2020-01-29 - I Can't Fly in Space Anymore

There's a light dusting of snow on this chilly winter morning - not enough to cause any serious traffic problems, but it's still quite enough to remind everyone that winter isn't done with Gray Harbor, yet. Alexander came in his heavy green jacket, but he's claimed a booth towards the back, and shed it to reveal a well-washed sweater in faded purple. A black leather cuff studded with blue stones is on one wrist, and he's playing with it as he waits for Yule, his eyes turned to the window to watch the snow sift down. The Shoppe is pretty full, today, with people enjoying a hot breakfast before they brave the day out there.

It takes Yule a bit longer than one would normally anticipate to arrive, and when he does come in? It's easy to see why. He is propped up on crutches, his left knee bent. It's a pair of khaki dress slacks and a nice, cozy dark gray sweater that keeps him warm enough apparently. It takes a bit to get through the door, a murmured thanks given to a helpful patron who is on her way out while he's heading in. Onwards he goes after spying Alexander, flashing the fellow a ghost of a smile as he slides into the opposite side of the booth. "Hey ya, Alexander. How are you doing?"

"Better than you," Alexander points out, tonelessly. He frowns at Yule as he sits down, staring at the man as if he might just be trying to read his medical history off the inside of his brain. Then again, he is psychic, so that might be exactly what he's doing. "Isabella hasn't wanted to discuss it in any detail, but I take it the experiment didn't go as planned? Should you be out of the hospital?"

Yule's wounds are definately perfectly fine, as one would expect. No infections, no internal bleeding, everything concentrated quite obviously in his left calf. Stitches, a rather deep wound, but if he keeps to his crutches? It'll all be fine. But then? Yule's eyes are narrowing, giving a pointed look cast towards Alexander. "Never without permission." It's the one thing that he's ever offered to Clayton that doesn't sound friendly, a firm warning and line drawn. "I'll be fine. They kept me for a couple of days to see that it's healing. Stitches are good, it'll just take time, thanks. Worst of it is? I have to uber everywhere, cause driving a manual? Is impossible." A soft snort comes from the man for that, "Yeah. I can tell you about what we did find out. But there was something that happened in the hospital I wanted to ask you about."

Alexander looks like he might protest, for a moment, at that pointed look and firm response. Then his eyes drop and he gives a curt sort of nod. "Sorry. I was concerned." He clears his throat and waves for the waitress so that coffee can be ordered. He needs coffee. Or maybe just something to do with his hands that isn't reaching for the napkin and shredding it, which is what his fingers are currently doing. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He doesn't look up at the mention of 'something in the hospital', but he does go tense around his shoulders. "What is it?"

"Then use your words, Alexander. I'm not going to hide anything from you, yeah? It's how we build up trust." With that apology offered up by the man, those words come out with a reassurance, and when the waitress comes over? It's coffee and waffles for Yule, something that isn't hospital food for him to enjoy. "Yeah. Keep an eye on Isabella. I think she's fine, but, the worst part of things wasn't the explosion," Yule murmurs, a small frown curling to the corners of his mouth, "It was the way they toyed with the mind." Even his, apparently, because that gets a longer pause, a glance towards the table, before his head shakes to dispel the thoughts. "I had a dream while I was there. Nightmare, actually. But it felt more like reliving a /memory/, not... a Dream in the present sense. You don't happen to remember anything weird happening to you, myself and Patrick one summer when we were kids, do you?"

There's a flash of skepticism on Alexander's underslept features, although what part of the initial statement provokes it, he doesn't say. He just gives another curt nod, and orders pretty much the same thing. Although he does say after the waitress has departed, "I always feel somewhat guilty. Coming here, instead of Miss Castro's place. Yes, the service is terrible, and I think she's plotting to murder us all. But yes. Isabella has been," a pause, "distracted since returning. I do what I can, but I try not to push too hard. We all have things we'd rather not discuss."

Speaking of. Alexander stares at Yule for a long moment, then breathes out and says, "Yes. I remember. I didn't. Until a couple of days ago. Probably around the time. But yes. The beast in the woods."

"Why guilty? She helped you out in the past?" Comes Yule's question of curiosity, his head tilting to the side before he offers a faint smile towards the other fellow. "Helping her out doesn't have to include her telling you what happened. Support comes in many shapes and sizes. Which, I think you'd have done regardless." It's when Alexander confirms the matter at hand that he slumps back into his booth, and it is hard to tell if it is relief or concern that is winning out, some small hope that the gut feeling wasn't misleading him, but equally disturbed that an entire memory had been repressed. "I thought the first time I dealt with any of this? Was just over a year ago. That was... nearly thirty years ago?"

Alexander thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Nah. She just seems more...townie. Than the staff here." His mouth quirks in a smile. "By which I mean she's weird and kind of an asshole. But she puts up with my ramblings at odd hours when I can't sleep." He falls silent as their coffee is delivered. See? Service. And whatever guilt he has doesn't stop him from reaching for the mug and wrapping his fingers around it. "You forgot." A pause. "So did I. I'd expect you to forget, but not...I don't usually forget." He looks down into his coffee. "I wonder if Patrick remembers it."

"We will go there next time. But I /really/ needed something to eat that wasn't Thai takeout or jello," Comes Yule's quip about the service at the other place, pausing as the waitress sees to their coffee, and it is the forgetting part that makes his brow furrow in consideration. "Yeah. I thought normally the.. non glowing people didn't even see it. I'm not sure what is worse. The fact you didn't remember, and what that might mean... or reliving just how damn bratty I was at ten years old." Up his cup is lifted, giving a gentle blow against the surface, before he murmurs, "Should ask him. Have one more favor to ask, then I'll tell you about our experiment. What we learned."

"Hospital food is terrible. I would have brought you something, but you weren't seeing visitors." There's an implied question there, even if Alexander doesn't look up from his coffee. Or use his words. "Sometimes people who don't stand out get caught up in things. But they don't remember it, afterwards. Or they remember it differently." He pauses. "Before now, the first time I remembered getting lost with someone else was about a year or two after...that. He didn't stand out, either. I tried to get him to tell my parents what actually happened. But he wouldn't. Or couldn't." Something bleak in his voice, there, but after a moment, he says, "You weren't bad, Yule." A glint of humor. "Sorry for calling you a Christmas kid. And ask."

"Yeah. I just needed a bit of time to myself to process everything," Whatever Yule's thoughts on that, it's hard to tell around the coffee cup as it is lifted up, a small sip taking to test the temperature, before he allows a larger one to be had. "Yeah. I remember you asking that as I left. Wanting so much to have someone tell your parents you saw what you actually saw. Sucks, Alexander. Wish I knew back then what I know now." A sympathetic smile is flashed towards the man, a far better bit of understanding now with those memories that had come back, before a small bit of laughter comes from him, lifting a hand to wave the thought away. "Nonsense. That is small things compared to everything else, yeah? Besides. You don't call me a Christmas kid now, so it's all good. And for what I need? We need a guide. Someone who can get us Over There. Not for experimentation. Look, you know I can't officially share much with you, yeah? But you remember the cases with the missing organs? It's something over there hunting them, and we have a lead as to where it is."

Alexander continues to stare for a minute longer, visibly weighing whether to press further on what Yule needed to process. Because he's a nosy son of a bitch. But in this case, at least, he reins it in, and lets it go. "It's fine," he adds, curtly. "It was thirty years ago." There's a faint lightening of his features at the laugh, a hint of a smile returning. "Yeah, well. No one would call you a kid now, Yule. But I'm still the oldest," he adds, with a hint of teasing. Then shifts to something more solemn. "You need a mover. A powerful one. Isabella might be able to do it, but she doesn't like using her abilities. If you need a violence-capable guide...I'd recommend Itzhak or Easton. Itzhak's probably the strongest psychokinetic I know, and he's over there too much. Easton's former military. They can both keep their shit together when things go south."

