glances over, very briefly, to keep an eye on where the cop ends up.

No need to be paranoid. The cop is dumping sugar into his coffee by the bucketfull. Then milk. His back is turned to Love and Viktor both at the moment, though as he's closer to the latter, he comments lightly, "Fantastic book. I'm told it was influential in a number of other works. Have you read Watership Down?" Okay, not the sort of commentary one might expect from a guy wearing that much ink, and sporting the gutter trash of Mexican accents. But there you go.

"'51 Vincent." Viktor throws out another reply without letting his eyes lift from the book. There's a chance she was asking Ruiz, but what's one more mistake on top of what he's done so far. He doesn't really need to expand on his answer, either. Sure, there's a chance he happens to own a Black Lightning, and casually threw down roughly a million dollars to own and import one, but it's far more likely the Black Shadow out in the mall's lot would be the Vincent he's talking about.

He might actually be about to start gushing about the bike for all anyone knows, but then someone else is commenting on his choice of reading. And that does get him to look up. "I feel Campbell takes some liberties with myth to suit his thesis, as well as an overuse of Freudian psychology that will never truly sit right with me, but yes, it's enjoyable enough." Those blue eyes fix on the man for a moment, Viktor's expression one of neutral contemplation before breaking into a slightly delayed smile. "And I have. Once. That was enough for me."

Love seems to be watching the amount of sugar going into that coffee with her brows arched. That's a lot of fucking sugar. She yawns and moves to straighten up a little, reaching down to shimmy her pocket's contents back into her pocket. It's a habit, maybe, keeping an eye on everyone around her, maybe just those she doesn't know well, who have weight and strength on her. Paranoid? Naw.

Maybe she's seen the security camera feeds from Platinum's parking lot. Does it have one? Maybe. Maybe not.

At '51 Vincent her head comes up. She blinks, and glances over toward the glass-fronted shop, to scan the visible vehicles out there. Suddenly focused, are we, Love? Affirmative. "I don't like it when bunnies die and I was traumatized by that fucking Bambi cartoon."

Ruiz's smile is brief, when Viktor mentions not being a fan of Watership Down. They'll just have to agree to disagree on this one. Unperturbed by Love's judgemental stare as he sugars up his caffeine, he snaps on a lid and takes a sip. And makes a noise in his throat, like, perfection. His phone comes out as he wanders for a table, though he doesn't attempt to interject himself into either conversation for the time being.

Apparently satisfied with Ruiz' response, (Hopefully in regards to the smile and not the noise coming from his throat. That'd be weird.) Viktor throws the man a little uptilt of the head before dropping back down to his book, rubbing the tip of his thumb and forefingers together before flicking over a page. "I was more bothered by the fact that that's not how warrens operate, but coupling it with animal death? Animal death when the animals have names? Yeah, no. Thanks muchly, never again."

The entire sentence is said with a slow drift of his eyeline from book, to table, to other table, to puzzle, to Love, catching her face as she scans the lot. Without turning around to join her in looking, his hand points to the left. No, more left. Bit more. For crying out l-There you go.

The tattooed woman stares out the window with those silver eyes for a long, silent moment. She's having a moment, okay? "My goodness," is what Love chooses to say in this moment, once she's had a good thirty seconds of looking at that vintage bike, all black and chrome.

Meanwhile, she's still judging Ruiz's sugar intake, but it's like an app running in the background. Her hands fall to her hips and she glances over her shoulder. "Have you seen this?" Checking in on Ruiz, in case he's so busy thinking about books that he's not noticed the bike.

He hasn't, clearly, because he's been focused on obtaining caffeine and checking his text messages. The cop's eyes come up, though, when Love gestures out the window. And he moseys on up to her table like the shameless intruder he is, and leans over it to check out the window. "Fuck me," is what he says. Could be referring to Love. Or Viktor. Or the goddamned bike. "Lindo paseo," he murmurs, and promptly appropriates a seat at her table. "I'm guessing that's yours," he calls across to Viktor, giving the man another little down-up of his eyes in assessment.

That Black Shadow deserves all the expletives. Actually, if you'd been privy to the absolute nightmare it was to refurbish it up to the standard it currently stands in that lot, you'd know it had probably suffered all of the expletives. It was never quite as popular as the now famous Black Lightning, but the latter wouldn't exist without the former, and that alone is worth something.

About $800,000 less than the asking price of a Black Lightning, if you want to put a number on it.

