2020-08-11 - I'm Not Depressed You're Depressed

The daily battle on the men's room was won earlier, though the war will continue. Ravn's shift ended with him emerging victorious, and indeed wandering off to take a curious look at Gray Harbor's high school -- and meeting a blondesplosion there from whose exuberance he is still reeling. The Vagabond, however, has only a small kitchenette and he has yet to shop for food supplies, which may indeed be why he turns up at the Two if By Sea outside of his shift. At least this means he gets to wear his regular black kidskin gloves rather than rubber gloves in some exciting, eye burning colour.

Vic isn't working. That's gonna be a few weeks still. She's under doctor's orders not to live more than 10 pounds, which equates to a gallon of milk, or even drive. She took an Uber to the Twofer to get something to drink. She's sitting out on the deck, sipping a glass of whiskey and munching on a basket of loaded tots, maybe the thing the bar is most known for in town. Well other than it's owner vanishing.

She's looking, well, like hell. Her hair is much blonder because the wash she usually puts in it to darken it hasn't been done in over a week, and it looks like she had some trouble brushing it out because it looks somewhat like a tangled bird's nest, shoved under a baseball cap, with the Portland Trailblazers emblem on it. That sort of lack of care for her appearance seems to extend to the rest of her wardrobe too. She's in black sweatpants and a dark blue button-down shirt, with slip-on shoes. It's not a good look, but it's everything she could manage to put on under movement restrictions and a copious amount of pain.

Ravn manages to acquire a pilsener and a plate of nachos with generous amounts of cheese before looking around for some place to settle. The indoors area is full of the same yachters, tourists, and college kids he spent half the day cleaning up after and frankly, he's not in the mood for feeling any obligations to continue to do so. Hence he wanders outside to the deck where, upon spotting the battered and bruised woman, he heads in that direction, balancing plate and beer bottle in one hand in a display of agility that is, well, not impressive but at least not entirely clumsy either. "You look like they released you a week too early from hospital," he murmurs at Vic, friendly but not taking a seat without an invitation. Some people might take offence at that sort of thing.

Vic glances up at him, her movements stiff and the pain clear in her eyes. "Maybe. But they couldn't know that. Told them I had help at home. I lied." Of course she lied. She's stubborn and paranoid and a criminal. She didn't want to stay in the hospital where she was more vulnerable. She wanted to stay at home where she has an arsenal.

"You settling in to work ok? I won't be back behind the bar for a bit yet. They're a little touchy about recovering from surgery." She smirks and nods towards the seat beside her for him to take it.

Ravn settles down and places his luxurious meal on the table. "I think I may have inspired a few patrons to wander your way with complaints at some point but I figured you might have some aggressions to vent," he replies with a small sorry-but-totally-not-sorry grin. "Recovering from surgery isn't something I have particularly fond memories of myself and I've never had anything quite so -- serious done."

Dipping one nacho into the cheese at a time the Dane looks his collegue over; he's a pretty laid back fellow but anyone who's a bit sharp on the uptake -- like, say, paranoid ex-cop criminals -- will not miss the close scrutiny. After a moment he says, "If you need anything -- I mean, I know we're not exactly old friends, but we are collegues. I get it -- the not wanting to be in hospital bit."

"I'd laugh about the patrons and my aggression, but that might hurt," Vic notes with a smirk, before sipping her whiskey some more. She slides the tots basket between them so he can have some. At his offer she pauses, returning his scrutiny as if looking for some sort of reason for his kindness. She is a suspicious sort. "So far I'm ok. One of my neighbors in the trailer park has been checking on me." Not really, but he's easy to get a hold of, being as he's a pizza delivery guy. "If something comes up though, I'll text you."

Ravn in turn turns the nachos communal, sliding them to the middle of the table too. "Checking's one thing, doing the dishes is another. I really don't mind." He pauses, making some kind of evaluation in his mind before saying, somewhat more softly, "I bailed on hospital once. Went home and sat alone in my living room for a month. Then I packed a bag and took off, and I haven't gone back since."

