2020-08-10 - Try the Calamari Rings

It's one of those lazy summer evenings where tourists and sailboat people flock to Two if By Sea not so much because it is the best and fanciest bar on the beach but because it is the bar that's close to the docks and bay. It's pretty peaceful in that noisy way of people coming and going and talking; and of course, the occasional couple of people wandering off down along the beach together to get romantic in the lazy moonlight -- some of them even with people they are actually married to, but don't leap to conclusions.

One of the people wandering around enjoying the peace and quiet is, to no one's surprise, the barback that Vic hired before she got herself shot in a church (there is probably no correlation). He looks to quite enjoy himself, picking glasses off tables, delivering the occasional plate of onion rings or tater tots, and generally being not very busy. The only thing off about him is the obvious red stripes like rope burns that decorate his arms. Worst poison ivy ever.

Romance, it seems, is in the air; unless you're a surly Mexican LEO with an hour to kill before shift, and not a romantic bone in your body. And no, that one doesn't count. The acting Chief, not a towering man, but one who nevertheless manages to take up space, takes up a lean against the bar while he waits for his drink order to be filled. And idly watches the prettyboy barback cheerfully clearing off tables and delivering food. The rope burns catch and hold his attention, and he squints slightly as he studies the pattern of.. burns? Cuts? Whatever the fuck happened to the guy.

Then his glass is set down, and he murmurs his thanks, pushes across a crumpled bill to pay for it.

In comes a guy who totally knows those marks aren't poison ivy, both because he's a botanist, and because he knows how Ravn actually got them. But that's all on hold until he notices Ravn; first, he has to negotiate getting inside without bumping into anyone. He's in comfort-clothes, the sort of thing he lounges in at home, so maybe Eleanor brought him here on her way in to help a closing shift at the coffee shop. Dark gray commuter pants, a dark red, slub tee, and a black hoodie, with his left arm in a sling to keep it largely immobile. He's a little paler than he is normally, a little more tired looking, if improved from when he was in the hospital. He spies Ruiz and drifts to the bar, saying, "Hey," once he's close enough to be easily heard.

Ravn winces at the sight of August wandering in; not so much at the man himself but at the memory, indeed, of him being a rather big and prickly fish. It takes a little effort, perhaps, to reconcile the memories in his mind -- to suppress the urge to watch him to see if he's still got poison barbs. He suppresses the sudden freakish urge to ask if the man has tried the calamari yet and instead just waves a lazy hello as he wanders past -- a hello which gets extended to the police captain whom he vaguely remembers meeting some night or other last week. On the whole, the Dane does appear to be one of those people who just has a fairly positive view of the world. Or maybe he actually enjoys being the guy whose job is picking up after the tourists, insane people exist anywhere.

Maybe Ravn's too new in town to have heard the rumours that the police captain might have been involved in an attempted hit on the city's resident crime overlord. One that resulted in, some say, a whole lotta people (that were not said overlord) dying. Of course, those are just rumours. Right?

"Buenas tardes," he greets in a low murmur as the foreigner passes him by. Then the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepen a fraction when he spots August. "Roen," he offers, lifting his glass, then tipping it back for a thirsty drink. The cop's in his usual civilian attire: black tee shirt and jeans, leather jacket battered to hell and back, and an LA Dodgers' ballcap tugged low over his eyes. "The fuck happened to you two?" he's brazen enough to ask out loud, once he's swallowed, and skimmed his tonguetip along a trickle of tequila trying to escape his lower lip and into his beard.

August catches sight of Ravn via the wave, pauses and blinks when he spies those burns. His mouth flattens at the memory of how hard it was to free anyone from that damned kelp, and just how annoyed he'd been. But they'd succeeded--or, he's pretty sure they did. They freed the man from...whatever it had been. (It wasn't Cthulu because Cthulu isn't real.) So he dips his head in a nod, even manages a small smile.

The question has him looking askance at Ruiz, then his drink. The later he's jealous of, and doesn't bother to hide it. But he also doesn't push his luck; he orders a mock Moscow Mule, leans his good side (the right) into the bar. "This is just from the church. No weight on the new hardware for a few more days. Then I start PT." He sounds really excited to be doing PT again.

Itzhak wanders in, too, possibly to meet that very LEO. He's moving a little gingerly, like maybe yesterday he played a really hard game of football. He looks tired, with big dark circles around his eyes, but does that stop him? No! Although to be fair his usual rolling saunter is not quite so rolling or so sauntering today. He's got traces of green-and-yellow faded bruises on his face and down what of his chest can be seen above the scooped neck of his tank top. He looks first at Ruiz and then at August and then at Ravn, like the tourists aren't even there. A couple of non-local women look at him and whisper. He just schleps on past 'em, and they watch him as he goes.

The sexiest thing about Ravn Abildgaard at work is definitely the bright cyan rubber gloves that the man wears because apparently, he's too fancy to get dish water on his tender hands; they are such a perfect match for the rest of his Steve Jobs-wannabe outfit that even some of the tourists comment on it on occasion -- nice gloves, dude. Every single time, the response is a crooked grin; he's heard it before and he doesn't mind.

"Turns out the bay's got some pretty hefty kelp," he murmurs at the police captain in passing, answering the man's question and at the same time, not answering it -- because yes, it probably does, but one doesn't need to be August the botanist to know that kelp is not poison ivy, and kelp doesn't grow into something that can leave rope burns in shallow waters.

Ruiz's drink makes it about halfway to his mouth, and then he spots the tall, schnozzy guy moseying over roughly in his direction. Itzhak's progress is tracked steadily while his glass completes that motion, and about a third of its contents downed with a pull of his adam's apple. Then a tick of his eyes back to Ravn at the non-answer, and it gets a puff of non-amusement in response from the Mexican. "Kelp." He sucks some tequila off his thumb. "Yeah." August's mention of PT gains a sympathetic wince from the cop, and, "Lo siento. We have a guy that works with the precinct who's really good. You want me to put you in touch, you let me know, yeah?"

