2020-08-16 - Everything Is Better With Sunshine

The sailor's parked out on the deck, fingers wrapped around a glass of Jack and Coke. He's slumped down, lazily, watching the last light of sunset gleaming on the water. There are scars on his face that weren't there the last time he ran into Cecil, brow and lip, and discomfort in his posture. But other than that, he seems relaxed enough, head leaned against the back of the chair.

Cecil gathers his pint of stout at the bar and comes out. Upon seeing Joseph, he wanders over, taking note of the scars with an arched brow. "I bet I don't want to see the other guy," he says. He gestures to a chair with an unspoken question: may he? Cecil's in his usual khakis, but his button-up blue shirt's sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, tres casual.

He gestures at the chair by him, a negligent flick of tattooed fingers. There's a kind of remote amusement in the blue eyes. "Well, I wish it went like that," he says. "But no, I did not give as good as I got. More'n one, though, not at all a fair fight." Voice a little distant, behind the usual veneer of amiability.

Cecil gives Joseph a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about that, mate," he says. He takes a drink of his stout, then says, "I got ganged up on, myself, but not banged up too badly. Occupational hazard I hadn't foreseen, but with this town, I shouldn't be surprised." He shakes his head. "It's good to see you out and about."

That makes him reorient on the forensicist. "Ganged up on how?" he asks, some of that distance fading. Joe even sits up, a little. "I mean, I know you do work for the police, but I'd'a thought you were only there once whatever danger it was had gone. What happened?" He takes a hasty sip, sets the drink down on the railing.

"Mostly, that's true," Cecil says with a slow nod. "I had a weekend free -- most of them, usually -- and I went down to the Harbor to collect some samples from the shipping containers. Since it's an ongoing investigation, I can't relay the details, but suffice to say there were a few fellows that took exception to my nosiness. One of them got me good in the gut, and another stole my camera. I admit, i'm more sore about the camera. It's not my only one, but it was one of my better ones."

"Oh, shit," Joe says, bluntly. "What'd they look like? I mean, you reported that, surely." The sailor hesitates a beat or two - he'd clearly like to press further, but Cecil's already let him know where the line is drawn. He doesn't seem to have reported whatever happened to him - a Dream, perhaps, those can hardly be explained to mundane law enforcement, even with someone like the current Chief.

Cecil says, "Oh, yes, I made a statement. The Chief knows everything. He helped me out of that little fix, in fact." He takes another drink, then muses, "Good man, the Chief. I've worked for people I don't respect before. It's nice to be able to look up to someone in charge. It makes the work more meaningful."

It's not in the least sequitur, but Joe mutters, nearly under his breath, "No, only God knows everything....and He works for Mossad." Then he grins, slowly, at that. In a tone far better pitched to be audible, he says, "Yeah, he's somethin' else. But I might be a li'l biased." Humorous, at least - he knows Cecil knows.

Cecil's brows lift in amusement. "Quite," he says. "But that's all right, to be biased, given the givens. Perhaps it's for the best that I don't see him in that light. He's my boss, after all." He's quiet a moment, then says, "I've been staying with Dr. Kincaid since the incident. With the cats. It's all rather innocent, but I don't hate having someone to come home to again."

A little flick of his brows at that, conceding the point. But that glow of humor fades away, leaving that unease lurking at the back of his gaze. "What's she like? 've only met her a time or two, I don't know her well. But....I imagine, yeah, that it helps to not be...to have another person in the house."

He's slept with some lights on, those nights when Ruiz isn't over. No cats to keep him company.

"She's lovely," Cecil says in a way that implies he's talking about more than her physical appearance. "She's been quite kind to me. I try to stay out of the way, for the most part, and I work so late these days, we don't always cross paths in a day." With a half-smile, he adds, "The cats like her, and I trust their judgment."

The warmth there makes Joe smile a little, in return. "Animals do know, don't they, so often," he says, quietly. "Haven't had a pet since I was a kid. I get tempted though, here." A bob of his head, and he adds, "Plenty to do for you of late. Things've been crazy, or so I hear. I was outta town, visitin' folks back home in Georgia....healin' up after this." A tap of a fingertip for the scar on his lip.