A soft snort of amusement comes from him, and he quips back with the Patrickism that he recalls so vividly now, "You aren't the boss of me." It all draws that smile to linger, something that does truly reach his eyes as the waffles are dropped off, and only once the waitress leaves does his head dip into a small nod. "If you can pass on my number to them, or give me their contact info if you are comfortable with that? I'll see if either is available. Have you had a chance to meet Detective Esme, by chance?" Comes the next question, though he does as well start to offer up helpful tidbits while he picks up his fork. "So. The experiment. You have seen the bad side of what happened," From Isabella, surely, and of course Yule's leg. "So let's talk about what we learned. What we want to do, in creating an object that can nullify a room to make it safe? Is doable. We just... didn't get it quite right."

Alexander rolls his eyes, but can't help chuckle. "Right." A pause. "Weirdly, I had another Dream where I was younger just recently. This wasn't a memory, but it did involve someone I knew as a kid. But I wasn't in town when he and his friends were that age. It's just like the Dream stuck us in younger bodies - and minds, after a bit. It was creepy. And yeah. I'll give them a ring and see if they're interested. Give them your number, if it's all right. And--Detective Esme Wilkinson. She's local. Haven't seen her since she came back. I've...actually been a little too busy to stay as informed as I usually am." To stalk cops and show up uninvited at crime scenes, he means.

There's a pause when the plates are delivered, and he tucks into the food with a kind of mechanical precision, eating neatly but without any particular sign of displeasure or enjoyment. "Do you intend to try again? If so, what needs to be done differently?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Giving them my number," Yule offers up, his head dipping into a brief nod towards Alexander as he considers it all. "I've heard of that. Heard of dreams that swapped bodies, or put you into a movie. It's weird, everything that it can do." When he mentions her being local, he leans back, a soft 'mmm' of agreement coming, "Yeah. She moved back recently. I'll introduce the two of you. She's the one who is poking into the missing person you asked about." He points out, not having dropped that particular ball, even if it has been slow.

"I need to get with Isabella and Minerva to see their thoughts. Yes, I think we should try again. And honestly? I think it is just a matter of practice, which is... problematic, given the consequences."

"It is," Alexander allows. "And I've been looking back into some of the historical research I was doing, before things got, uh, really hectic. There's...something disturbing there." He doesn't immediately elaborate, but nods to the offer to introduce them. "Always like to ruin a cop's day with my presence," he deadpans. "And I'll have to thank her, if she finds anything. But...I don't think she is. Anne stumbled across something about that case, too. Six years after Jill disappeared, her father committed suicide. Hung himself from the carousel where she disappeared."

He sits back at the last, his lips thinning as he bites back an immediate response. After a breath or two, he says, "You know it's dangerous, and you know that if you push, something's gonna push back, Yule. So. What precautions are you gonna take? So that things don't explode again."

"Esme loves cold cases. You'll find her an enthusastic hunter in that particular case. Might be worth introducing her to Anne, too." His head wobbles a bit, before Yule' lowers his voice, a small frown curling towards the corners of his mouth, "She has only /just/ become aware of what is going on, so you know. Doesn't still fully believe it. She's in that struggle. And what, exactly, is disturbing?"

A faint smile curls to the corners of Yule's mouth, and he points out, "And if we don't push? They are still just going to keep pushing us. In different ways. As far as what? I need to debrief with them to get ideas, first. Second? Working with Isabella to create a standard pack of things we might need in these situations. Not just medically, but... for example, chalk grenades, for lack of a better word? Would be great. It did a great job keeping the acidic things at bay. If I can figure out other common materials we can keep with us, and how to dispense them, it'll be useful. You said Itzhak is a wiz with repairs and tools, yeah? I'll talk with him about what he might be able to whip up. And then having a place to do these experiments in that we can contain the items in, to help shield from the explosions."

"Sure," Alexander allows about both her enthusiasm and introducing her to Anne. Although he does frown a bit as Yule goes on. "Does she stand out? If she doesn't, you might just be fighting a losing battle. It's frustrating having people forget." He doesn't answer the other question immediately. Instead, he eats his breakfast and thinks.

He eventually speaks up, but slowly, as if feeling his way through it. "For a long time, Gray Harbor has been hit with various disasters and unpleasantries. There's Gohl, of course. And the Ferris Wheel. The witch-burnings. The murder of that mayor. And others. But most of them, maybe all of them, get associated with a family line. The Baxter family. But when there isn't a disaster, the Baxters are just...erased, from local history. There's not a single grave in the entire town under the name of Baxter, for instance. And when they do pop up in the historical record, it's always bad. They're victims or perpetrators of terrible things." He opens his mouth as if to continue, rethinks it, and lets that lie for the moment.

Besides, otherworldly expeditions are interesting and actually less horrible. "That sounds like a good plan. And yeah, Itzhak is a very skilled mechanic. As for a place - there's always an old warehouse or something in the industrial area of town. Most of it's been shut down since most of the mills went, so...with a friend on the force, might not be a bad place to set up shop until something can actually be bought."

"She remembered the incident vividly afterwards that happened at the precinct. And another one before that. She doesn't seem to be forgetting. I'm not sure if it'll eventually fade, or if she's changing. But before? She didn't stand out. Haven't seen a change, yet, but." His shoulder lifts up into a helpless shrug, and Yule murmurs, "And regardless if she forgets it? She needs the help to get through it now."

His head dips at most of those that he remembers at thsoe disasters, but it is those ties, his brow furrowing in consideration. "That's... weird. Are these disasters cyclical in some numerical form? Every x number of years? Recently found a pattern with our murderer on that. So do you think the Baxters are an actual... family, or are they a family from Over There that just... pops up here to cause mayhem?" He wonders, fingers thrumming upon the table before a breath is blown out. "Yeah. I'm less worried about the large space, and thinking something like a... stronger trash can to contain explosions, sort of place safety." He offers up wryly, a glance down to his leg given. "Though I don't think anything will really be /safe/ from them. Just prepared is more like it."

Alexander makes a noncommittal noise, thinking it over. Then he says, "Well, I'm always happy to help law enforcement in any way I can. Whether they want me to or not," he adds, voice dry. "So, sure."

A shake of his head at the other. "No. No numerical pattern. That's what I was thinking at first, too, but I've run the math, and there's nothing I can pick out. And the reporting and recording of them suggests tampering. Someone is building a narrative with the Baxters as the villains."

At the question about the Baxters themselves, he can only clear his throat. "I don't know their origins. But I'm one, on my father's side. So was William Gohl. Who was, ah, my great grandfather, as it happens. None of the Baxters I've heard about have ever lived in the Veil, that I know of. Honestly, the ones I've talked to seem as damned confused about what's going on as anyone else. Myself included." He reaches for his coffee. "But I don't know that's the truth for all of us. Baxters did get Gohl's bones from the Other Side, which allowed his ghost to escape, and I don't know why. I think the Addingtons are trying to erase them, or vilify them, or both - but I don't know why that, either."

He sighs. "It's frustrating. And you need a large metal box. Something that can be sealed, if needed. And a fire extinguisher." A glance towards Yule's leg, and he smiles. "And maybe some armor."

"So it isn't that the Baxter family is erased from history," Yule points out dryly, looking quite clearly at Alexander whom is, apparently, one on his fathers side, "At least not the extended family? Or the oens without the last name? Or maybe the history is only erased after a certain amount of time. Regardless, it certainly does sound like something fishing is going on, but just what is the question, to your point. Hard to sort the fact from fiction." It's Alexander's comment about it being frustrating that has a small smile coming to life, reflected in his eyes with the crinkles of lines at their corners. "Yeah. It is. I was hoping I'd /see/ more of what Isabella and Minerva did. Understand it, like watching cells interact beneath a microscope. But no such luck, this time around. Jesus. I feel like Edison in his quest for making the lightbulb... just try a thousand things until one works the best, because I don't actually know how to test anything to figure out the science behind it."