Viktor actually turns when the two reactions come, glancing out to the parking lot. He's usually used to something more like Ruiz' second comment upon it, not the first, and for a brief moment there he might have thought they caught a glimpse of it being smashed by a hooligan with a pipe. But no. There it sits. Washed, cared for, and just waiting for another chance to kill it's rider. "Mhm." He replies to Ruiz, not catching the assessment, nor the fact he settles in at Love's table. Look, once you start staring at it, it's sometimes hard to stop. "Son of a bitch to get."

The moment when everyone who's paying attention in the coffee shop falls in lust with your bike, eh, Vik? Love's thinking about leaving her '66 Mustang, but only briefly. She's not quite the driver she'd need to be to day-to-day that on the road.

When Ruiz addresses the owner of that luscious little machine, Love glances over to Viktor too. Fuck me is right, Ruiz. Dios. "That is a thing of beauty." She very clearly wants to ask for a ride, but she's playing it cool right now. One does not molest a stranger for a ride on his vintage motorcycle. She has to stop looking at it and sip her iced latte, which is when Ruiz takes a seat at her table. Presumptuous. But also fine. It gives her an opportunity to study his tattoos up close. At some point, her gaze turns to Viktor again. She hasn't looked at the bike for a full thirty seconds. Willpower.

Ruiz is one of those men who takes up space when he sits. Knees apart, bulky frame hitting the chair with a soft creak of the thing in protest. Not quite a manspreader, but verging on one. He hooks a chair at a neighbouring table with one booted foot, and drags it closer with a clatter of legs on grimy coffee shop floor. Then attempts to catch Viktor's eye and hitch his chin to the man. Come hither. He doesn't appear to be trying to hit on him. Probably isn't. There's a chance that he is. Though given how he was looking at his bike, it seems the most likely target out of all of them, for him to be taking into a back alley for a good time.

Not that he's a back alley sort of guy. Except he totally is. "How's your car doing, Miss Liven?" he gets around to asking eventually. A sip of his coffee, a slow perusal of the grey-haired woman opposite him. Choppy, roiling waves on the right arm. A doomed fishing trawler. Vines and leaves on the left, and a variety of letters and symbols on the back of his hand, reaching up to his knuckles. He seems to be cataloguing Love's ink in kind.

"I know." Viktor replies.

And really, that's all he does. The attempt by Ruiz to catch his eye and hitch that chin would only work if instead of dragging the chair over to sit on, he swung it over the younger man's back. He'd probably notice the two of them having a little tattoo appreciation session, or the slow gaze from Love that reacquires his form at some point or another.

But no. His reply to Love's statement is all he manages to get out, fingers reaching out for his cup to lift it to his mouth. It's possible he didn't even blink.

Love rotates her ankle slowly, like she's not used to wearing these heels and she's thinking about taking them off. "Of course you do." Of course he knows his bike is beautiful. That actually prompts her gaze to flick back to Viktor. The simple two-word statement, nothing following it. "Would you like to join us?" The blue-eyed Vik seems to be in something of his own world over there. Or maybe he wants to read in peace.

Love takes up a respectable amount of space herself, mostly because her legs are so long. She doesn't move them no matter how far Ruiz manspreads. If she kicks a cop, so be it. When he asks after her car, she almost frowns. The frown starts, then she sips her iced chai. "There's always something wrong with it. I think the engine needs rebuilding." Depending on where Ruiz's attention strays, there's a lot of ink to catalogue. She seems fond of moths, for one thing. Roses. Crows, thorny steps, pearl drapery, gemstones, gears across the back of one wrist framed in filagree. She leans in a little to study the skull on the Mexican's arm.

Ruiz doesn't appear to be in a hurry. Or particularly shy about letting his eyes rove over her body, pausing here and there, drinking her in like the work of art she is. It's her hands that gain his interest, though, at the last. So much so that he actually reaches for one of them, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted. But if she doesn't, her fingers are grasped near the tips, and for a moment they look like a diptych inscribed on bodies instead of canvas; swirling waves, his thumb traced over the chain and ring at her knuckles. A quick smile that creases the corners of his eyes, and then he releases her.

"Old cars. I think it's unavoidable." He lowers his voice a little. "By the way. Don't try to pull that on the next cop you run into. Might be some rookie with something to prove. You know?" She knows what he's talking about. Probably. The chair's left there in case Viktor wants to join them, but he doesn't try to do any more convincing for the time being.