Cecil says, "I've considered willing them to you, in case something happens to me. The cats, I mean. I don't really know anyone else besides the Chief, and I just don't see him getting up at 6:30 to put food in their bowls. All I could think while I was... during my ordeal, was 'who will feed them in the morning if I don't come home?' I felt so bad for taking them in the first place without having some kind of plan in place."

Bars like the Twofer have several kinds of staff. There's Lady Sunshine, Bennie of the Thousand Names, She Who Commands Grown Men and Provides the Tater Tots, the Lady of a Thousand Smiles. There's bartenders -- one of them with a reputation for tearing your face off and feeding it to the local raccoons if you stare at their rack too long -- and there's bar-backs, the guys who do all the cleaning up after the tourists, yachters, and other assorted beer drinkers.

Ravn Abildgaard is one of the latter. He wanders from table to table, collecting empty glasses, bottles, and plates, and on the whole, seems to be a pretty laid back bloke who wasn't kidding about enjoying his day job when Joe met him earlier, at the Espresso Yourself. The only thing that seems to throw a crimp in his otherwise quiet and casual style is how every so often, some tourist or yachter or townie asks him to sign a napkin or a postcard or take a picture. Some of them look very impressed to have their bottles and plates collected by a Danish guy in black. Said Danish guy in black mostly looks frustrated about it but he's a polite bloke and inevitably manages to find a smile for them. He also adds his blog's web address to every single autograph because why the hell not, traffic is monetization and they might learn something about folklore if they run it through Google Translate first.

Joe's expression is utterly nonplussed. He has no idea how to feel about that, clearly. "Well," he says, "Doctor Kincaid might be better for that. I tend to live aboard my boat and it's too small for even one cat, honestly, let alone a couple. I mean I could pass 'em on to my family back east, god knows they love animals, but....no, I don't see him living with cats, either. I mean....I've seen 'im around dogs and horses and he gets along with those okay...."

He's still nursing his Jack and Coke. Ravn's appearance has him lifting his glass in greeting. "Hey," he says, affably. "How's it goin'?" A little furrow of puzzlement appears between his brows. The Dane's a curiosity in more ways than one.

Cecil glances at Ravn with polite curiosity. He smiles at Joe, and he says, "I need to make some friends who like cats, clearly. Or survive somehow in this place." He takes another drink of his stout. Then he says, "It's taking all of my self-control not to show you pictures of them. I may be traveling down a sad path, but I haven't gotten quite that far yet. I'll only share pictures by request and on special occasions."

The writer and his companion get a friendly wave from one hand while the other somehow manages to carry no less than eight beer bottles; whoever this guy is, at least he's got manual dexterity down pat. "Hey there," Ravn says good-naturedly. "Doing pretty all right except for the whole -- celebrity chef thing. How's being a Russian spy working out for you, then?"

It's the first day August has been seen in town since he got out of the hospital, and...well, he's not actually looking like he should have been discharged, come to it. He's moving stiff and sore, and paler than usual, though his arm's not in the sling anymore, at least. He's in a black and white camp shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark purple tee, and dark gray commuter pants. There's some bruising on his neck and forearms in uneven patches that trace the shape of his blood vessels, which probably explains the stiff movement.

He's off the heavy painkillers, which means it's time for a beer. He wanders in, heads to the bar to order a black and tan.

Joe lets his head thump back against the chair, theatrically. "Oh, Jesus," he says. "Not that again. Russian spy, my ass. Soundin' like this and livin' in some flyspeck town in the Pacific Northwest. Fuck, Russians don't even have to spy on NASA now, we work with them. We, like, fuckin' carpool to the space station with them. They drive, we pay for gas, everyone gets to work on time."

He gives Cecil a rueful grin. "You're a better man'n I am, Gunga Din." Then there's August, and he sits up. "Jesus, Roen, you look like twenty miles of bad road."

"I have my dignity to think about," Cecil says. "You should come meet them, though. I don't think Dr. Kincaid would object to me having a reasonably well-behaved guest at a polite hour." He side-eyes Joe. "I assume you can be well-behaved." Though he smiles at August, there's concern in his countenance. "Been a minute, Roen," he says. "Er, how are you?"