Alexander shakes his head. "They're not erased when they do terrible things. But surely someone of that line did something positive in their whole life? Something that should have been acknowledged by history. But if it's here in Gray Harbor, I haven't been able to find it. And I'm pretty sure that's deliberate. The Baxters were here first." He pauses. "But something happened. And I think it has to do with all this that we're trying to uncover. But, I admit, it's not a pressing concern."

"If it were me, I think I'd suggest focusing on your attempt to detect things. Abilities. If you could create a thing that perceives...whatever sort of energy that we use, reliably, then that would be a foundation to start building on the what and the how, if not the why."

"I've been pondering the energy question, yeah? How we power what we do. It isn't like we get hungry, or fatigued. But surely it has to come from something? Maybe we draw on something from Over There, and that is part of how they know what we are doing, where we are. But, I still need things to /observe/. But known things." Yeah. Yule's mind is fully enraptured upon thie what and the how, stuffing his mouth with a few bites of waffles as he mulls it over, "Whenever you do... what you do? Let me know? And I'll come and watch, see if I can't find a way to better detect it."

His tongue dips out, sweeping across his lips, and then that plate is pushed to the side, his full focus in gripping his coffee cup once more to draw it towards himself. "You think they are the reason it is so thin here? Or were they originally drawn here because it was already so thin. Where were they at before they settled in the Gray Harbor area, so long ago?"

Alexander nods. "It's one of the more pressing issues. It clearly causes us to radiate something which makes us tasty to the Shadows, right? Although I guess pulling from it would also make us stand out. Hell, maybe we metabolize some sort of raw material from there, and then expel it when we use our abilities. Like oxygen to CO2, or something. And sure. Um. A discreet demonstration would probably be better, unless you want me to drop buy the morgue and read some of your corpses." A pause. "Which I'd rather not do unless you're actually stuck. Being murdered isn't fun."

To the rest, he can only shrug. "Hell if I know," he mutters. "I tracked them back to the Oregon Trail, but records past that are lousy. And with people hiding or destroying records that have to do with them..."

The bell dings and in trudges one of Gray Harbor's familiar faces, Grant Baxter. He's got his nose in a book, hardcover with minimalist art suggesting some nature of planetary alignment with an arrow cast through the middle of the design and up the spine. No author. He murmurs an answer to Alexander, "Probably because the people keeping them dies of dysentery" Delivered with dry fact and 38.7% less his usual zest. he's also pre-coffee. Pausing he looks up and spots- "Hello, neighbor." Yule and, "Cuz." You're not getting out of that one Alexander. Converse sneakers pull up to stop in the middle of the floor, bag adjusting on shoulder. No board today, he walked.

"I'd rather you not be using your powers just to use them. Just let me know sometime you have a use to do it, yeah? But, regardless, discrete is certainly best." Not now, without a doubt, a flicker of a smile curling to the corners of his mouth as Yule adjusts his left leg a touch, trying to get a touch more comfortable. "Yeah. I mean, records even a few decades ago can be spotty, unless it is really important. So much paper, so much just stowed away, or lost or whatever. It's sorta fascinating, yeah? That it's only the negative left over. It's almost so obvious people wouldn't believe it. Like those shows you see where the murder is /too/ neat, the clues too obvious." A set of crutches are leaning against the side of the back booth he and Alexander are in, and a dip of his head is cast towards Grant with his entrance.

"Don't call me cuz," Alexander tells Grant with a frown as he gives that greeting. "We're only technically and distantly related." He makes a grumpy noise, and sidelong eyes Yule. "Speaking of Baxters, you seem to have met." He sighs. "And I don't mind. It might even be good for me. I've been feeling...itchy, lately." From the hesitation over the word, it's not quite the right one, but it's the best one he can come up with. He continues to eye Grant warily, but does, eventually, toss out a, "And how are you?" towards the younger man.

Sparrow's not too far behind Grant, the jingle above the door preceding a call of, "Baaaa-aaax," into the diner in search of response. Ya know, before she's even bothered to look around and see if he's here yet. That's how Marco Polo works. Find 'em with your eyes closed. Not that hers are. They are, in fact, set right over there. Not on the purple-haired punk she's here to see but on the ME with the crutches. Who knew her face could go that blank. Or how much that emptiness could say. It suits the black sweatshirt she's wearing, the fuzzy patch on the front visible past her open coat depicting the multi-colored bars of a UHF channel after broadcast hours are over, the word OFFLINE in a white bar across the front. Blue jeans, black boots, muted make-up perfectly painted. She's otherwise her perfectly put-together self, and her mood quickly catches up, smile promptly put back in place where it should be as she closes the distance to shoulder-bump Grant. And issue not a single greeting beyond that smile.

Grant shrugs in a resigned manner defeated on the issue guessing, "well then fuck you too I guess? " There's no hostility in it and really the 20-odd-something looks slightly confused. The question on how he is brings some thoughtful consideration. He looks down. his feet are there and then back up to Alexander, "I have a body again." Less enthusiastically he adds, "And I'm not in space." He pauses and holds up a finger, "No, technically am. I'm no longer off-system." And then the name, and...the bump. He looks to Sparrow and weirdly confused again and then relieved. He turns and finds for a small moment solace hugging his bestie. Like it's not occurring to him he tells her, "I would have missed you." All his thoughts may not be in sequential order today, but his heart's on his sleeve like any other. "You say your powers, but what i they're not ours and we check em you like-" he holds up the library book in his hand denoted only by the Dewey numbers on its spine.

It's a rather sharp look that Yule flashes Alexander when he says he feels itchy, a small grunt coming from him, but then his attention shifts to watch the interaction between him and Grant. It's the word 'technical' that gets a small snort from the ME, his head just shaking a touch. "All right. Just let me know when, Alexander, and I'll watch." It's Grant's offering of how he is that just as the man lifting his cup to hide his expression, a flicker towards Clayton to see if this is all standard and normal for the artist before them, until his eyes come to fall upon Sparrow. Calm, collected, but certainly distant, his head tips towards her. "Thanks for the flowers. Couple of weeks, and I'll be all good."

Alexander blinks at Grant a couple of times. Not at the confused 'fuck you' - that he seems to ignore. "You were in space without a body? Got lost? Sorry. Glad you're not dead." He falls silent when Sparrow comes in, and watches the interaction between the woman and Yule with an interest that verges on the outright rude in its openness. A raise of his eyebrow towards the medical examiner, although he doesn't ask the question out loud. He does say, "Good day, Miss Jones. How are you? And your brother?"

"I would've found you." Sparrow doesn't need to know the circumstances of this hypothetical homesickness to know how to answer, arms readily wrapping around Grant as she leans in, squeezing, letting her own expression hide against his shoulder for a couple of seconds. Her smile's a bit easier when she comes back up, that comfort doing her a bit of good, too. "Sure," she answers Yule with a shallow arch of her brows, not quite succeeding in hiding the hurt and uncertainty in her eyes as she otherwise cheerfully chirps, "Take it you've got everything you need, then?" Her focus lingers there for a moment, long enough to accept an answer or edge toward awkwardness before her attention settles on Alexander instead. "No idea, Mr. Clayton. Uh. About me. Been that kinda week, yeah? But Corey's doing alright. Working too much, but. He loves it, so whatcha gonna do." With a higher lift of her eyebrows, she asks, "How about you?"