August flicks a glance to the gloves, otherwise doesn't seem to notice them. Of course, msot of his work involves gloves, and he can't blame Ravn for taking similar precautions. (Who knows if these college kids wash their hands, like, ever, at all.) He's slow to respond to Ruiz's comments, because he's giving Itzhak the Face. Once the he's in range, August murmurs, "Looks like someone joined a rugby team."

Then he with what's maybe an apologetic look cast at Ravn, he explains to Ruiz, "We got pulled in, turned into mer...people, I guess. that Baxter kid was there. So was Vydal. Lyric too, for part of it. There was, demonic kelp. Caustic, sticky, a real bitch to get people out of. And some kids, summoning," he sips from his newly arrived drink, sighs in defeat, "Cthulu, or something." He nods about the offer of a physical therapist, saying, "I'd appreciate that. My old one's up in Seattle, so," he grimaces.

Not The Face! Itzhak slings himself on a barstool next to Ruiz, leaning in to murmur something to him. When he looks back up he realizes he's getting 'that face Roen makes at me' as he describes it, and hikes up one side of his upper lip at August in return. "Bad dream. Real bad." That's Dream with a capital D, actually. "How's the shoulder?" And he gives Ravn a hell of a funny squinty look for those marks on his arms. "You better not play while your arms are messed up," he informs him. This is small talk in Gray Harbor, catching up on each other's injuries.

Ravn is held up a moment by an older man in a sailsportsman's blazer and white cap, wanting to know what he's going to do about the two teenagers making out in the men's room. Warn them to take a shower if they've touched anything is apparently not the answer that the man wants to hear. He demands to get Ravn's name and the name of his manager so he can complain, and the foreigner obliges, telling him to talk to Vic. Maybe he's worked here long enough now to have a feeling just how many fucks Vic the bartender who rarely even stays a full shift would give. Either way, the man walks on, placated and vindicated, and the kids in the mens' room presumably get to go on doing whatever it is they're doing; possibly just existing.

The Dane drifts back just in time to hear the tail end of August's explanation and nods with the obvious relief of a man who's just had answered the question of whether you can talk about Kelp Club. "Been meaning to find out if there's a sushi bar in this town," he comments, picking glasses off the counter. "Definitely going to want some revenge nori rolls."

He grins slightly at Itzhak and nods. "It's fine. Haven't had the time to take the Vagabond out to sea and practise anyway, don't want to wake up all the neighbours torturing cats." As it happens, it is entirely possible that the town's visiting fleet of sailsport tourists might not appreciate surprise violin serenades at the early hours indeed. "You don't look too hot either."

Yeah, well, some people know how to dodge, and thus have no injuries to speak of. Today, anyway. Talk to him after his shift, and some idiot might've attempted to make America great again by feeding de la Vega the contents of his gun. Certainly wouldn't be the first time someone had tried; being a high-ranking Hispanic cop comes with its own risks.

"Mer people," is cogitated on for a few seconds while he swirls his drink, and leans in to listen to whatever it is Itzhak has to tell him. Then chuckles, low, like smoke scrubbed over rough stones. There's a quick little baring of teeth at the lankier man. Nearly a smile, but it's far too feral, wolfish for that. Then he downs what remains of his tequila, and nods to August. "Sure. Uh.. here." Empty glass set aside, he digs his phone out of his jeans pocket and starts scrolling through his contacts until he finds the right one. Then texts the information to the botanist.

The Face becomes a gentler, rueful version of itself. "Rugby team woulda been more fun," August says in sympathy. He's about to offer to heal Itzhak some, it's there in the way he's surveying the bruises. And then, he doesn't. He just glances at his shoulder, gives it the lightest, mostly experimental of shrugs, wrinkles his nose. "Getting there," he says, tone expanding that to 'nowhere near fast enough I hate being old'.

He's about to take a sip from his mocktail when Ravn mentions 'revenge nori' and just catches himself, so all he does is laugh into the glass. "God, that sounds so good right now. Dragon roll, some unagi, maybe a spider roll..." He gets a dreamy look. Someone is, indeed, wishing for a good local sushi place.

With a shake of his head (because that's never happening), he expands on 'mer-people'. "We were all specific kinds of fish. I was some kind of lionfish, I think." His phone buzzes, and he negotiates setting his drink down and pulling it out of his pocket. "Thanks," he says, adding it to his contacts with a flick of his thumb. "Be nice to not have to drive for it."

Itzhak quirks his eyebrows (which might be the only part of him that escaped bruising) at Ruiz, saucy-like, one side of his expressive mouth tugged upwards. Then he upnods to the busy bartender for a drink. Whiskey sour, and make it a double. The news of teenagers possibly making out in the men's room makes him laugh, cautiously, like a guy whose entire torso is sore. "Ahh, Marshall would be proud." Ravn, lest he think he escaped any more funny looks from the tall lanky guy, gets another squint. "What? Why on God's green earth would you put out to freakin' sea to practice? Just fuckin' practice, who cares. Anyone complains, pop 'em one." That's the Itzhak Rosencrantz solution to most problems.

"You were a lionfish?" he says to August, and then makes the connection with 'kelp'. "Huh. So I wasn't the only one with a rough ride, yeah?" He makes a sympathetic face in mirror of Roen, but then, "Don't you dare, I can hear you thinking about it, Roen."

"I am never eating tuna again," Ravn notes in between picking up the fries a frustrated kid tossed all over the floor at that table over there and directing a frazzled-looking woman speaking with a heavy German accent to the ladies' room. "May find out if there is a Save the Tuna organisation, and donate to it. Developing a familial bond with tuna, me."

A couple of empty bottles are collected from a table and Itzhak gets a glance as if the barback wonders if he actually means that. One could get the impression that at least where Ravn comes from, the solution to a neighbour's complaint about noise is not to sock them -- perhaps Danish people are just that much more civilised or, more likely from the looks of him, he's from some polite suburbian white people's world where people stay on their own lawns and apologise if it's been too long since their gardener mowed it -- and the gardener, undoubtedly, swears about his employers in another language. "Kinda figured there'd be rules about loud noises on the pier," he murmurs somewhat lamely, reaching the same conclusion about how that must come across.