Where a giant bull mastiff is, his owner is sure to follow. And damned if Bennie hasn't bought the beast an 'Emotional Support Animal' vest. Though it's regulation, she couldn't just leave it like that. The thing is covered with colorful patches and Beadazzled. Gunner pads out of the back hallway and the blonde trails after, a bottle of bourbon slung precariously between two fingers and sloshing around as she dances to a song that most definitely isn't the one playing over the sound system. "You're too shy to shy, hush hush. Eye to eye. Too shy shy, hush-hush," She rings Ravn around the neck as she passes, going to nose to nose with him. "Eye to eye." And then she's slithering away in her frilly dress that she made out of an old shower curtain, still dancing and humming as she simultaneously tries to take another swig out of the bottle.

"I have given out fifty-eight autographs tonight and counting," Ravn mutters. "At this point, I think I'd prefer Russian spy. Nine different blokes had a party going bork bork bork at me, and I'm not even Swedish."

Then, suddenly, his boss singing Kajagoogoo at him. The Dane stares blankly for a moment as she flits past. "... I feel oddly attacked by that lyric," he murmurs and goes to get rid of those eight bottles.

August gives Joe a tired, regretful smile. "Feelin' it too," he assures him. He takes his beer, tips generously, and heads out onto the deck. The warm, humid air feels good for a change; not as good as a soak in the hot tub, but he'll get back to those once the cuts heal. The edge of a white gauze bandage peaks out from his left sleeve as he moves to sit. "Not great, to be honest," he admits to Cecil. "Had a, ah," he clears his throat, "bad day at church. And then some fun at Their hands." He sips from the black and tan. "And the bit where everyone thinks I broke up with Eleanor has me pissed the entire hell off..." His voice fades as Bennie appears in her, er, shower curtain dress. "Hon are you feeling okay?" he asks. A brief nod for Ravn, since staring at Bennie has brought him to August's attention.

"......you really think dignity is a going concern in this town," Joe says, after the apparition of Bennie appears like a vision of the Virgin in front of a dozen drunk Irishmen. Oh, you sweet summer child, says his tone.

Then he's eyeing Gunner. "That's the most glamorous service animal I've ever seen," he adds, bemused. His drink gets an accusing look. Is there something in there that shouldn't be? There's no Vic slinging booze tonight, but maybe someone else might've decided to dose him with something. People in this town do like to give him drugs, and without him asking, even. "You don't know me real well, if you assume that," he says to Cecil, but his tone's only gentle. "I can make an effort, though."

Cecil tells Joseph, "It's all I have, mate. A demanding job, two cats, and my dignity. " He pauses, then says, "And a Prius." He nods slowly. "I have a Prius." He looks distant for a moment as he takes stock, and whatever mental lists he's making, he's not sure where the Prius fits into it. Maybe the Prius is incompatible with dignity. He glances at his pint glass as if it might offer some answer. "If it makes you feel better, I never heard about you breaking up with anyone," he tells Roen. Then his smile spreads, and he tells Joe, "I have faith in you." He watches Bennie and Ravn curiously.

Bennie breezes out of the open door, flopping ungracefully into a deck chair by going over the arm of it, "Whoopsiedaisy." Her legs kick up, as she settles into the seat, leaving her knees crooked over the armrest. "I'm splendiferous. Thank you so very much for asking, my beloved Augustus. Ooop!" She puts a hand to her mouth, as she looks around quickly. "Okay, no Alexander. We're good." She wouldn't dare misuse a name in his presence afterall. "Yes, I'm good. Gunner, say thank you to Joe." The dog obediently gives a little woof and then turns around once at the legs of her chair and lays down in a mountain of furrball. "What's the word, hummingbirds. What are we talking about." Yes, she's inviting herself to the conversation. But what else is the point of owning a bar if you can't drink the wares and butt in on conversation?