Grant turns and just takes the moment now in all of its nowness to just hug her. If there's a shift in mood in the room he's missed it or staying out of it. Oddly he might graffiti a mailbox to address the mood later but at least at present he lets it pass. "You got my memo." Little things go a long way sometimes. "Phone reception is a lot better in orbit. The one downside." Looking to Alexander he shakes his had, "Naw, woke up dead and got decapitated. Total... bummer. Then I went with Isabella," whoo boy. He points up making a circle with his finger to gesture up, around, where maybe? Some sign follows to fill in the blanks. This is wholly unhelpful if one doesn't speak ASL-with-book-in-hand sign impediment. "Had my body in space. Just... Beth made us come back and it was beautiful and perfect and... gone."

The last of Yule's coffee is drained, and his answer comes readily towards Sparrow, with that same level of stoic calm. "Yeah. I'll just be slower to do everything for a while." His head swivels, looking towards Alexander before he murmurs, "I get to use one of those knee scooters at work, though." He offers up in a humored touch, as if that could somehow make it all worth while. But when Grant talks? It's a look that is half intrigued and half perplexed at the sequence of events laid out. His mouth opens, surely with some question at the ready, but it is just stowed away, offering a faint smile towards the fellow instead. "Glad you are back, and with your head still attached."

The Waffle Shoppe probably isn't at the top of Patrick's list of favorite places to eat, but here he is regardless, bundled against the snow and doing what all the normal humans do when he enters a restaurant alone: typing something on his phone. Whatever it is, he ends the conversation with a shake of his head, tucks the thing into his pocket, and makes his way toward the hostess with the importance of a person used to being waited on promptly. "I called in an order for Patrick." There's a beat while the woman starts sifting through notes or whatever, and he tacks on, "Addington." Like that will improve the situation.

It gives him a moment to take stock of those already here, albeit impatiently, and he chin-tips toward the familiar faces - Alexander, Yule - then squints at the company they're keeping - Sparrow, Grant. "It's gonna be a few minutes," the hostess says. He makes an irritated noise and wanders off because people!

Alexander takes a sip of his coffee, and eyes Grant. "Oh. Waking up dead sucks. Getting decapitated is worse. I'm sorry." A pause. "And you were with Isabella and Beth in space?" And he doesn't disbelieve any of this - he's just trying to work out a timeline, it sounds like. His eyes tick back towards Sparrow. "Sorry about the week, too. But at least there's coffee." He lifts the cup, before turning back to Yule. "I want to see you use the scooter. And take pictures." It's very deadpan, but there's humor dancing in his eyes. When the door chimes, he glances in that direction, eyebrows going up when he sees who it is. When Patrick wanders over, he says, "Patrick. Hello. How are you?"

"Yeah." Sparrow echoes that single syllable from Yule, but stoic's not the right word for it. Dejected? Heartbroken? Angry? The way her jaw tightens certainly suggests the latter. She forces her smile back into place as she adds in answer to Alexander, "And waffles." There's a glance back toward the Addington, assessing the growing audience for whatever it is she's feeling right now, before she turns to Grant, whose one-handed ASL is nothing new or untranslatable to her, and leans in close, nose to cheek, to murmur entirely audibly, "I know what it's like to lose perfection." With a kiss to his cheek, she slips away, muttering about how, "I'mma grab us a table," and otherwise disengaging from the rest of the conversation.

Grant looks to the ME and says with all seriousness, "Might have you take a look at i later to make sure i was taped on right." Being that he lives in a trailer that's a hop away from the set of Breaking Bad and being it's Gray Harbor? There could be argument either way on ho literal he's being. Greg lets him live pretty rent-free and hooks him up in exchange for doing some odd jobs and watching the shop. This is generally known. Weirdly being dead and decapitated doesn't seem to bother him past the same feeling of shoes that get soaked and have to go through the painful process of drying out proper.

Her hand gets a squeeze and he nods, not feeling better that that happened either! "This isn't a thing should be going around." Looking to Alexander he tried to remember, "Uhhh Nicole was there. Sharp looking guy that looks like he should be narrating Unsolved Mysteries, and Beth-the-Funwrecker." Snapping his finger he adds while following Sparrow to a booth to set the book down in a clean spot and drop his backpack, "We got tea out of it. Isabella's okay for being back." Opinions according to Grant Baxter.

"You aren't getting pictures. Not just for the obvious reason, but in trying to be both on my scooter and snapping a shot? I'd likely topple over and break my other leg." Comes Yule's counter towards Alexander, a ghost of a smile curling to the corners of his mouth. Patrick's arrival has Yule's eyes trailing after him for longer than one would think, and a meaningful glance is cast back towards Clayton. Whatever his reaction to Sparrow's look? It is kept carefully in check as his head tips down, one hand pulling out his wallet to draw a few bills from it, tossing the cash down to cover not just his, but Alexander's along with a tip. "I should get to work. If you find out if he experienced the same? Let me know." The Addington gets a dip of his head, "Hey Patrick."

He grabs the crutches, tucking them under shoulders as his left foot lifts up, "Yeah? We use gorilla glue these days, rather than tape. Holds better, you know." He quips back towards Grant, though the smile doesn't really reach his eyes. The clink of crutches to floor comes as the ME sets out, heading onwards towards the front door.

"Better than some people." Patrick answers for his well-being while looking pointedly at Yule. "Unless crutches are just the season's accessory and no one told me," but his tone suggests he doubts that's the case. "Do I even want to know?" The question is clearly about Yule, but since he's heading toward the door, he'll just ask everyone else, roaming a glance across Alexander first, Sparrow and Grant as secondary recipients. He stops a conversational distance from the table (where he can also keep an eye on what's going on with the hostess and the food that should already have been ready to go, rabble), stepping across the aisle to leave a clear space for Yule's departure. "Always a pleasure, Duchannes."

"I don't think it's fair to call her a funwrecker," Alexander mutters towards Grant. "She's seems perfectly nice." He looks back to Sparrow, and his features soften a little. "And waffles. Waffles are good." As Yule gets up, he frowns, but says, "Oh, I can manage pictures if I really wanna. Just you wait." And then Yule is leaving, and he's following the guy with his eyes until he's out of conversational distance. Then, of course, he decides to indulge his nosy assholishness, and glances back to Sparrow. "What happened?"

Patrick is given a silent invitation to sit in the abandoned seat, and a curt, "Probably not. Weird shit, as usual. And science." Then he smiles, briefly, at the Addington. "Yule and I...remembered something. Just a few days ago. Summer? About thirty years ago? Ring a bell?"

This place is hardly within walking distance of his digs near the harbor, or the boat he still sometimes sleeps on. Especially in weather like this. So this time....it's the beat of a motorcycle engine that precedes him. Not the full-throated roar of an unmuffled Harley, but something softer.

Then he's shouldering in through the door, in his usual winter garb of heavy greatcoat, white scarf. For once, without the black watch cap. But that copy of Neuromancer is still in his pocket, and he's without that limp or hitch in his stride, as he ambles for the counter. Cheerful enough, in his way, though not grinning.

Sparrow's got her coat off and her phone out by the time Grant joins her in the booth. The redhead might be very pointedly ignoring what's happening away from that screen until she catches the movement of book finding the table, the backpack preceding the Baxter into the seat. She flicks a look past him to catch Yule's back as he heads off, nose crinkling with some half-manifested irritation... that Alexander promptly picks at. For a few seconds, she just stares, a good sign that it's not gonna be outright refusal. Then her phone goes down, and she looks past again to gauge safety before settling her attention on Mr. Nosy. "Communication problems. I don't know how to express my obviously reasonable concerns in a constructive manner, and he doesn't know how to not read some inconsiderate or malicious intent into everything I say these days. So, I walked. And he got himself blown up, I guess. And..." She just gestures thattaway. This. Right here. What he just witnessed. "But hey. Waffles."