A glance at his watch tells Ruiz he should really stop drinking tequila, and go get ready for work. Which probably explains the mean-looking unmarked cruiser parked out front. "I've got to go," he murmurs to Itzhak, scooping inked fingers into his hair and leaning in close to speak the words. No overt PDAs for him today; he leaves it at that, and the sweltering look he gives the musician before pushing to his feet. His ballcap's brim is given a little tug lower toward his eyes, and he tells the other two, "See you around," before prowling off for the door. Duty calls.

August makes a low sound. "A tuna, is that what you were," he murmurs, thoughtful. "Can people even eat lionfish, with all those spines? I know they keep them as pets." He looks askance at Itzhak, now apparently dubbed 'the person most likely to know if lionfish can be eaten and if so who would be eating them'. "I mean, it was fine, really, until there was kelp trying to kidnap us to feed to Cthulu."

He gives Ruiz an upnod as he departs. "Stay safe." It's a carefully chosen farewell that Ruiz gets. August squints, though, at Itzhak's so-called 'advice'. "Don't punch them," he asides, on the off chance Ravn was pondering the legalities.

And then, Itzhak says 'don't you dare' and August gets a look like an especially obstinate mule with one ear cocked back. "Don't I dare," he repeats, daring Itzhak in turn.

Itzhak, sipping the drink he's been provided, watches Ruiz get up--then leans in close in turn, smiling languidly. No PDA, but his body language and that smile says it all. "Come home in one piece," is what he murmurs to him, almost close enough to kiss, but not quite. He watches him prowl out the door too, eyebrows doing something flirtatious. Fortunately most of the room is too occupied with their own pursuits of liquor and pleasure to notice most of that. Itzhak resettles on his barstool, clears his throat. "Well I dunno if there is or not, but so what? You gotta practice, that's all there is to it." OBVIOUSLY, sheesh Ravn get with the program. "You can use my fuckin' garage if it's that big a deal, nobody's gonna complain there."

To August, he merely snorts. "You know what. So don't. ...I dunno, what do I know about lionfish, other than they got the poison spines and Picard had them in that first episode of TNG."

Things quiet down a bit as a group of yachters wander off to do whatever yachters do when they're not sitting in a beach bar looking too posh for their surroundings. Ravn assigns himself a moment's break and wanders over to lean against the bar; he seems to work pretty unsupervised but then -- this is the place that apparently is best known for a) its owner being missing indefinitely and b) you're lucky if you get the actual drink you ordered. He nods at the botanist and murmurs, "Punching people in the face is really not something I do very often. Been thinking once or twice I should do it more, but maybe the yacht club isn't the place to get started."

He grins at Itzhak's comment about the garage, though. "I haven't practised as much as I should in recent years. Been a little busy travelling, figuring out where to stay, that sort of thing. Figure I'll get back on schedule now I'm actually staying somewhere for more than a few days. Unless, of course, I manage to break every finger in one of those whacked night time hallucinations this place keeps throwing at me -- being a fish was cool, though." He pauses. "Except the... sacrifice us all to Cthulhu bit, that part was not so cool."

"So I just let you walk around in pain?" August nods, blandly dissatisfied with this concept. "Okay. Sure. That's fine." He gestures with his glass. "But the practicing at the garage, that's a good idea. And I kinda figured you'd know about lionfish because you love all things pretty and deadly, and lionfish are definitely both." He chases that with a bob of his eyebrows.

He studies Ravn for a few seconds. "They're like that, the Dreams. A real mixed bag." His tone strikes a careful balance between cautionary and reassuring. "Not always horrible. But," the way he deliberately doesn't look at Itzhak or Ravn is obvious here, "pretty often." He has a bit more of the mocktail. "Only way out tends to be through. So doesn't ever think you can just sit tight and wait for it to stop. That's not how they work."

"Whatever, them yacht guys are pricks." Itzhak raises his glass, toasting the departing yachters with that and a cheerful, "Eat the rich!" before he drinks. And August gets a blush out of him, with that statement on pretty and deadly. "Don't call me out like this," he mutters into his drink, grinning. Which fades, as August gets all bland and dissatisfied. Itzhak's look turns sheepish as he glances at him. "I mean...I don't think it's that big a deal. It's just pain. But...you can if you want. Just be careful. When Bennie tried in the Dream, the bad went into her too."

That requires explanation. Itzhak listens to the talk of being fish, first, though. "Aww, you guys got to be fish?" he says in a distinctly disappointed tone. "I wanna be a fish. Or a snake. Snake's better." His gray-hazel eyes find Ravn, and look him over, as if envisioning him as a fish. Nodding to August, he tells Ravn, "Been a year for me and I still got all my fingers intact," setting down his drink and splaying both hands to demonstrate. "But we always gotta do something."

"Couple of people told me that you have to go with the story, yes." The barback slash folklorist nods lightly. "It makes sense in context. Like they're infliced on you by some kind of Dungeons and Dragons game master who's strung on a whole array of interesting psychotropics and spent all last week preparing that game encounter so you will bloody well play it out."

"Sexiest tuna in the sea, me. Or something. I was definitely the most useful tuna in the sea. Spent most of the dream stuck to the kelp, flailing." He nods at the rope burns on his arms. "If you ever get in a dream where you need someone to do some serious flailing, I'm obviously your man. Think I'll pass on eating the yachters, though, seeing as I'm technically one of them -- I got a boat and it's at the pier, that makes me one of the yachters, right?"

August backs down as Itzhak does, building irritation giving way to concern. He frowns, so oh yes, an explanation is very necessary. But, first, fish. "Mer-people, really. So, I was a lionfish from," he gestures at his hips, "around here on down." He pauses at the implication, shrugs it aside. "Vydal, he was some kind of thing with huge, fluffy fins. Not sure about Baxter." He tilts his head. "There are sea snakes, aren't there? Should be able to be a mer-sea-snake-person." His eyes narrow upon reconsideration of the word, but he lets it stand.

Shaking his head, he assures Ravn, "You were fine. Don't think you need to be some crazy hero saving everyone, making mountains move. Get out, don't get killed, try not to get anyone else hurt. That's all you need to be worrying about."