"Nothing that can't be fixed with getting a cat," Ravn observes in passing, heading the other way with a wet towel and a bucket; there's a yachter over there who had three drinks more than he should have, and elbowed a lady who was carrying a toddler, who spilled a plate of onion rings on the floor, and now the kid at the next table over is happily stamping her little feet in it. Clean-up crew reporting in.

August cuts a sidelong, amused glance at Joe and murmurs, "Mmmm, wouldn't be so sure about that, you are still here, after all," to Cecil around a sip of beer. His expression turns more serious a moment later. "But, thank you." He seems entirely genuine in thanking Cecil for not thinking his wedding is off.

His focus returns to Bennie who is way, way...way, too drunk. "Now Ms. Oakes, what's all this. Are you celebrating something?"

"Fair enough," Joe says, quietly. A moment of stock taking for him, too. A different tally, no doubt. "There's some kinna.....conspiracy theory bullshit goin' 'round. Like I'm a Russian spy." The idea makes him snort. "I'll let you know when I mean to drop by, so the Doc can lock up her booze and arm herself," he adds, grinning. He leans over the arm of his chair to offer his knuckles to the furball for sniffing.

"Uh, dignity. Pets. Local crazy rumor," he says, swirling his drink in his glass, lazily, before taking a sip. He's in social drinking mode, rather than drinking to be drunk. Maybe the scars explain that inclination. He cocks a brow at August, in turn, but offers no comment.

"You're welcome," Cecil says to Roen warmly. "The way you look when you talk about her, I wouldn't believe those rumors for a moment." He takes another drink of his stout. "Just stopping in for a quick pint," he tells Bennie, "before I head back to work." To Ravn, he comments, "I can't become one of those lonely middle-aged men who has too many cats." He smiles suddenly and his shoulders shake with silent laughter. "I wouldn't dream of not warning her," he tells Joe.

"Just that the day ends in -y." Bennie chirps to August. Gunner lifts his head as Joe extends his fingers, stretching out the wrinkles in his neck as his nose works to pick up Joseph's scent and then his great big pink tongue lulls out to give him a friendly - if slobbery - lick of greeting. Bennie's hand lulls down to scritch at the dog's back, as she balances the bottle in her lap with the other. "You know, I can't help but be a lil' sad there isn't a rumor about me, yet. I mean. C'mon." And to that she toasts, or the toast is to Cecil as she raises her bottle, "Thank you for your patronage." A sip, a wrinkle of her nose. "Raaaaavn." Her head lulls back in a cascade of wild waves. "Where'd'e go?"

"Send the cats my way instead, then," suggests the Dane as he heads the other way with the now very dirty towel and water. "Adopted one already, I can fit a few more in even if it means turning the pier into a cat sanctuary." Looks like he's right there, doing exactly the things Bennie is in fact paying him to be doing. The pink rubber gloves are a charming touch to the otherwise all-black Steve Jobs look. So are the three locals at the next table over, drunkenly debating whether one of them could beat the Swedish chef hands down at vegan cooking. Odds are that he could, considering that the Swedish chef is neither Swedish nor a chef.

"What," August says to Joe, flabberghasted. "A Russian spy? Have they met you?" He holds up a hand. "I mean--no offense, just--" He gestures at Joe, frowns at Bennie sidelong. "Not so sure you should regret it. Some of these could do real damage. I've got people dropping off dead plants at my shop as 'fuck you' gifts." He has some beer, and goes on, "I'm not so sure they're even rumors, not with the Grizzly's name up and changing like that. Isabella left me a voicemail that she's researching something, so I hope she gets to the bottom of this."

The continued reassurances mollify August a bit; he really has been worked up about this. "I try. And I don't appreciate anyone trying to make her think--" He makes himself stop. Right, just walk it back. He clears his throat. "Anyways. We're getting married."

He watches Ravn pass by, adds, "I can get you some ducks, if you want--should go good with the boat."

Joe gives August a very sardonic look indeed, over the rim of his glass. "Yeah. 's about my thought. Also, no offense to Gray Harbor, but there ain't shit here to spy about, even if I were Boris Badinov, right? Like, ain't no one in Moscow worried about America's strategic seagull reserve." He shrugs, even as he leans over a little more to scratch under Gunner's chin.