She flashes a weird look, halfway between apology and annoyance, at Patrick on her way to looking toward Grant who gets a gentle kick beneath the table. "You need a safe place to sleep, you know I've always got space. Or, ya know. Recreations so we don't gotta. And naked walls in need of paint."

Normally, when Patrick bats his fingers at something, it has a 'no, minion' quality to it, but this time? It's just a polite waving off of the offer to sit. "I'm just waiting for - " On second thought, he perches on the very end of the seat that Yule just quit, unbuttoning the front of his coat briefly while he perches and frowns. "And science. Of course. Why not." He's quiet to let Sparrow answer for whatever happened, meeting her look with one beneath lifted brows that doesn't seem to know what to do with either the implied apology or annoyance - but he's too distracted to chase down the curiosity.

"Summer thirty years ago?" He squints at Alexander hard, really searching here - and then suddenly leans back in his chair. With a darkly entertained little smile, "I know what you're talking about." It leaves him smirking quietly, the entertained glitter of his eyes aimlessly cast toward Sparrow-and-Grant over there, but he's probably not actually seeing them. Just thinking.

Grant looks to Yule curiously listening. "Oh, good to know." He adds a mental stop to the hardware store on his way home for gorilla glue and spring clamps; the latter for work, not third-aid purposes. "I'll come by later." Being he lives 3 trailers down it's not like it's particularly far. Looking to Alexander there's a slight (perhaps uncharacteristically short) response, "She is nice and changes... like... perfect things and breaks them without... look it was reverse kidnapping okay?" He's got feelings about this, heartbroken ones, and a lack of coherency to make them make sense to anyone else. The mood immediately around him being more like a small static field with feelings misfiring on synapse until kicked.

Dark brown eyes pick up our of whatever miasma of resentment he has to look up at Sparrow. "That sounds... good." He pauses and says "I need paint still." Which means Sparrow I need you to drive because you have the car and I do not. Taking a deep breath he agrees, "We need waffles." The waitress is given a grateful look and then... that callback hits him looking to Alexander wit possibly the most useless and obvious, and yet accurate addition to the conversation, "Man I can't even remember thirty years ago."

Alexander looks up towards the door as it opens again, his eyes widening as he sees Joseph. A nod is given in the man's direction, a little wary, but not hostile. He sort of hides behind his coffee cup as Sparrow elaborates. There's a wince. "Have you tried punching him?" He's not being sarcastic. "I mean. Not while he's hobbling. That doesn't seem fair. But I have been introduced to the idea that punching the hell out of people is a good substitute for communication. Works at least thirty percent of the time." Alexander really needs to hang out with different people. As Patrick sits down and then gives that amused smile, his eyes narrow like he's thinking about testing that new revelation. "Did you...always remember that? I didn't. Yule didn't." A sidelong look towards Grant. "Nothing over there is real, you know. It'd just hurt you in the end. Better not to stay." He doesn't dignify the thirty years ago remark with a response, just a flat sort of look.

A nod for Grant and Alexander....but he doesn't seem disposed to try and come over and insinuate himself into either group. The sailor's settled comfortably on his stool, shrugging off coat and scarf, wearing only a long sleeved t-shirt underneath. The book gets pulled out of his pocket and propped against one of the napkin dispensers....and then the waitress is bustling by to pour him coffee. But he's clearly got half an ear cocked towards that conversation, absent-mindedly eavesdropping.

"He's not your neighbor anymore," Sparrow notes to Grant of Yule. "Might advise not creeping on whoever's moved in to ask them to gorilla glue your head back on. Especially cuz it looks pretty attached right now which means that request comes with an implied invitation to your next decapitation." Beat. "Which maybe let's not have anymore of that?" The look she levels him says pretty please in as stern a manner as she can muster at the moment. Which isn't as stern as she'd like, but it'll have to do.

"I was raised by pacifists," is for Alexander. "Pretty sure my mom would advise that I carry a little bit of obsidian for grounding, maybe some citrine for clarity. Say what I mean and not what I feel." She might not notice how a finger's caught beneath the silver chain just beneath her sweatshirt's collar, teasing idly at that hidden length. "Dad'd ask if I'd been doing my yoga and keeping my chakra aligned." Did Alexander need to know that? No. That's all for her own benefit, tools she has at her own disposal that aren't in use. She makes a sour face that sinks toward sullenness as she mutters, "It's fine."

Finally catching Joe's arrival, she clips a lazy little wave his way, that same hand coming up to indicate the ... size of the waffle stack she wants? No, she asks the waitress for, "Whipped cream?" on top. A lot of it, apparently. The look she gets back is a very clear 'we'll see but probably not.' "We'll go get paints," she tells Grant. "And, really. I got drugs for that." For remembering thirty years ago, she means. Before they were born.

Grant looks to Sparrow and says "Don't hit me less I get dinner first." Looking back, and well up he sees Joseph and says "Dick! Welcome back." yeah he's just calling him Phil K. now. And then? He turns a slow, blank-borderline-horrified look to Sparrow, "How ... how long was I gone?!" Seriously has no concept of time. This is also why it's important to take one's meds regularly. He blinks at the redhead ans sighs, "Yeah. Yeah I can do that as it seems to satisfy the happiness of you, my sisters and my..." huh. "Associates." The note of artificial memory brings the hint of a grin, "Cool. Just right now I'm trying to hold onto early this week, I think, so not yet." He looks back to Alexander and says either in regards to previous weekendage or the space trip and There, "It was pretty damn good."

"Not exactly," begins Patrick, taking a breath as if he has more to say on the subject - but then expelling it with the words unspoken, 'cause that's when the hostess lifts a pair of bags full of to-go containers. And that's why Patrick only sat on the very edge of the chair, because as soon as that food shows up, he quits the chair promptly. "We'll talk about it later. If I don't get these waffles back to my apartment in one piece, there will come a reckoning."

After he has an argument with the hostess about the strawberry sauce that is supposed to come with these waffles, tyvm, and he's not leaving till he gets it. (He tips really big; it's the only reason he's still allowed to come in here at all.) Anyway, he must get what he's after, 'cause he leaves a couple minutes later.

"Say hi to Anne for me," Alexander says, looking more amused than Patrick's desire to get waffles maybe warrants. There's just a nod about talking about it later, before he sort of slumps in his seat. A glance back at Sparrow. "Punching seems more effective? Just. In general." Alexander frowns. "But probably better not to, I guess." His eyebrows go up when she mentions it being 'fine', but he doesn't press further. Partially because Grant's words just catch and hold his attention. He watches the younger man with wary confusion. "All...right. I'm sorry, then." A little shake of his head, before he turns his attention back to his plate and his cup. His expression goes blank; not so much sad, or brooding, but just like someone hit a button on the back of his neck and turned him off temporarily. He stares at the empty space across from him in the booth.

A lift of a long hand for Sparrow....and then Grant's calling out to him, and Joe turns fully to give him a wry grin. "We gonna need to find you a better nickname for me, I think," He opines. "People might get the wrong idea about us." That latter comment, though not to him, has him wondering, "Memory problems?" Something slightly more dubious in his tone. He doesn't remember Grant from the Asylum, but that means very little, really.

The barest hint of a grin twitches at Sparrow's lips at those first words from Grant, and it resurfaces at his horror, as she assures, "Not that long, darling. Remember? You ran off for a bit with Mr. Tall Dark and Immaculate?" Which surely accounts for some of the time it took Yule to move out. He's not that unmoored from temporal reality yet. "But we can anchor. Dinner at my place." Which means Corey's cooking. "Mario Kart. Cuddling. Color. I gotchu." She offers no elucidation of her bestie's issues, letting him share what he wants. To Alexander, she allows, "Prolly," of the effectiveness of the punching. "But I like his stupid face when it's not being stupid. So." A little tilt of her head accompanies a note of, "Guess I could go for the gut," that probably isn't serious. Unlike the question which follows, when she asks the guy suddenly alone in his booth, "What happened?"