Hands possibly touching hands? Rebuffed or no? That's the perfect time for Viktor to snap-to and turn towards the table the two have seated themselves at, eyes glancing from one to other for a bare second and then dropping down to the book. Back to the table. Book. He settles on a middle-ground, and scoots his chair along the edge of his table to at least get closer. "If someone tells you the engine needs rebuilding, they want cash and practice." Judging by the smile? His comfort has been restored. It might actually be the coffee he took a few hefty sips from while watching his bike, come to think of it.

"Unless the engine falls out in a snowbank. Then it needs rebuilding. And possibly an exorcist." Sip.

Love has soft hands for a bartender. She watches Ruiz's swarthy inked hand come for her pale one, and she lets him take it, those glossy almond shaped nails look a little dangerous, but they aren't as sharp as all that. "You're going to let me paint your hands." While he's studying hers, she's looking at his. Her pale gaze flicks up when he mentions her pulling something. She could pretend she has no idea what he means. She doesn't do that. "I like rookies. They make a lot of mistakes." Mistakes that lead to dismissals. She watches Ruiz for a moment, just starting to smile.

And then she turns her head to look at Viktor, "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if my car needed an exorcist. If the engine fell out in a snowbank, I'd bury it at sea." She's got enough problems without that. "I'm not mechanically inclined, but I do know the basics of not taking it up the ass from a mechanic." A beat. "Except that time I agreed to let one replace all my motor mounts in Seattle. That wasn't my fault. Someone dosed me and I was rolling." For hours. It was awesome/awful, by her voice.

That's probably a first for him. You're going to let me paint your hands. The way she tells him rather than asks, the cop simply watches Love steadily for far longer than is polite. Does she get an answer? No, she does not. Unless that smile of his is a yes. But it might as easily be a no. "Sometimes," is what he says, probably in reference to rookies and dismissals. Then after checking his watch, he collects his coffee and eases to his feet with a murmur of, "Tenga un buen día," aimed at Love and Viktor both. He'll leave the talk of engines falling into snowbanks to the pair of them. His phone buzzes, and he slides it out as he prowls for the door.

Viktor's silent as the two get artfully acquainted. It's not that it's a little awkward to be on the periphery of, it's just that it's a little awkward to be on the periphery on while you're trying to drink coffee. Viktor deals with this by drinking coffee, those blue eyes dropping down to his book for a short while, then closing up the cover when Love addresses him again, meeting her look with a slightly raised brow and a gentle smile that turns into an exceedingly raised brow when Ruiz makes a move. He replies to the non-English with the third most casual "Viszontlátásra." Ever uttered in the limit of Gray Harbor. Just. Because. He. Can.

Prowling cop on his way prowling, the attention those eyes seem to throw over whatever they settle on falls to Love once more. And he laughs. It's short, more exhale than exultation, but it's definitely a caught laugh. "You've been to far better places than I have. I'm not sure there's anything out there that could get me to agree to a full mount replacement."

One more sip as he watches her, eyes ever on her face.

"Well. Desperation. That did it. Once."

Love watches Ruiz smile. She doesn't say much, not about rookies, not about the potential for a painting. She considers her words before she says simply, "Good hunting." She chooses to believe that smile was a yes. If it wasn't, it will be, watch. The woman mms and then turns back to Viktor.

She picks up her chai, once her hand is her own again, sipping through that straw tucked into the corner of her mouth. If she's at all taken aback by a strange man inspecting one of her hands in public, it doesn't show. "People make a lot of assumptions about a woman with as many tattoos as I wear. It's probably the only reason people don't try that shit more often." She means the mount replacement. "Desperation has a funny way of moving the line, doesn't it?" That comes with a little smile.

"Huh." Viktor muses, as if he's actually a little surprised by the fact that people form opinions of the woman by her appearance alone. "Let's get a look at you then. I see..." He drags the word out a little, cocking his head to one side, then to the other, squinting just a little which, really, does absolutely nothing do hide those eyes of his. And then he clicks his tongue, shrugs, and apparently just gives up on trying. "Nope. Just see someone who enjoys tattoos. I'm pretty sure I'd still try to rip you off for added extras. If I owned a garage."

A slow sip from the cup this time as he watches her, and then those eyes drift down to the unfinished puzzle. "Which I don't, by the way. So no luck there. And no need to talk to me of desperation, Miss... Liven, was it? I'm a Janitor." He's actually fine with his job. "Which don't get me wrong, I love my job, but sometimes I have to act a little... forlorn and desperate for something better or the schlubs who actually work their asses off all day start getting jealous."