Itzhak gives Ravn a second looking-over, this one considerably more careful than the first. Maybe he's envisioning him as a sexy tuna. "Well, you're pretty hot, you'd make a pretty hot tuna." Judgement rendered, he smirks at Ravn. Itzhak isn't all smoky and intense like Ruiz. He's just trouble stacked six-foot-plus. "Yeah, mer sea snake, exactly! And sea snakes are real venomous. It'd be bitchin'."

Now he owes August an explanation, so he sighs and drains the rest of the sweet-sour whiskey, nods at the bartender for another. "I dunno what they wanted in there. But there was...okay, speaking of TNG, you know the episode where Yar dies? There's the weird tar guy? Everything was like that, but not a guy, just spilled all over like someone dropped a bowl of oatmeal. And..." he hesitates, eyebrows tilting. "I been in Dreams before where the bad couldn't stand against the light I can make. So I made light. And it worked. But it traded. It didn't just work. I put the light in it, and it put the dark in me."

"Could be a mer-moray eel, meet a nice manta ray, make some memorays -- I'll just stop right there before somebody socks me." He's one of those people, apparently. Probably has been socked for it a few times, too, because that was spectacularly bad, and coming from a guy in bright blue rubber gloves at that. Getting his act together a little, the Dane glances at August instead. "How's the shoulder? Looked pretty bad when the EMTs were getting you out of there the other day. I'm guessing that's not how church services usually go, not even in Gray Harbor."

He doesn't seem particularly bothered by Izthak's pointed scoping him out; may not be the first time, or he may just be straight up oblivious. Six foot some of European with an accent backpacking around the country, he's probably had a few interesting proposals over time. "I remember that episode. The black puddle guy. Skin of Evil."

And into this walks an Aidan. Well, into the bar walks an Aidan, anyway, in what at first glance is a for once buttoned Hawaiian shirt, very sunset and palm trees, over some tight white long-sleeved thing, with rainbow flipflops, and looks as though he's decided to test whether 'no shoes, no shirt, no service' means those are all that's required. A moment's extra glance shows there's actually also a pair of shorts, thankfully, it's just they're navy running shorts older than he is, which means they have stripes up the sides and those sides are not exactly lengthy. At 6'2" that means there's a hell of a lot of leg right now. Also, those aren't sleeves; he's got gauze wrapped from wrist to elbow around each forearm.

He ignores the odd look he gets from a couple passing by to leave, and starts toward the bar, breaking into a somewhat tired-looking grin when he spots Ravn, August, and Itzhak there, glimmering up the place. And also there are drinks. He could kind of use a drink.

August orders another mock Moscow mule, and a basket of tots for everyone to share. His mouth quirks in a small smile at the declaration of Ravn, Sexy Tuna. It's a welcome distraction from the...other topic.

He may not know much Star Trek, but August does know TNG. (He watched a fair bit of it while recovering in the VA.) His expression goes distant, stays that way until he can recall the episode in question. "Right, that one." His concern over the bruises redoubles. "Did it...you think..." A glance from the bruises to Itzhak's eyes and back. He can't bring himself to say things like 'poison you' or 'steal your Song' but there it is.

Fortunately (?), there also is Aidan. August peers at the odd shirt, until he realizes, they're bandages. "Christ," he mutters, but doesn't launch himself at Aidan, ready to heal whatever the hell that is. ...not yet.

Itzhak groans theatrically at Ravn's well-deserving pun. "That's messed up," he informs him, shaking his head. Ravn's complete non-reaction to his rather blatant checking out (not to mention informing him he's hot), he doesn't react to in turn. The pair of women who have been eyeing Itzhak on and off look at each other, confused and probably drunk. He doesn't react to them either. There's tater tots now. Itzhak promptly eats a couple few, uncaring that they're fresh out of the fryer. He shrugs at August. "Nah. Just gave me bruises in places I didn't know I had."

But...was that all? Or did the sticky darkness linger in his veins?

When Aidan comes in, the two women look at him and one of them bursts into giggles while the other tries to shush her. Itzhak eyes all that leg Aidan's got on display. "'ey yo, magician man, what, is it laundry day and you only got junior high gym shorts left?"

Ravn too is brought up short by the colourful busker's appearance. "Goodness. Are you all right, Aidan?" Gone are the bad aquatic puns and equally bad jokes about sexy fish; his expression turns very serious at the sight.

Aidan glances over curiously at the sudden fit of giggles, and catches that the look that goes along with them seems to be aimed at him. It's probably fair to assume that this is not in fact the first time that's happened; he manages a bright, sparkly grin for them, with the tired pushed back to just hover around the edges for that moment as he goes. It's not half bad. He is a performer by trade.

Tired has more of a look-in by the time he reaches the others, even if Itzhak's question helps keep the grin in place. "Dude, I don't know if you noticed, but it was hot today. It's still all sticky, too." It's the seriousness of Ravn's expression that has it dimming, though, with a glance down to his arms. "Um... mostly?" He looks up. "Mostly. I kinda... well, you know how it is, one minute you're eating ice cream and the next you're, uh, not, and by the time you get back you're bleeding some. I've had way worse, though, this'll be okay. Kinda wish I felt less queasy, though." So alcohol is a stellar idea. His brow furrows, eyes narrowing a touch as he looks over those rope-burn-like marks on the Dane, then the bruises on the mechanic, and August's shoulder situation. "Are you guys all right?"

August eyes Itzhak, unsure if he trusts this self-assessment of 'it's totally just bruising'. "Once I'm a little better we should sit down, have a closer look at you." 'Make sure you're not secretly evil now' is what he's not saying.

And now that Aidan's closer, August gives him the Face too. He asks am important question, so healing has to wait. "I was just stabbed." Just. "In the church, the other day." He sips a bit of his mocktail. "Guy got lucky, hit me in the bad shoulder." Thus reminded, he tells Ravn, "It's improving, thanks. Slowly. I'm under strict orders to not work." He makes a face. Not work, who the hell does that. (Stabbed people, at it turns out!) Who asks him to do that?? (Pretty much everyone.)