Grant looks to Joseph and tilts his head down with a serious (for him) look. "Do we? Do we really?" It's an honest question there with more than some amusement picking him up out of the sullen funk. His eyes get a little glassy and the smile comes back just a hint remembering that "Yeaaaaah, I did." Shiftin the look from upward-lock-memory-recall position to Sparrow at the offer the small reprieve in his mood holds, "It's like you know me." That's a yes. Looking to Joseph he blinks and considers the remainder of Joseph's question hesitating a "...yes? Usually. I mean... I don't know that the 'wrong' impression is so far off. But like... doesn't everyone have memory problems? Do they and forget they do?"

Jingle-jangle goes the bell above the door as someone else comes in from the cold. A very cop-like someone; tallish, sturdy and Hispanic, bundled into a parka which reads GRAY HARBOR POLICE across the back. Yep, definitely a cop; a captain, if the pins on the collar of his uniform are to be believed. Given the cell phone in hand and the earpiece of his radio that's currently unhooked and dangling from his shoulder though, probably off duty. He scans the place for a table to sit, spots a few familiar faces, and his jaw gets a little tight. "Alexander," seems like a fairly safe bet though, greeted in a low rumble as he passes close by, and drops into a seat at the small table near him.

Alexander takes a moment to respond to Sparrow's question. More than a moment - a moment to realize it was meant for him, then several moments longer to come out of wherever he abruptly wandered off to in his head to return to a shared plane of reality. "Did something ha--oh. No. Nothing. Nothing recent." He shrugs. "Yule, Patrick, and I recently remembered that we'd been caught up in the same," a frown, "experience when we were much younger. I don't like forgetting things." That seems aimed as much at Grant and Joseph as at Sparrow.

But whatever else he might have said, he's distracted from when the bell over the door rings. He sees the parka first, recognizing it with the speed of the experienced copbotherer, and then recognizes the person wearing it a moment later. A brief but sunny smile lights up his face. "Javier." As he goes to sit at the table, Alexander nods to the empty side of the booth. "Want to join me? I'm almost finished. It's almost like having your own table."

"Well, my first two reactions are that it's an insult, or a request, so.....maybe?" Joe offers, innocently. Comfortably hipshot on his stool. "You can call me Joe, if you like. Or Cavanaugh, if last names are easier for you to remember. Or spin a nickname from those, if you wish." He's got his coffee cup, and is doctoring it to a shade of tan with an unholy amount of creamer and sugar. Like he intends to frontload his day's calories into the cup.

And then there's Ruiz, and he says, pleasantly, "De la Vega, hey there," More relaxed, if anything - like he's deliberately refusing to tense up at the cop's arrival. Cops are like priests, after all. One appears, and everyone present starts examining their conscience. Though the bike outside has everything in order, and presumably he's got a license for it. Back to the others, "Well, human memory is never as reliable as we like to think. But....there's normal forgetting, and then there's amnesia, of a kind. I know I've got some, courtesy of some bad TBI. A little aphasia, too, for that matter." His tone is matter of fact. He's had a lot of time to become reconciled with the effects of his injuries.

Sparrow's first honest smile of the whatever-time-of-day-it-is rises in answer to that oh so happy look from the boardless skater across from her. "Weird, right?" she quips of how well she knows him, like they hadn't known each other since forever. Her face scrunches at the belated answer from Alexander, informative in its own way if not exactly what she was looking for. "I meant--" But she doesn't elaborate, huffing a quiet breath and letting it go as suddenly there's cop. And waffles! Hers has a smaller mountain of whipped cream than she'd requested, but still a couple inches above regulation, which earns a grateful look for the server, answered with a silent nod.

It's only after she's got her food in front of her that she angles a look toward Ruiz, maybe even something of a not precisely bright smile should he look this way, but there's no attempt to engage. She addresses Joe, though, telling him, "Pretty sure he's gonna keep calling you that until you're clear it's not gonna get him any. And then it'll probably fall to definition numero two, so." Sounds like there's not much to be done! "If you want my advice?" Nobody asked. "I'd maybe take him home. Watch a little Scanner Darkly. See where the night goes." But she's not contributing to the conversation about memory. She's too busy eating waffles.

Speaking of Joe and last names, "Cavanaugh, hola." It's curt, though not entirely unfriendly. Not for de la Vega, at least, who's somewhat reminiscent of a cranky honey badger on a good day. He's about to nudge his chair in when Alexander makes his offer. And it's presumably a good enough one for him to take, as he hauls back to his feet and claims the spot opposite the other man in his booth, with a jingle and crunch of gear. Ballistic vest today, full duty rig, mean looking gun in full view; of course people start examining their conscience, nobody wants to be on the receiving end of that nasty piece of work.

"Morning, Crotchbiter," he greets Grant once he spots him, without missing a beat. Sparrow gets a small smile if she happens to look his way, but he'll not interrupt her conversation for it. Finally, to Alexander, "Hello." He looks a little worn out.

Grant swivels and considers the guy with the boat and the good taste in books, his own laying there with an indecipherable spine (due to being diagram rather than word), "You know I will respect the solid maybe." Still be it the jogged recent memory Sparrow nudged in there to combat being in not-space or the offer of taking care of his bruised mood with all the comforts of total irresponsibility it works. And then- Yes Ruiz just called him that and it earns him an endeared smile and almost a well good morning to you which instead comes ot noticing the coat, "Oh hey you joined the force?" So late to the party. There's comisseration though quiet, "Rough gig today huh?" There's a pause to remember if he heard about anyhting happening but no one tells him anything really and he's honestly alright with this. Looking back to Alexander he says quietly, "Pictures help. Sometimes."

Alexander eyes Sparrow. "Are we encouraging Cavanaugh to take Grant home for sex? Is that what we're doing? Why are we doing that?" He gives the two men a frowning look. "I never pick up on that. I thought we were talking about memory. Well. You were talking. I was eavesdropping. And yeah," a brief smile towards Grant, for once, "pictures do help. Sometimes. I keep case notes. They're extensive." Ruiz chimes in, and gets another long look in return. "You look tired," he informs the Captain, quietly.

Sparrow's suggestion re: Grant earns her a bark of laughter, followed by that soundless chortling. Just the bounce of shoulders and the way his eyes go to blue crescents of sheer amusement. It's not mocking, not in the least sarcastic. "That's your honest advice, huh?" Still laughing a little, before wondering, "But wouldn't Blade Runner be better, for the sake of argument?" Then he turns that bright gaze on Grant himself, grinning back. Taking it all as a joke, but not a mean-spirited one. To Alexander, "We're joking about it, in the spirit of fun. I'm far too old for him," Tone mild, unoffended. "And memory was part of the conversation, too. This town is bad for it in a lot of ways, I understand."

"I mean," Sparrow begins in answer to Joe. "Prolly, but. Figured we'd visit some new material this time round?" Nah, there was no logic there, but it sounds like the overall theory stands. Right up until Alexander's question is answered before she can get to it with that bullshit excuse. Oh! How her eyes role. "What the fuck is with you old men in this town? Like you can't appreciate earnest interest for what it's worth." There's a whole lot more to that rant, but she cuts herself off and mutters, "Not like I didn't fuck my May-November up, so." That dismissive wave of her fork? That says 'ignore alla that, thanks.' Looking to Alexander, she adds firmly, "We were. On both counts. Cuz we can do both. And you picked up on it just fine." Then it's head down, back to her waffles. Someone's got a lotta feels today.