"Wise," he says to Cecil, mock-solemnly. "Last thing I need is to get shot again. Tried it once, no fun at all," he says. A glance at August. "Yeah, man, you're not kiddin'. Someone decides that I need stringing up as a traitor? People got lynched for much less apparent reason."

Cecil raises his pint glass to Bennie and says, "Cheers. Thank you for having an establishment with beer that doesn't taste like swill. Though, compared to what they serve in Texas, the Pacific Northwest is paradise." He then tells Ravn, "We may need to become friends. I was just telling Joe I was going to will my cats to him in the unlikely event of my death, since I don't have that many friends here, but he doesn't seem too keen on the idea." He claps Joe on the shoulder. "Your secret's safe with me, comrade. If you're a Russian Spy, I'm MI6. " At least Cecil has the right accent for it.

"He's so hardworking." Bennie marvels for a moment at Ravn before her head dramatically swivels back to the conversation. "Boy are they going to be pissed when you just make them POOF, come alive again." Bennie giggles at the thought of August simply using his juju to make dead things bloom again, in the most docile of retribution ever. But then she sobers for a second, no doubt thinking about how difficult that must be to endure. Which leads her to other, darker thoughts and ...nope! She's perked back up again at the mention of marriage. "WOO! Wedding! Wait, Joe. If you're Boris, can I be Natasha? And our plans be spoiled by Moose and Squirrel?"

The other man with a British accent -- or at least something that tries hard to be one -- nods at Cecil. "Hello, my name is Ravn, resident clean-up crew and cat lover. I am in fact not a celebrity chef any more than Joe here is a Russian spy. I have no idea what's going on, but I've had to sign three different women's tits this evening alone and it's getting more than a bit tedious. Guess that's what passes for normal in Gray Harbor."

August gestures at Joe with his beer. "Exactly. I mean, sure, it's not likely, but what if someone decides to go all vigilante justice on you?" He rubs at his eyes, snorts a laugh at Cecil's comment about MI-6. "Careful. You never know what they'll start saying once they've decided Dante fathered six kids." He'd overheard that one in line at the grocery store earlier.

"Wedding," he assures Bennie. "On a farm in Oregon, where no one can ask me how I could break up with Eleanor. Parties are in Seattle. Save the date." He helpfully tacks on to Ravn's introduction, "And the only person in town who can actually pronounce my last name right." This is highly relevant to him, how lack of a letter in US English changed his name. But hey--now one person in town can say it. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Joe grins at Cecil. "Russian spy. I need to tell that story to some of the guys I worked with over there. Dima will choke on his tea." He shakes his head, trying again for amusement, rather than ire.

To Bennie, he says, "Sure, sugar. Sounds good to me. 'm sure you look divine in a slinky black dress." Ravn's comment has him squinting that way. "....'d you just complain about signing tits? I've done signings before 'n never once had a woman request that I sign those. If you're queer enough that that doesn't appeal, send 'em over here, it's been far too long."

He takes another swig of his drink, sighs. "Yeah. Fuck, just watch it happen. 's the kinna shit that happens here."

Cecil sits up a bit taller and offers his hand to Ravn to shake. "Cecil," he says. "I study bugs and dead people, am a budding cat-lover, and I'm not famous. I'm not even well-known." He doesn't seem to mind that one bit, all things considered. "In fact, there aren't any rumors about me because no one has any idea who I am." To Joe, he says, "I wasn't going to say it, but come to think of it, I haven't signed any. I'm not even sure how you would... I mean, it would have to be a Sharpie, wouldn't it?"

"'Røn' would be my guess?" Ravn looks at August. "If you've Scandinavian ancestry, anyhow. Means 'rowan'."

Joe's comment nets the writer a wry smile. "I have a thing about personal space," the Dane murmurs. "As in, I don't particularly enjoy having some woman -- or man, or anything in between, for that matter -- I've never seen before waltz right into it and declare that their arms should be draped around my neck and my hands up their shirt. I'll tell them you're my TV producer and they need to suck up to you if they want to be on the show that I happen to not actually have."