"I live in a twenty-two foot airstream trailer. I don't cook when I'm healthy. You think I'm cooking when I'm like this? Dishes aren't a thing." The takeout containers all over Vic's counters are though. It's kind of a mess in her little abode right now. His words make her frown deeply. "What were you in the hospital for? This wasn't my first time, probably won't be my last either."

"Suicide attempt," the foreigner replies bluntly. "Took an overdose. Didn't succeed, obviously." He watches her face, wary of her reaction in the manner of someone whose seen a number of responses to a statement like that, ranging from patronising 'have you tried to be happy' comments to extreme awkwardness and changings of subjects. Then he relents a bit and adds, "Well, there's that. And I guess take-out isn't hard to get here, either -- though I'm still looking for a sushi bar."

"What had you in that bad of a place?" she asks. Because Vic has been there a few times. She didn't try it herself, but she'd considered it. Another drawback of being in law enforcement. The suicide rate among cops is very high, and so is the occurrence of PTSD. "Think you can swing over to Olympia or Seattle for decent sushi. Dunno I'd trust anyone in this town to be able to make it right."

She reaches into the basket for a nacho and nibbles it thoughtfully, looking out at the water. "But there's like a fancy French pastry shop so I could be wrong. Maybe they'll have one at the casino."

"My fiancee got angry with me, drank a bottle of wine and decided to try to move a tree with her car at a hundred and twenty miles per hour," Ravn replies; his voice is steady and he's clearly not about to break down in tears but it probably is a somewhat sore subject. "She didn't make it. And I felt... very guilty about mostly feeling relieved. Wasn't a good place to be."

He in turn steals a tater tot and glances out at the casino lights as well, shimmering in the distance. "I'm not really... the casino kind of guy. I can clean up if I have to, but I can't stand being around rich, pretentious jackasses."

"Sorry about your fiancee. Was it a bad relationship?" Vic asks, because of his mention of being relieved over her death. "My fiance dumped me because he couldn't handle my job. My old job." She chomps some tots, her eyes distant for a moment in memory of Mike.

Ravn shakes his head. "No, it was... I should have broken it off earlier. We wanted different things. But I chickened out, and I guess I still feel on some level that that's why she's dead. Even though it's obviously very silly -- it's not like I forced her to go drunk driving in a rage."

"Shit happens," Vic notes, and it's in the tone of a toast, even though her voice is barely above a whisper due to her condition. She lifts her whiskey to him to clink if he will, before she slugs back a deep swig. Should she be drinking while on painkillers? Does she care? "Mine is still out there, but he moved to New York."

Ravn isn't one to comment on when one should be drinking and when one should not; he returns the clink and sips his beer. "So what were you doing that's so bloody awful it's worth dumping someone over? Seems a little harsh if you're genuinely fond of someone."

Vic smacks her lips after swallowing down the whiskey. She keeps her eyes trained on the water as she answer, bluntly. "I was a cop." She grabs another nacho. "Narcotics Detective. Had a lot of undercover work and he couldn't handle what that sometimes entailed. He was patrol." She shrugs, winces at the movement, and chomps on the nacho with an angry snap of her teeth. "He couldn't reconcile it was a job and I wasn't actually enjoying the things I did for a case."

Ravn looks thoughtful for a while. Finally he murmurs, "Wouldn't have pegged you for law enforcement, to be honest. I guess that is a pretty risky job. I say, having no real idea what it actually entails, outside of what TV claims. I used to lead a pretty... sheltered life, really."

"I was a cop. Not anymore. Not for like almost five years now. Had a case go bad, needed a change. Kind of like you did, I guess. New scenery, different responsibilities." At least he now understands why she had a gun and was a stellar shot with it. She listens to him for a moment and sort of chuckles, what passes for a laugh for her. "It was bad. Really bad, that case. But I survived so, there's that I guess. And looks like you've survived."