Grant looks to Sparrow , then to Alexander, and then just folds his arms on the table and rests his chin on there watching the conversation take place around him until his waffles show up. He murmurs to Joseph, "She doesn't lie. It's a filthy habit." And also a compliment. Telling Alexander with a serious tone, but the hint of a smile he says, "yeah if I break em you know how hard it'd be for me to find a paleontologist to do fix him?" The amusement holds in a quiet manner not seeming to take it all to heart at all. His hand flips to counter the neg on that by adding, "I'm totally down for a Blade Runner marathon and always for some Scanner Darkly. though. Should talk to Thewlis about doing this like a gift to the world." That look sliiiiides to Sparrow as if she gave up his darkest secrets there, but hey, for everyone's gain so he can't even be mad. Fork taken up he reaches over and gives Sparrow's hand a squeeze. "Hey-" Yup he's cutting in line on that rant to give her an intense look, concerned, "Thanks for looking out for me. And right now i'm honestly...kinda okay I think. Maybe?" which might have to do with the current muse or just his state of mind.

Sitting up he says, tiredly but with an earnest appreciation to the waitress bringing waffle, bacon, another layer of waffle on top, syrup and whipped cream and- yes sprinkles because he tips well and he's just nice to the damn staff on the regular. He pokes at his waffle in solitary thoughts, with thoughtfulness and some hesitation he looks back to Alexander, maybe a bit too sober, "I have to draw mine so... the um..." His pinky sticks out making a squiggly gesture and then to his head hung up on the thoughts, and making them words outside of physicality. There's a frustrating line of interruption in the thought flow to speaking. Taking a deep breath he gives Sparrow that look of why can't I do this? "Kinestetic.... kinnetic... the... memory thing with the hands-on. I have to shape it to really... forget it. Apparently I am today."

Alexander's attention bounces from Joseph, to Sparrow, to Grant. "Right," he says, drawing it out dubiously. "Well. Whatever works for you." A glance back at Sparrow. "And Yule will probably come around. He doesn't seem like too much of an asshole. He did just get exploded, though, so maybe give it a bit." A brief smile that attempts to be reassuring, and mostly just looks broken.

Back to Grant and Joseph, brow furrowing. "I don't think you'd break him," he says, solemnly. "He seems sturdy enough. Maybe just don't use the chair sex positions; they require more flexibility than a lot of us have after a certain point." He pops the last bite of eggs in his mouth, chews, and sets the plate aside. Cash is brought out, and set on the table to cover his tab and tip. "I should get going. But it was," a long pause, "interesting to see you all. Don't die." That seems mostly aimed at Ruiz, but the smile to the others is friendly, even as he reaches for his heavy green jacket and slouches his way towards the door.

"Fair enough," Joe concedes, when it comes to the possibilities of Scanner Darkly vs. Blade Runner. But her response to his answer has his gaze snapping back to her....and color flooding into his face. For all the weathering there, he's Irish fair beneath....and there's nothing like enough of a tan to get anywhere near to hiding it. "Because we know it's a bad idea," he answers her, voice more gentle. But then she's waving the subject away, and he just nods.

Back to Grant, he says, "That's right, he programs that theater, doesn't he. D'you think we could get him to show the Final Cut and then 2049 as a double feature?" The idea makes the blue eyes light. Still a little pink. "Kinesthesia?" he offers, helpfully. Alexander's commentary has the color returning in spades. How did they end up in this conversation, asks his expression. "Take care," he says to Alexander, a little faintly.

Sparrow gives Grant a look which falls somewhere wobbly between honest apology and I've gone this far, let's burn it all. It's not particularly reassuring on its own, but there's no sign of matches, so something's still got to be clicking right inside her mess of a head. She mutters a quiet, "Yeah," in concession to Joe, at odds with the half-hearted optimism she tries to show in the smile with which she answers Alexander. It's a nice thought, if not one she's about to buy into. There's a nod, too, for the correct identification of the word Grant was looking for, but her attention is mostly on the artist himself as she assures, "I'm okay, too. Really. Like. Totally way entirely okay." Except for the parts that aren't, but when has she ever held onto that nonsense long. "Nothing a little Rainbow Road or some zipties won't fix." That's even got a wink to go with it, fleeting mischief before she's head down again.

Ruiz had to take a call, naturally, and by the time he shoves his phone away, Alexander's ditched him and there's a steaming cup of coffee sitting in front of him. He unzips his jacket, blows on the surface of the hot drink, and sips. Oblivious to the conversation filtering around him, or digesting it while he caffeinates, it's impossible to say.

Grant is seriously focused most on his waffle and the idea of Thewlis playing a blade Runner double feature. Poking fork and waffle at Joseph he promises with some half-awake amount of pride, "Precious little my guys can't find. Lemme get my people on this."

Alexander's advice gets a full stop and a confused look. "Oh...kay? I'll keep that in mind?" And now he looks vaguely concerned. The bite of the waffle later he takes all the details down for whatever solace Mario Kart and industrial grade plastics into consideration for. "I think... this is a winning idea, but..." He wants to go be back in space bringing him to the one thing he came close to licking the flavor off of and not knowing. The wanderlust is strong in the graphic poet. "Kinestesia. Yeah." Looking up to Sparrow the weakness admitted, "So long as I can paint. I have things and if I don't put them down it's going to feel like I'm betraying someone's trust and I ..." His hands sign something in passive frustration*<<I don't remember who now.>>* Looking to Joseph he asks going way back in the conversation, "When did yours start? The-" The back end of the fork tapping his forehead. His foot under the table resting along the outside of Sparrow's. Right, grounding good. For certain she's right about exactly four things at this table. He's not saying which four. he is saying thank you for being here to remind him.

A glance for Ruiz, but Joe's focussed on Grant, for the moment. "A few years ago," he says, quietly. "I came very late to it. The result of a bad wreck - came away with some brain damage, as well as broken bones. I think it'd....manifested in other ways, before, but subtly enough that I didn't understand what it was. It's like....a seismic event turning a spring into a geyser, or something." He sighs. "I feel you. I write a lot to try and keep things clear. Have a mirror that....if it isn't objective, is at least solid. Write on paper, specifically, for all that I type real fast."

The cop is hardly doing much to draw attention to himself, nor seems particularly inclined to disrupt the conversation nearby. He shakes his head when asked if he'd like to order anything to eat, and digs his phone back out when it buzzes. A sip, a furrow of his brow as he reads the message, and a swipe of his thumb to reply. He seems, if anything, a little too interested in his phone.

Grant lets Sparrow eat in quiet and turns to look at the cop-what-called-him 'Crotchbiter' as if it were a badge of honor as if he were from the distinguished Montreal 'Crotchbiters', and distinguished in his name somehow. "Hey. You making it back okay?" His eyes look over the guy who is apparently in cop attire, and moves past that confusion to, "Look like you're geared up for a war man."

Looking to Joseph he considers the sailor that writes, "Eeeeh maybe you do get it. SOorry to hear about the accident. If it helps I like to think sometimes maybe we can't remember the past so we don't have the, um, the burden of carrying it with us." He pauses "Still," the waffle gets a squint, "Some things right now it's all trying to take and I kinda like it where it is soooo yeah. Sometimes that sucks. It's good that you're writing it down."

"No," says Joe, presuming to answer for Ruiz, before the cop can even look up. And there's a strange gentleness in his voice. "That isn't gear for war. That's just...dealing with what police have to deal with, though that's more like a war zone every day. Even here. Mayberry is long, long gone...." For he does remember that, Ruiz in wartime, all dusty, save for the long rifle, meticulously clean and gleaming black like a spider in the mountain sunlight.

"I wish I thought it worked like that," he offers to Grant, gently. "We carry it with us, no matter what. But....yeah. Writing helps. Always has."