Love tips her head, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair she sits in. She steeples her fingers against her cheek, her pinkie dropping until the nail of it taps the corner of her mouth. She takes that almond shaped nail between her teeth and regards Vik for a long moment, studying those shockingly blue eyes of his. "So you're telling me you can't be trusted?" Men with blue eyes, man.

"I found the name of a mechanic I'm going to try — just haven't managed to line up a time to drag it over there." By drag, she probably means tow. When he tells her about his job, or rather the forlorn and desperate bit, she mms. Confirmation: cannot be trusted. "I don't know a lot of people who say they love their job."

That 'mm' catches his attention. And confirms to Viktor that no, Love was not just being aloof, she really doesn't have any idea who he is. So he sips from his cup, throwing her a little shrug at the suggestion that he can't be trusted, apparently unwilling to either confirm or deny, then leans an elbow on the table as he leans a little closer to her own, acting almost as if the two were co-conspirators in some big secret. "Don't let the docs know, but I've got about twenty minutes between routines if I pick up the pace a little and nothing major comes up. Which means I get to hang around the ER and see how many kids I can make funny faces at without their parents noticing."

The cup raises, he leans back, and then touches a finger to the side of his nose, secret passed on. It's not until after he's taken a sip that he adds- "Or the guys at the mill after they fucked something up. They're usually less entertained by it, though."

He tells her he's a janitor. He mentions, specifically, doctors. She's smiling a little, corners of her lips quirking, so apparently the teasing is good-natured. Surely she doesn't really think he's untrustworthy, or if he was that he would tell her. "Oh my god. I am so sorry. You've said hello to me at the hospital more than once." More than three times. Probably at least half a dozen. "I don't think I've ever seen your eyes straight on before. If I had, I'd remember them."

She appears to be genuinely embarrassed that she didn't recognize him in street clothes. At least she has the good grace for that. Love leans across the table and offers him her hand. "I remember you were teasing a little girl with a cork gun and you fell over a potted plant when she 'killed' you." Vicious kids they bring to those hospitals sometimes. "I had no idea they still made those cork guns for kids." The ones that go loudly POINK when pumped. "Love. It's Love." Not Miss Liven. That annoys the shit out of her, but Ruiz keeps saying it anyway. "What did you say before? Viszontlát... something. I'm missing syllables."

Viktor laughs off her embarrassment with a wave of his hand, almost in a physical attempt to shoo away any ill feelings she has. "I'm a janitor-" He says, again. It does kinda exempt her from any real blame in his mind, though. "We're not usually the most noticeable people in a busy hospital. Hence the kids and the faces. I guess." Her hand is taken, his own a little calloused with a couple of hard patches around the pad of his palm. "That kid was fucking deadly good with that thing, though."

And really, that kid was. "I don't know who the hell taught someone her age the basics of a weaver stance, but she was a natural." His eyes crease up a little at the memory of it. Sure, he had to clean up what nightmares he'd done to a poor innocent potted plant, but when you think about it, that was just him doing his job. "Love." He nods when she clarifies, meeting the name without even a pause to consider it. "Viktor. Or just Vic. It's a pleasure."

The next sip he's about to take is interrupted by her attempt at Hungarian. And you know what? It's not bad. He gives her a face that says as much. "Viszontlátásra. Hungarian." He even goes as far to sound it out for her, but there seems to be a whole extra bunch of consonants in there when you say it as fast as he does. "Vee-sont-laa-taash-ra. Or just viszlát. Or Szia." Only THEN does he sip. "Parents." He offers as an explaination.

"That makes it worse. Always judge people by how they treat service workers like bartenders and janitors and cashiers." Love should really know better. "Though, honestly, once I saw your bike, it was over." Apparently three of three former/current occupants of this table spent at least five minutes eye-fucking his bike. They all have excellent taste.

"She was good. She got you twice more." Some kids know instinctively that you should always double-tap. When he re-prounounces for her, she hesitates, lips moving, then she tries out loud, "Viszontlatasra." It goes a little awry in the middle, but she tries again. She still has some trouble with the transition between the zon and the tlat. "Wait, I can do Viszlat." Ha! First try. She seems pretty proud of that. She may not remember it tomorrow, but she's pleased for now. "It's nice. I don't think I've ever heard Hungarian before."

Viktor shudders a little at the memory. That kid did not let up. Even her laughter didn't temper the fact he got ambushed by a small child. She quick-drew on him and everything. "See. Should have shown that kid the bike. Maybe she would have gone easy on me." Viktor. Your bike, while great, will not solve all problems. That kid would have shot you for the next hour had she not had to take a break to go pick up all the cork.