The Dane makes a little show out of checking his pulse. "Yep. Pretty sure I'm still alive. But yes -- I get that feeling of needing to just go, get out, move on, go somewhere no one gives a damn who you are or think you are. This is the first place I've considered staying for a while, since then. Guess it's a bit pathetic to pick up and just keep running, but hey, has to be a reason some bloke aged thirty ends up cleaning bathroom stalls on the other side of the planet instead of getting a real job." He doesn't sound particularly sorry about it, though.

"What do you consider a real job?" Vic asks curiously. It may be the booze making her more conversational than her usual surly self. "And I think we both know how this town works, at least in theory." Roaches check in but they don't check out.

"I've kind of noticed, yes. Very lucid dreams. Surprised it doesn't say Welcome to the Hotel California on the town sign." Ravn rolls his sleeve up a little, showing her the rope burns on his arms; he either got lost in a BDSM scene or had one of those Experiences. "A real job... I suppose it depends on whom you ask. I studied to become a history professor. Parents wanted me in estate management. Truth is, I'm perfectly happy where I am, much as it'd probably have my mum clutching pearls if she was alive and I bothered to tell her."

Vic glances at the burns, her brow furrowing. "What the hell did that? Do I even want to know? Or is there an underground kink club I wasn't told about?" she asks with a quirk of a grin. "There's a community college here, you might be able to get a job teaching there? Or tutoring at least?" she offers. "I mean I can teach you to bartend if you want, but that's not a terribly lofty goal." Pause. "Sorry about your mom. I lost mine when I was eight."

"I'm not cut out to be a teacher," Ravn murmurs, still looking at the sea. "I love the field. But I get pissed off with kids who don't care, and six times as pissed off with parents who don't care. And my head wanders -- I get interested in things that aren't how to hold somebody's hand. I'm honestly not very much of a people person. I like people -- but at a distance, you know?" He shakes his head at Vic's last comment and, with a bluntness one would perhaps not expect from someone so, well, soft looking, says, "Sorry about your mum. Don't be sorry about mine, she was a bitch."

Vic hrms quietly at his explanation. "That's funny. I'd have done almost anything to stay a cop. I was good at it. Really fucking good. Especially at forensics. But that's gone now." At the mention of his mom she looks over at him. "Sorry. Mine, from what I remember, was amazing but, well, cancer doesn't give a shit if you're an angel or an asshole."

Ravn winces and nods. "If I was religious I'd have trouble reconciling myself with how bad people go free while good people die. Sorry, I didn't mean to be all Mister Depressing. You're easy to talk to. Most people are more... More polite, less to the point."

Vic looks amused at Ravn now, and she snorts softly, wincing again. "I have never been accused of being easy to talk to before. I blame the pain meds. Most people get grunts or snarls from me. You seem ok though, for a guy in way over his head in this town."

"So, basically, to stay on your good side, spike your beer with morphine." Ravn nods and pretends to take a mental note. "I think maybe learning a bit about bar tending can't hurt. Don't know if I'll be good at it, but hey -- from what I've been told, your gig is to give people whatever you feel like and let them sort it out, I can definitely do that much. I don't know -- I don't feel in over my head. Or, I feel in over my head in a way that kind of makes a lot more sense to me than life usually does because here, there's something real to be pissed off at."

"Oh for Christ's sake. I did that for like a week before Marshall had a talk with me. I've been serving the right stuff since!" Vic opines with a grunt. "My father owns a fucking bar, I know how to mix drinks," she grumps testily. There's regular Vic shining through the meds.

"For a week, huh. People make it sound like it's the main attraction." Ravn just looks amused. "I don't. Never really went to bars much to begin with -- it's that whole going out and being social thing, I used to hate it. I was this... pretty reclusive guy, just minding my books, reading a lot, not really talking to anybody. I literally had to learn to do that when I started travelling. You can't work your way down through Europe without talking to anyone."