Kass shuffles her way into the diner, head down, seeming completely unaffected by the small piles of snow that have accumulated on her shoulders and head. She doesn't hang up her outerwear either, staying burrowed into the secondhand coat and hoodie, just shuffling her way towards the counter with the messenger bag banging against her hip with the telltale rattle and clink of aluminum cans inside. Settling in, she mutters out an order for waffles, sausage links, and black coffee before turning slightly.

Crotchbiter could be some sort of weird sexual euphemism, but then again, maybe not. Hard to say, with a guy who looks like he does. Like he was bred for violence; it bleeds from every pore, and not just because he's geared up in preparation to be shot at. His dark, hooded eyes tick up when Grant addresses him from a table or two away, and he slants him a lopsided smile after a beat. His gaze trails over the blond fellow with him at mention of Mayberry. Then the smile's gone, and he turns back to his phone. "Been a while," he murmurs without looking up, presumably to the younger man. "How's shit?"

Sparrow maintains that consistent contact with Grant under the table, resting into it a bit. Sure, it's just foot beside foot, but... yeah. Grounding. Her posture slackens as she works through her whipped cream and waffles. Who knows how much of the conversation she's catching. Eventually, though, there's no more waffles and whipped cream to get through, and she's left staring at an empty plate. Then shoving that plate a couple inches away as she lifts her gaze toward the others nearby. No smiles today, not like the other night, though there is a nod for Kass, a curious flicker of attention toward Ruiz, and a lot more quiet. She needs a minute to digest.

Grant watches Kass come in and waves with waffle-on-fork; broken toys greeting broken toys. His eyes though shift to Ruiz taking a moment to have a deep thought. Singular. Tacking a deep breath he says, "I dunno I can answer that without sounding like... completely fucking extra about it?" He's guessing at best. He's not going to bullshit the man he hunted with tooth and claw though when he says lacking any drama with it, "I had this moment of pure clarity for once and someone came by and broke it because they were afraid. That's... pretty much where I am so now I have to figure out what... the shit I am going to do with myself now that I can't fly anymore." He considers this summary and nods slowly. Looking to Sparrow he admits, "I need to stop being chicken shit and call the muse."

"Hey, Kass," Joe's voice is warm, as she comes in, settles by him. He's only just now got his soup and sandwich, but he doesn't seem to be settling in to it with any great appetite. Almost relieved to see her. Then, brightening, he says, "Hey, 'd I tell you I got a new bike? Well, new to me, truth be told, she's far from cherry." A nod at the windows. "Out there in the parkin' lot, I c'n give you a ride somewhere, if you need. 's a sidecar rig, plenty of room....and two wheel drive, so you can actually ride in snow or off-road." Oh, god, he's gotten himself one of those rattletrap Russian bikes. Like it's a law that pilots have to have motorcycles, even aging ones.

Then there's Grant's confession, and the blue eyes are fixed on him again. "What do you mean, you can't fly anymore?" he asks slowly. That's not a point of kinship he ever expected to find here - surely Grant's speaking metaphorically. There can't be anyone else here with that bone-deep frustration, the worse for having no one who can empathize.

"Grant, Sparrow, great to see you both," Kass offers a brief grin towards the pair, falling quiet once more and glancing down at her gloved hands. There's a warmer smile for Joseph as she gives a nod towards him, "Hey Joe, whaddaya know?" His mention of a bike has her looking back towards the parking lot, chuckling and shaking her head, "I didn't know, no. But I can help you fix her up if you want. I'm good with vehicles." Despite not knowing how to drive, apparently! She nods again and murmurs, "That would be great, thanks. Even I'm starting to feel the cold and that takes some doing." Then her food arrives and she sighs happily. Drowning it all in syrup, she strips off her gloves and reaches for the coffee so the waffles can soak up some of that sweet, sticky goodness.

Grant gets a curious glance from the cop when he explains, in the vaguest of terms, how shit is. Ruiz's eyes narrow a touch, coffee cup lingered at his mouth, expression carefully assessing. "Someone broke it," he repeats, then sips, and acts like he hasn't heard all this talk of Joe getting a bike. Nope, not gonna comment on that. "That someone got a name?" Even as he's asking, his gaze is wandering Sparrow's way; the younger woman's given a long look. Then a twitch in his jaw before he goes to finish off his coffee and dig in his pocket for some cash.

"You weren't chicken shit when you snagged his interest," Sparrow reminds Grant, that stern Mama Bird look she gives him a whole lot more convincing this time. "And you're not chicken shit now." No question. She's certain of it. She doesn't address the question of flight. Or bikes. When Ruiz looks her way, she looks right back, chin lifting slightly as if in question maybe. Lips purse, brows furrowing shallowly, but whatever that thought is, it gets trumped by another. "It's nothing that can be fixed," is for the cop, just as certain. "Better that he's here than where he found it." Her gaze flits to Grant, steady and challenging. She's not gonna hear any protests about that.

Grant reaches up and rubs his forehead thoughtfully arching the other one to Ruiz, "I'm assuming you mean Dream-breaker and not the muse." He eats the waffle and looks to Sparrow and that quiet protest of don't leave my orbit, Bax that she's got about her and... it changes the trajectory of his disappointment offering with some sympathy, "Really nice lady by the name of Beth who was working with the narrator Lemony Snicket lookin dude." Ciprian has likely never run into such a description before, but it's not judgement so much as a down low high five for style. He watched Ruiz curiously for a long moment and then to his plate, "Can't arrest someone for dream theft I know. And it's not her fault I just..." His eyes squint trying to capture all the details, "I can't... tell you what happened without sounding like a-" His finger swirls by the side of his head, both hands signing something down in front of him. The gist is that he'll sound absolutely loco. "Maybe someday I'll go again but I guess she's got a right to see her family again but we didn't get a vote. That's not okay."

"Good," Joe says, gently. "I can do the basics, I had one like it in Russia, but....I'd be grateful for the help, no lie. She runs okay, just could use some tinkering. Hell, when the weather gets better, I'll teach you how to ride, 'f you want."

Then he's listening to the conversation about the Dream. Not understanding, apparently, and not pressing with questions. There's a kind of pointed quality in the way he doesn't look at Ruiz that might as well speak aloud.

Kass flicks a glance towards Grant when he's speaking, but she makes no commentary, looking back quickly to her plate. Quickly cutting up and shoveling waffles into her mouth so she isn't tempted to ask undoubtedly insensitive questions. Looking towards Joe, she gives a nod, washing down the chipmunk cheeks with the coffee. "Yeah, sure, I'm happy to help. Um... you may not want me to drive it though. I have a tendency to, uhm... crash."

Ruiz probably hasn't had quite enough coffee yet for that conversation. Or maybe coffee's the wrong poison entirely. He tosses a crumpled bill on the table, pops his radio's earpiece back in, and eases to his feet with a grunt of protest. Because that seat was comfortable, damn it. "Luck with it," he tells Grant, clapping the younger man solidly on the shoulder on his way by. Something's spoken crisply into his radio as he heads for the door: "Unit three seven seven in service." And then with a flickered smile that could be for either Sparrow, or Joe, or hell maybe both of them, he prowls on out for the bulldog-nosed, unmarked cruiser parked out front.

"Can work on space democracy on your next visit, yeah?" For all that it might sound like a tease, there's sympathy in Sparrow's expression. No apology for her stance, but understanding all the same. Her foot taps lightly against his under the table, just a reemphasis on that contact, as her attention strays toward Ruiz as he departs, a faint flicker of a smile offered in kind. Though there's some curiosity turned toward Joe and Kass, she doesn't pursue. Not today. Instead, to Bax, she asks, "How about that paint?" and starts searching for her wallet.

Kass wants her ride home....and Joe's apparently finished with his meal. Tab and tip for both of them, and then he's heading out into the winter afternoon. This will surely be an adventure - his first ride with a passenger, and on snowy roads, no less.