It had been a stretch of time suitable for the fat Latino to have washed most of his own blood off him self, change his shirt and clock the fuck out. Out a silver pen vape and his ever present snack pack, and not feeling like being at home alone, the siren's roar of a finely tuned motor straight piped fills the air outside the bar. It purrs to a stop and Rekani can be seen entering the bar not too long after.

He had a rough look to him, eyes slightly half lidded, less the usually weed addled attitude, more something a little distressing. He might still have the slightest bit of blood around his ear if someone looked close enough. He finds a way to order a double mojito, and like.... Did TIBS serve food? Cause he was ordering for like three people.

"Ya don't say, it's hot?" Itzhak says, hiking his eyebrows. "And sticky?" Asshole. He smirks at Aidan to make it clear he's being an asshole, but his expression turns into a world-weary commiserating nod. "Yeah, eating ice cream, or in my case Thai food, and then the world turns inside out and you're fighting for your life on some fucked-up You Bet Your Life ripoff." He extends a fist towards Aidan for a knuckle bump. Speaking of someone else who looks like he's had a rough day, there's Rekani, and Itzhak jerks his chin at him in greeting. He doesn't ask how he is. It's obvious.

The woman who was giggling at Aidan whispers, "oh my god!" when he flashes her his showman's smile and giggles harder. Her friend starts giggling too. Shit's contagious.

At a table near the door two people lean in towards each other in a cinematic pose the sort of which should come accompanied by a gentle violin score headed towards a crescendo as their lips are about to lock; a bit of a deer in headlights situation occurs as the wife of one appears on scene, glaring. The ensuing argument goes three ways but to the relief of everyone else around it is kept in hushed, hissing tones with an East Coast accent. No better way to save a failing marriage than to take a nice, relaxed sailing trip up the coast of Washington State indeed, don't forget to take pictures in the charming national forest, buy a souvenir bear figurine for the mantelpiece. Next time, don't invite Doris, since Doris happens to be whom your husband is shagging, Anne.

"Starting to get a feeling that turning up with bruises and injuries is the normal for Gray Harbor," Ravn muses, and then nods at Aidan. "I'm fine. Had another taste of Gray Harbor's unique and engaging forms of story telling, spent the night as a tuna. Got some rope burns but it's nothing serious. From the looks of it, though, you and Itzhak got put through the wringer." Got to hand it to the guy -- for someone who's not even been in town for two weeks yet he's pretty casual about it all. Maybe the severity of the situation just hasn't properly impacted yet.

He glances over his shoulder at the arguing behind him and seems to decide that until they start throwing food at each other, it's not his problem -- he cleans up dirty plates, not marriages gone bad. The newest arrival gets a friendly nod; Ravn hasn't seen the guy before but anyone's friendly in his book until proved otherwise. Instead, his gaze wanders to August and Aidan alike and he says, a bit more softly, "I kinda wanted to ask about something which you two both did. The -- stare thing. You both did it to me at some point, and I'm thinking it's not about how my bum looks in jeans or a fish tail. It's some kind of -- shine thing, isn't it?"

"I bring you the facts," Aidan replies to Itzhak's sarcasm, lifting a hand to point one finger lazily across his chest to the violinist, and the hand moves easily from there to meet the knuckle bump, empathy in the expression. Yup. That's precisely how it is.

He makes a face at the mention of a stabbing, giving August's shoulder a sharper look, though not quite the one that Ravn's about to refer to -- not quite making his own diagnosis. "If you need someone to, you know, look at it some more..." he offers; these things might be handled, and it's less useful an offer as it once was, but all the same. Healers are healers.

"I mean it sucked pretty bad, don't get me wrong, but as far as, y'know, getting hurt--" He breaks off, spotting the latest Latino, and lifts a bandaged arm. "Hey, Rekani! I have your thing still! I mean, it's at home, but I got it for you." Ravn's question may have to wait for just a moment.

Oh right, people. What's up people? seems to be the internal dialogue playing across Rekani's face, his chin also lifting in Itzhak's direction, then August's as well. When he sees Aidan though, he gets back up from the stool he'd k plopped on, ambling over to the smaller dude and just putting his arms out wide, obviously meaning to crush him in a fluffy Latino hug. The circular cage through the square door was kind of a hail Mary and he was glad to see it had worked. He'd been a little too concussed at the time to make sense of his success.

"Whatever, man. It's cool. I got like three. Somewhere." He'd find a seat a step or two away to plop down in, the staff could being the pile of food over to him. He rubs the side of his face as he looks Aidan over, spotting the gauze, "You come out ok?" He hadn't seen what has gone on in Aidan's bubble.

August nudges Itzhak for his highly tasteful, not at all innuendo-laden statements, smiling in an 'oh you' kind of way. His smile becomes half a wince, half a helpless expression for Ravn's benefit. "Kind of what life is like here." He seems confused as to what Ravn is asking, then blinks. "Oh, when we were checking your Art. Yeah that's something," he tips his head at Aidan, "people like him and I can do." Of his shoulder, he glances at it, shakes his head. "It's okay. Bennie and Ellie both healed me up some." He cuts a look at Aidan's own bandages for emphasis. "Save your strength."

His attention drifts to the drama unfolding with the cheating husband, so he doesn't spy Rekani until Aidan says his name. August blinks, sighs when he sees yet more injuries. "Starting to look like we've got an epidemic going on here." But before he can round them all up and insist on healing them, his phone dings. He fishes it out of his pocket, swipes a response. "Time to go get some dinner." He settles up with the bartender, shoves the basket of tots at Itzhak, formally ceding control of them. "Stay safe, folks." He bumps Itzhak with his good shoulder, then begins the careful negotiation through the tourist crowd to the door.

"Well mine was definitely about how ya ass looks," Itzhak says, "but Aidan's got ya beat." For someone who claims to be shy, he's sassing up the joint tonight. August shoulder bumps him and he bumps him back, very gently. "Yeah actually I gotta head out too." He slithers off the barstool. "Youse guys take it easy."

Ravn happens to be the part of the staff that's not serving drinks; unsurprisingly, he gets to be the one who indeed delivers the ordered morsels to Rekani. Maybe this is why he doesn't press August for more answers -- when he is done doing so, the salt and pepper lumberjack glimmers in his absence. Oh well. Next time. Itzhak's comment does net him a grin; who's going to complain over someone hinting they got a nice backside, indeed.