"I was serving nothing but whiskey or beer because most of the patrons were asshole tourists who kept staring at my rack or trying to chat with me," Vic notes. She's clearly not that kind of chatty bartender who flirts for tips or plays shrink for customers. "I just don't do...conversations well. Or friendships. Or relationships. I work, its what I do." And she doesn't mean bartending.

"Should I be worried that someone told me I have a good ass earlier, then?" Ravn grins, then nods. "Yes. I can relate. That's been my take on life for some time. Don't stay long enough anywhere to start growing roots. Keep on moving, don't get attached, don't start thinking anyone gives a shit. Won't surprise you to hear there are people back home who thinks I should have stayed there and taken a pile of antidepressives every morning. I don't think I'm particularly depressed, though -- just, not really very patient with people's expectations. It's easier to just be some idiot with a backpack. No one expects anything from a drifter, so, nothing to live up to."

"Yet. You're not depressed yet, Ravn. Give this town a few more weeks, then let me know if you've reconsidered that stance," Vic says with a tight smile. "But a drifter also has no one to rely on. I do miss that, the camaraderie of the police force, someone having my back no matter what." There are a few people she sort of trusts? Like Joey Kelly? But that's about it.

"I'll admit, it does seem pretty hellish. But also exciting. And people here are -- they seem to have each other's back a lot. People I've met once or twice asking me how I'm holding up, complete strangers offering me a place to sleep or the use of their shower, people just being... I get the feeling that the need to look out for each other is a pretty big damn thing here. And I like that, I have to admit -- I really do like that. " Ravn pauses and sips his beer. "I'm sure there's a lot going on here too that's just like anywhere else. Somebody beats his wife. Somebody can't afford medical treatment. Sad stories. Shitty people. But at least people here seem to... care. They don't just wander around like robots doing nine-to-five jobs because they don't have the imagination to do anything else."

"Shared trauma," is Vic's answer for that. "They ask because they worry for themselves a lot of the time, and information is the only way to really keep ahead of things in Gray Harbor. The oblivious don't last long." It's sad, but true, at least in her line of real work. "But you come across as likeable and mostly harmless, so people will use you as a source of information."

"I don't really have anything to hide so I don't really worry about that a lot. Somebody wants to know who I am, easiest way to find out is just walking up and asking." Ravn shrugs, unaware of just how easy he is to investigate indeed. Sweet summer child.

"Yeah, I kind of realized that when I did some research on you," Vic rolls her head on her shoulder to look him in the eye. "Sorry, had to make sure you weren't some terrible person before hiring you for Bennie."

"Boring Danish guy with a PhD that comes with an instruction manual on how to ask if people want fries with that." Ravn nods, not really looking very bothered by the idea. "That's what I mean, though. People look out for each other here. Sure, it's self-interest -- you want to stay safe and keep your job safe, I figure. But you also look out for Bennie. Who's a bucket of sunshine, by the way."

"Yeah, I am pretty sure she farts rainbows. She's been through a lot. The owner of the bar that disappeared, was her boyfriend. So I kind of feel obligated to look out for her a bit." Vic grimaces and drains her glass of whiskey. "Did you find a place to stay?"

"I did, actually. Renting an old sailing boat, moored just down from here. Felt safer than the Murder Motel or the trailer park -- no offence to people living in the trailer park but all I know about trailer parks is that you should probably expect Freddy Krueger to be your neighbour. We don't really have them back home so my idea of what one is like is pretty much Hollywood, which is not very flattering." Ravn cleans the plate of the last nachos. "And if you happen to live there I probably just insulted the hell out of you, but my offer to help out stands. Just expect me to stare oddly at anyone walking past in a wife beater while carrying a shotgun."

"Nah Freddy Kruger doesn't bother with trailer parks. It's the tornados that have a grudge against them," Vic notes with a grin. "I do live there, but I live there for a reason. I can pack up and leave with my entire house if I have to. I'm in slot 44 if you feel like visiting. Just come bearing booze."