There's a soft little nod of encouragement when she tries the language, his face breaking in to a smile when she settles on the shortened version of the word. Because, as he then states, "Yeah, there's a reason one is formal and one's informal. Nobody I know uses the informal. My Oma spent about two weeks chiding me until I got it right, and then I never used it around her again. Now? It's just showing off."

Love sips from her cup, watching Vik, still pondering his name, perhaps, because she has yet to acknowledge she heard it. Slurrrp. She finishes off her cup, only ice remaining, then tips it down on to the table. She wipes the condensation from the cup down the thigh of her jeans. "I really don't think you could have given her anything to make her go easy, except maybe a real weapon, and then where would we be?"

"If you take the time to learn a skill, you should show off a little when you can. I may never be able to say that whole thing. Oma is grandmother?" She takes a guess. "You and she worked hard for that." She lifts her hands to the edge of the table. "I excel at sitting still for long periods of time cuddling cute shit like kittens and babies, and so I do it as often as possible." She rises to sweep up her cup and toss it into the waste bin. What she hasn't mastered yet is bringing her own cup to reduce waste in the landfills.

Viktor tongue clicks in approval at the accurate guess she makes to the meaning of 'Oma', throwing her a quick thumbs up. "We would be in a place where she didn't go easy just because she had a real weapon, I'd probably be dead, and my Oma wouldn't be spinning in her grave because I bet you anything that my pronunciation now is nowhere near good enough for her. And -I- worked hard for it. She mostly just yelled 'No!' and glared at me."

His head ducks down as he finishes off his own drink, retreating a little in to his shoulders. She had an astonishingly effective glare. Viktor can feel it. Even now. "That's a pretty good skill to have." He approves, nodding and slipping out of his seat to join her in the landfill additions. One day, one day they'll both be ecologically cons-He drives a bike from the 50's that's never going to happen. "I think I'd like to learn. Except the babies. I'm sorry, all newborns look remarkably like potatoes to me."

"Do you think suffering fools is easy?" Love's first question might be quite pointed if not for the little smile that comes with her, her black-painted lips curved. "It takes energy to glare and correct a man. Trust me. I have some practice here." Does she? She doesn't, oddly, seem the type. She cuddles kittens and babies in her free time. Ill ones. Ones that aren't thriving. She volunteers at the hospital for the latter.

"They're squishy, sweet smelling potatoes, though. When they're asleep, it's just like the world's softest little wiggly, hairless monkey. They like to hear you talk or sing. They make no demands that are unreasonable until they learn to talk, which is far off. It's nice." Love hangs out with babies because they smell nice, sleep a lot, and don't talk. Seems legit, right?

"Do you?" Viktor's tone is one of mildly sarcastic disbelief, and an eyebrow is up. It's an expression he's comfortable with, not partially because it almost seems to draw more focus towards the color of those eyes. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. I have no doubt you could put my grandparents to shame." Viktor has all doubt. ALL OF THE DOUBT.

And then she's pointing out her reasoning, and Viktor can't help but pause, slumping a little as his brow furrows, his gaze going up to the ceiling in a moment of thought. "Huh." A bit more thought. "Huh." And then those eyes settle on her. Relaxed. Smiling. And honestly? He seems a little convinced. "That's... actually a really good argument. A moment in time where you're everything to another human being, and you have both the responsibility and the joy of knowing that you're the sole focus and caregiver of their life for a short while."

That does sound nice. Especially when-

"And then you get to put them back to bed again."

"You and I both know that no one will ever beat a grandmother for correcting." Love doesn't believe him at all. She nods, though, to the next thing he says. Nods again. "Yes, and yes. You're what they need, everything they need. You can be that. It doesn't cost you anything but time."

She laughs. "Yes, exactly. You do your time and you put them back and you go about your day. Shower off a little drool, occasionally some pee. It's fine, whatever." Love lifts her hands, perching on the edge of her chair, arms resting on her knees. "Life is plainly simple for those moments. And then you go have yourself a snack and a cup of tea and you do whatever needs doing in your day. You've got it."

It's the phrase 'Life is plainly simple-' that catches Viktor's focus next, the man moving over to his own table and scooping up his book on the way, letting it simply drop down into the still open backpack before he turns towards Love, eyes watching for a moment, his face considering something. Weight shifts from one foot to the other, back again.

"I..." He starts, pausing for a second. "I have a problem with always seeing things as far more complicated. So I hope you don't mind if I take a little inspiration from you there and ask plain."