Then, spilled beer. He's absent a moment or three, cleaning up the mess at the next table over, perhaps leaving Aidan and Rekani a chance to talk.

Aidan does not have his innuendo trackers on tonight, and that comment from Itzhak has him blinking once at the idea he has anyone beat (and possibly replaying the earlier remarks from a different perspective. "Oh," he says, in a mild-epiphany sort of way, and then more brightly, "Thanks!" He's not inclined to complain about sassy compliments to his assets either, apparently.

He might consider a minor push about the healing thing, but there is a hug and he is absolutely on board with this hug idea right now, even if it's a bit more ginger than it might otherwise be, what with the forearms. It's still a pretty decent one, and he steps back to look Rekani over with slightly narrowed eyes afterward. The look he got before they made it through the door was a bit worrying. "Mostly," is still his verdict, "I kinda-- when I tried to cut through the bubble-thing, it kinda reflected it back at me, it kinda looks like... well, if I ended up at a hospital they'd definitely put me on a 72 hour. But the actual cuts aren't gonna do worse than hurt. How 'bout you? You were kinda," he makes a small gesture just below his nose, which could indicate a nosebleed or maybe someone taking cocaine. Odds are probably on door #1 there.

He waves to Itzhak and August as they take their leave, and he takes their tots, which should not go to waste. Plus he still hasn't gotten around to a drink yet, as he's beginning to notice. Well, that's a thing he can fix in a moment too.

Tots? Rekani was served up a dozen wings, some jalapeno chili cheese fries, and some pretzels for good measure, theres a wave to the spread to tell Aidan 'Have at' then he's making a wave at his head own head, "Eh, headachey mostly. Probably pushed it kinda hard in there. Glad mine didn't do that cause I'd probably have just flattened myself. Shit..." His face pinches a bit as he remembers it going down, "I'm still kinda wow'ed that shit worked. I'ma need a new bag now, tho... That was a lot of snacks... Mufuckas dropped a bomb in my bubble. Like who the fuck?" Big shrug, then he tucks into his wings.

Ravn wanders back to the bar after having returned the mop to out back; his blue rubber gloves truly are the sexiest fashion accessory in the room -- or something. It's that kind of evening at the bar -- not one where everything and everyone happens, but one that's full of tourists, noisy teens, and people constantly spilling things or dropping things or for some reason needing to ask the guy with the foreign accent what way to the bathroom -- four times, and with a wink. Coming from a girl who's eighteen, tops, Ravn declines to take said hint; he can evidently be oblivious to the point of obtuse when it suits him to be.

He drifts back eventually, hovering nearby -- not quite invading the conversation but certainly within earshot. It's possible he considers himself part of it; it's also possible that he's just some bar employee with no sense of tact.

Lilith breezes in through the doorway to the bar area, weaving mindlessly around tables and people while texting and checking something on her phone. She's flying solo this evening, which is really a social establishment rarity. But just because Byron Thorne isn't with her doesn't mean he isn't... with her. Two other men trail after her, kind of arriving with her, kind of not. They're just in jeans and non-descript t-shirts, regular looking clean-cut Joes in their late thirties or so. Without looking up, she jabs a finger at a table with space for seating near the bar, not at the bar, and the men file there to sit down.

Okay. She's directing grown ass men like toddlers or dogs to sit down, seems legit if you know the woman. But she's not really being a dick about it so much as she's being firm about her space while she orders a drink AT the bar to sit down with. Indicatively, she sends drinks to the table of two men with point for the bartender, saying their tab is on her... or rather the name that isn't hers on the credit card she slides over for tab stash. Then that's it. The guys drink and talk and watch girls and television, so why did they even come in with her? Who knows, people have their own issues and conversations, it's not that weird.

Lilith's dark hair is wind tousled from an evening walk on the beach she was having before wandering in. There's residual sand and tiny rocks lodged in her lace-up sandals that go with her pale tiered peasant skirt and halter-style, midriff skimming summer top. Once she's finished with her phone, she puts it on the bartop and tends to that rogue rock and sand situation with lean and brush and pluck of fingers. Abruptly, though, her eyes flick to Aidan as if she's just hearing or seeing other people in the room as something other than ambiance. Then her eyes slide thoughtfully to Rekani nearby too.

Yes. She's eavesdropping now.

At some point, Aidan's going to think to ask about the glove thing. It just probably isn't going to be one of those times Ravn's scraping barnacles off boats or worse off bathrooms. "Hey, thanks," he says to Rekani, moving the partial basket of tots in toward the others to make them officially part of the pool of deliciousness, and claiming one of the pretzels. "No shit, a bomb?" He does recall thinking he heard an explosion; the larger guy gets another quick look as though missing limbs or the like might suddenly be a factor. "Do you want me to check and make sure everything's, you know, fine?"

The bartender passes by and Aidan makes a brief interruption to jump in for a drink, specifically a whiskey and coke, and then settle himself properly on a stool, as he has so far neglected to do. "I kinda, after it threw it back at me, I started trying things that'd suck less if that happened. And they worked, I think? Except not to get me out, just to get me not attacked more. I think you guys maybe got me out, so... thanks, you know?"

Glancing to Ravn, he picks up a tater tot and lifts it up in offering -- presumably to feed it to the guy if he wants it, because he probably doesn't want to be touching his food with the same gloves he's been touching the toilets with. Aidan's more than capable of eating it himself if it's declined.

Can you really eat wings and not be a mess? Rekani wasn't a magician, that was Aidan's thing, so Rekani's going about it in the normal way, being a messy eater not really something registering on him as he's probably on the third drumlet by now. He shakes his head to Aidan's offer, chews, swallows.