His thumb jerks in the direction of the window. And the bike. "Would you like a ride?"

Love's fingertips drum the edge of the table. She's watching him somewhat idly while he rises, picks up his book, and then pauses before speaking. She takes in what he says, and her gaze flicks from him to his bike and back. Would she like a ride? That's ridiculous. He's a complete stranger, except for a shared encounter in a hospital lobby — "Yes."

Girl. Decisions. Love rises, checking her pockets to be sure she has her phone, whatever else is in her back pockets, then she heads for the door. "Would you mind dropping me at the Platinum Cabaret?" She manages not to make any embarrassing sounds at the prospect of touching his vintage motorcycle. Playing it cool, man, cool.

Viktor pauses for but a moment. It's not surprise at the destination she's asking for, but more a sudden moment of surprise in the face of serendipity. And it is ridiculous. He is a complete stranger. He should spend a couple of weeks getting to know her, becoming her friend, actually, you know, having something other than a few meetings in a hospital and a coffee.

But that sounds complicated. Bike good, she like bike, he like bike, and, as it turns out "That's... actually on my way home. So, no, I don't mind at all." Sometimes, life can be plainly simple. Like the fact that while his helmet with full face and visor hangs below his bag, there's always a faceless one in his bag in case he ever actually needs to give someone a ride.

Said bag is scooped, before they both head for that door and out.

"And please make what noises you want to make. Your face is incredible right now."

Love presses her lips together as she makes her way to the door. When he mentions her face, she says, "Shut the fuck up." Fair, though. She's probably fighting an eeeeeeee of delight at being offered a ride on a piece of art. So what if she has to wrap her arms around a relative stranger and hold on for dear life. Nobody in their right mind would drive that bike if he wasn't good at driving it, and if he's a dump their bodies in a ravine kind of guy, she has a knife in her back pocket. It's fine. Better than fine. It's great. Her heels are sharp on the pavement as they cross to the bike. Her long legs make it a short trip for her, and she stands there for a beat taking in the moment. It's a beautiful, cloudless day in Gray Harbor, and she's about to take a motorcycle ride to work. Tee hee.

Love combs her fingers into her hair, and begins the process of combing it up into a high tail on the top of her head. She twists and wraps it into a knot, securing it with more elastics, so it doesn't snarl into a horrifying mess on a windblown ride. Doesn't take long. "I hope you speed." Decisions.

Viktor considers safety. He considers the spare helmet in his pack. He glances up at the sheer amount of hair atop her head, thinks better of it, slips the bag from his shoulder and offers it out to her. At least some of the stuff in there should pad her if she decides to go over backwards. That, and there's no way she's getting a good grip with that thing around his back. Sometimes, simple is complicated too.

His jacket is zipped up by the time she's had a chance to decide whether or not to take the bag, helmet pulled away from the little paracord loop it hangs from, which is then tied up around one of the arm straps. And if she takes it? He's getting on, leaning with the kickstand, keys already pulled from his pocket, the helmet held in the other hand. "Mind your feet. The seat's extended and you've got your own foot rest-" He points out. "But you're right above the exhaust and those shoes look expensive. I'd make sure they're in the right spot."

He does not respond to the speeding comment.

Love simply hefts his pack up onto her back, securing the straps by tightening them down a little. Her shoulders are narrower than his. She swings a leg over the bike, climbing on behind him, snugly fit to his back, her thighs along his, hooking those heels and she laughs. "They are and I got it. I'd be really pissed if I burnt these. Thanks for the heads up, Vik."

"You do you. Not my first time on the back of a bike either. I'm not going to drop us if you don't." When he's ready, she'll grab on, not shy in the least about that. She pulls a pair of mirrored aviators out from under the strap of her halter, where they must have been tucked against her bra strap. She slides them on to protect her eyes from wind and bugs. "I wouldn't mind if you took the long way 'round."

With Love settled and in place, Viktor shifts a little around. While he has a key in his hand, it's just for a modern isolator. You do not turn this bike on by turning a key. You start this bike by manually setting the two choke leavers on the handle, manually adjusting fuel valves, and priming it as well as a compressor. The important point to take away from all this is that Love is so very lucky that he's not cold starting it. Leaning forward once he's set up, (it only takes roughly a minute), he can work the kick starter WITHOUT basically having to stand up and jump on the damn thing.

More luck for her there.

And when it does start? It's a bone rattler. It's loud, somehow sounds hungry, and Love's given little more than a pat on the thigh before they're off and away.

And he didn't reply, sure. But they absolutely take the long way 'round.