"Nah, dawg, its just a headache. They go away. Thanks, tho." Anither wing is lifted, using it as a pointer in Aidan's direction, "And shit, nah man. You patched me up before? Why wouldn't I?" He gets a healthy (read: unhealthy) dollop of ranch on his wing, bites, talks a bit with his mouth full, back of his hand not making it like hella gross, "I busted mine using the bomb. Then I saw a door. I figured we're the only ones I ever see come out through em, so I kinda tried to just shove your whole shit through it." He shrugs, swallows, reaches a sauced-sticky hand for his mojito and sips, "Coulda just like squeezed you to mush inside, I was just trying anything. Other dude, though? I dunno what he did, sides get kinda like..." He makes a motion with the stripped chicken bone like stabbing.

Hey, why the hell not; give that girl something to watch, she may decide to go flirt with someone under twenty-five instead. Or someone who isn't an employee and hence more likely to tell her to fuck off. Ravn swipes the tater tot with his teeth in passing, winking at Aidan in a fashion that could certainly be open to interpretation -- but which, considering that he knows the man has a girlfriend, probably isn't. 'Thanks', he mouths silently, back turned towards the girl.

He nods at Lilith in passing; a familiar face though not one he knows well. From the looks of it, everyone knows everyone here. Small town life. Everyone's cousins, school chums, or married to each other, or some combination of all three. The two men accompanying her and then not get a brief glance but whatever's going on there is decidedly no business of the guy whose job largely revolves around mucking out where the tourists have been stampeding.

Grey Harbor really is just like home, only a bit livelier in the lucid dreams department.

While eavesdropping, there's a beer delivered with salt and lime and Ravn passes by, which gains a kind of 'hey there' smile from the brunette woman. But she's listening right now and doesn't yet break her silence in favor of this nag she has to listen. While she could normally care less what others talk about, something is piquing and poking at her brain while she tries to puzzle from bits and pieces.

Sipping on her beer, Lilith gradually turns on her stool to bluntly look at the two men nearby at some point in their dining and drinking conversation. It's the most no-fucks given way to interject in the conversation with no words at all when one leg crosses over the other with post-up seating observance. She clearly has heard something of interest and she recognizes Aidan enough from 'things' here and there. After staring a moment, she takes a drink from her beer, leans forward with a foot hooked around her barstool rung for leaning balance...

And thennnnn she steals a tater tot with jackmove 'hello' before speaking.

"What'd you blow up to make a Door...?"

This seems important for her to know and she punctuates the question by eating her tot, assuming it's not snatched back.

Aidan doesn't look totally convinced on the just-a-headache front, but healing anyone who can say no when they DO say no is kind of a (weird) dick move, so after a beat there's a nod, and he lets it go. His mundane medical knowledge isn't good enough to know whether there's anything he should be looking for specifically, short of going into Spooky Diagnosis mode. So he just listens instead, taking a brief pause to feed Ravn the tater tot, which he looks rather pleased with, giving the guy a grin that could also be open to interpretation, though given the whole girlfriend thing, probably isn't.

He also looks rather pleased at the repurposing of the bomb, but winces slightly at the thought he might've been squished, and moreso at the description of Alexander. "Mr. Clayton got stabbed?" he asks, brow furrowing with worry. He hadn't looked as though he were bleeding, but there wasn't time to get much of a look...

Lilith, he's noticed enough to give one of those quick 'hey I know you, hi,' sorts of grins in passing, still a bit tired, but her question surprises him. More than the tot-theft, which he seems inclined to allow. In fact, though he eyes the food, there's something faintly wary about it and what he picks is another of the pretzels, arguably the most mild option on offer. "You think the door showed up from something getting blown up?" he asks, as if it weren't a bizarre theory in normal life or odd that she'd have guesses like that about how their evening's gone so far.

Rekani is a fine upstanding lad, so of course Lilith gets a careful assessment before... he sort of seems to just not have it in him. Sure, he hangs out with strippers, and has his own girlfriend, and still tries to make time for the odd flirt, but the headache just wasn't doing it for him. Which was probably for the best, what with his characteristically oblivious nature failing to notice the hired muscle. A bone is discarded with the rest of the fallen soldiers, and he reaches for a napkin, cleaning his hands long enough to make a circular ball shape with his hands, trying to describe the cage.

"Yaknow, the like... bubble thing. And nah..." to Aidan, he clarifies, "He was doing the stabbing, but like... it didn't go so well? I dunno, it went kinda fast, and then I was dealing with my shit. which like..." There's a moment where Rekani sits back in his chair and stares off into space for a second, "What the fuck did I do that for? I was probably just as fair to blow myself up... Dude, and all my snacks..." He shakes his head, winces, remembers he has a headache and such motions should probably be avoided. He rubs the bridge of his nose briefly, then realizes he now has to napkin his face with the hot sauce and ranch not really totally gone. He was a mess.

One quality that puts Gray Harbor on the map for at least some people is that it's a pleasant little town for yachters to put into if they don't want to go to Seattle and pay triple the mooring fees. A couple of fellows in their twenties wander into the bar sporting nice, white sailors' caps and polo shirts in islander blue and summer green; everything about them advertises an expensive boat moored nearby and all the ego that goes with it. When they start talking about what drinks to get and one reveals himself to possess a Continental accident, Ravn's value as a potential holiday flirt plummets. He's not even the actual bartender, and totally gay besides.

The not actually a bartender and totally gay barback looks quite relieved and does nothing whatsoever to divert attention back to himself. Have fun, French guy, Canadian guy, whatever you are, guy. Try to not get arrested if she is in fact turns out to be a minor, guy.

Instead, the Dane heads towards the back with a determined expression. It is a fact that a bar -- any bar, anywhere in this time and space continuum -- generates a certain grimy presence over time, particularly in the rest rooms. A monster which must be challenged and combatted and indeed, defeated every single day, every single shift. A knight in sable -- plus cyan gloves -- is going to stay the dragon, defeat the ogre, and rescue any princesses trapped in the stalls. He may not emerge again for a while.

Lilith has a growing frown knitting her fine brow the more Aidan and Rekani talk and explain, head shaking mute and helplessly with no real speculation on the explosion and door theory. It's always hard to say with these things. Then it's not only a frown when the stocky fellow molds his fingers to make an enclosure and she catches on fully to what 'mine' was in context with prior eavesdropped conversation. Immediately, her dark lashes drop to veil much of the expression she can't quite hide in the eyes, but the subtle tension through her bared shoulders and posture shift of discomfort says enough.

After drinking again, she lifts her eyes from that time of remembering reprieve, most likely about her own torment given what she says next.

"Dark isn't the word to explain what that place is. The word isn't enough." Lilith watches one man, then the other in turns while she's imparting pieced out details and recollections. "Mine was rectangle. The trap box. Weird energy water glass set in a weird metal frame." Her eyes rest on Aidan longer with this next bit, gauging what his trauma might have been by sharing her own, "I killed them. I killed all of them and bathed in the hot blood that splashed off of them. I did it in violent, terrible ways. They looked like people. Maybe they were people, Lost people, I don't know."

Another swig of beer, "They talked didn't they? In your brain, they talked."

Okay, it's a bit of a relief that Alexander was doing the stabbing. Some might argue otherwise in other contexts, maybe. But this one, for sure. "You didn't, though," he points out, as Rekani continues to be appropriately unexploded, "...sorry about the snacks, though. I got pop-tarts at home, I could bring you some when I get you your vape back." If the snacks were lost to the bomb that freed him, after all, that sacrifice might've saved them all!

He lifts a hand to Ravn as the Dane disappears off into jobland, and sips his drink, now that it's arrived. Hands Rekani the cocktail napkin that came with it, too, 'cause hot sauce face is no fun. Especially in this weather. "Have you guys met? Lilith, this is Rekani; Rekani, this is Lilith." Were they ever properly introduced? At some point he's put a name to her face, either way. But such niceties are left behind pretty quickly as she starts talking about her own experience of the place. Aidan drinks his drink, a little bit carefully much as he was careful with the small amount of food he took, and listens.

"Energy water glass," he murmurs thoughtfully, and his eyes widen a bit as she talks about the people she killed. It looks like sympathy, perhaps weirdly. Perhaps not so weirdly, really. "Mine was-- a dark viney sort of tendril thing caught my legs, and this bubble came up around me. Like glass but not. Maybe it was the same sort? When I tried to cut myself free..." He turns over the arm that isn't holding the drink; both are wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow. "It was like it rebounded, kinda? And then these grey sorta-people started showing up, like faceless kinda clay people, and I didn't want to get attacked or sliced up again so I tried to make them like me. And then they wanted me to heal them, but--" He blanches faintly, and carefully sets the glass down, pushing it a fraction away cross the bar. "But they were Wrong." He's seen her fight; he doesn't have to assess her to know they at the least share a favoured aspect. "Inside, they were... darkness and weird blue fire and maybe, maybe I could've made one or more more... persony, maybe, but they weren't right and it would've, I think it would've made them a worse monster. Or me. Or both. I don't... I don't know. They really, really wanted me to heal them." But he couldn't. Or wouldn't. Or both again. The wounded arms wrap around his abdomen, a slight wince at the pressure on the injuries, but the need it wins out. "I don't feel so great. Um. Sorry. All they said was 'Heal'. But there was some other voice when we were leaving. It said something was growing." A small swallow after that word. "That it'd keep feeding. And growing. And it'd see us again." It's pretty quiet, for talking in a busyish bar. She can probably hear him nonetheless.

Two quick claps, two taps of his hands on the table in front of him, and two palms lifted into the air in surrender. The reminder of the words from Lilith has Rekani very slowly moving his head back and forth, the refreshing of that little detail unwelcome. "Nope. No thank you." He takes that napkin from Aidan, but also rips open that little wet cloth that comes with wings to really try to get his hands clean enough to reach for his wallet, just dropping a few Jackson's on the table and calling it good, whatever the hell the tab was gonna be. "Trash dudes? Dancing? We got through that shit. This one can fuck right off." At least if its in any way related to the creepy string of words Lilith had left them with.

"I'm going the fuck home." He pushes his chair back, but almost stumbles trying to get to his feet, hands going out wide and gripping table and chairbacks to stay upright. He makes a puffing hiss sound of frustration as he shoves his chair back in, hand lifted to his head again, "Fuck, my head." A hand is patted on Aidan's shoulder, a motion that marked familiarity, appreciation, but Rekani was on his way out, "Don't worry bout the snacks, bro. I can always get more." Throwing up two fingers on one hand he was telling Lilith peace, "Real nice meeting you, Lilith. I think. Probs' not. I'll fix that next time. Shit night." Was he trying to be rude? Probably not, but the Latino wasn't rattled often, and this had clearly gotten under his skin.

Lilith drinks in all of that from Aidan with clockwork thought ticking behind those sapphire eyes, sobering and intensifying her gaze. It's as if she's making parallels, the thought processes shifting here and there in the expression of her face. She's also very still and very bothered by the collective facts. Her breathing picks up and if she's worried about names right now, or even manners, it's a passing reflex of head nod for the intros and disturbed exits.

"I own the pawn. Easy to find my number or stop by if you want to talk." Lilith pauses after saying these words to Rekani as he goes. After a twist of her lips, she looks back at Aidan ruefully, "I know. I'm a ball of sunshine. Same offer to you, I think you should maybe try to rest all that off, unless you want me to give my mojo a go on those arms for a little comfort tonight, considering..."

Lilith sighs and drains her beer before standing to see how distracted her two followers are, because she looks like she's about to try and slip them for the back door leading out onto the more beachside patio of the establishment, "That's six, Aidan. Six of us. Easton and de la Vega were with me. Now you say Alexander, then you two and... maybe more I don't know about. I... I knew it'd happen again, but... try to see if it's happened to anyone else like that. I think the more of us of significant power it uses... I don't know. I don't like it. I'm going uh. To the bathroom." She says that last part loud enough for the guys at the table to hear before skittering that way, "Maybe we'll talk again when this is less fresh. I know it was bad..."

She's edging away with that somewhat saddened rueful smile again, "I know."

The men side-eye her, watch her on the sly, then look at each other with a sigh while pushing up, knowing damn well she didn't go to the ladies' room. They drain their drinks and follow like some kind of on the sly secret service. Is this what rich men do for their fiancées? He's either highly possessive or something's amiss in a big way in their lives. She's certainly making them work for their probable pay rate. Impulsive, stubborn brat is on the move.