He returns Cecil's handshake with a hand gloved in a very sexy bright blue rubber glove that at least isn't damp. "Pleased to meet you. Until this afternoon I was an absolute nobody. Hope to be again soon."

"You miiiiiight have to remind me tomorrow." Bennie says about anything she should be saving right now, much less any dates or important things like where she parked the Jeep. But then again, tonight she doesn't need to know. At least having the presence of mind not to get behind the wheel. "Pffft. Personal space." This said down the neck of the bottle before she realizes. "I don't even like bourbon." Ah well, down the hatch.

August listens to Ravn's pronunciation, eyes narrowed, nods. "I think that's how Grandma Roen used to say it. My dad's family are Faroese and German by way of Sweden."

A coughed laugh for Joe's desire to take the overly-friendly patrons off Ravn's hands, then August confirms, "Sharpie,"for Cecil. "Not that I've had to sign any, just watched it being done by people much more rich than me." He flicks Ravn a small smile of 'I'm sure they also think you're rich'.

He sighs at Bennie. "Go easy on it then, hon, or you'll hate the hangover even more."

"Sharpie, yeah," Joe agrees, quietly. To Ravn, he says, simply, "Fair enough, I read ya. I don't like random strangers up in my business, either. I'm lucky enough that I mos'ly don't get recognized."

Joe gives Bennie a very rueful look. "I do. I'll take your share, next time," he tells her. But he's levering himself up out of the seat, knocking back the rest of his drink, and turning for the door. "I'mma head out. Y'all have a good evenin'." Even with the booze in him, he moves stiffly.

"Faroese's practically Danish except if you ask the Faroese and the Danish. Not complaining about the pay here but Bennie hasn't put me on the millionaire list," Ravn murmurs and disappears a moment to pick up a pile of used plates. He does manage a, "Take care!" to Joe in departure, at least.

Cecil tells Ravn with a smile, "I hope that you can join me in obscurity again soon. It's nice here. There are no women asking for body parts to be signed, but on the other hand, it's peaceful." He finishes his beer and says, "I should be heading back as well." He shakes his head. "There are just so many bodies in Gray Harbor. I'm not complaining. It keeps the bills paid, but if we, as a community, could cut back on the murder just a titch, I wouldn't mind it." He rises to his feet. "Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely evening."

"Good night boooooys!" Bennie bids them farewell with a little paddle of her feet. But August? August gets her tongue stuck out at him for telling her to take it easy. "I couldn't hate anything if I tried. So I will embrace my hangover with open arms, knowing I earned it, by golly." And then she's trying out Roen and Ravn side by side, "Rowen. Rowan. Roo-iiin. Ro.." But she just can't get her mouth to make the proper vowels.

August raises his pint glass to Joe and then Cecil as they depart. He grunts at the notion of less murder, and his mouth flattens. Oh yes, he'd like that quite a bit. He asides to Ravn, "I'm sure the British don't think we speak English either, so I won't blame the Danes or the Faroese for feeling that way."

He leans back in his chair and sighs, watching Bennie. His concern is evident, but so is his understanding of the need to mourn with a fifth of liquor. Hell, hadn't he sobbed hysterically on his bathroom floor the other day? Her pronunciation attempts do get a laugh from him, though. "Don't worry too much, I'm used to 'row-in'." He shrugs. "My mom's maiden name, that never gets said or spelled right. di Moise." 'Dee Moy-shuh', so perhaps it's not a surprise Americans don't spell it correctly.

"I'm impressed," Ravn murmurs to August, re-emerging from out back just in time to catch Bennie's attempts at wrangling Scandinavian pronounciations with a very drunk American tongue. "Somehow, our two very different names became one. Let's both legally change our names to Rowanbird. Abildgaard is practically unpronounceable to the English as well -- the aa sound that isn't an aa sound throws them every time."

He doesn't try di Moise. Whatever that is, it's not Scandinavian.

"I dunno. It's all very exotic to a girl who was named after an Elton John song. Though you know for a while, I did have Easton convinced it was because my dad lost a bet and he had to name me after a guy from a pool hall." Bennie seems particularly proud of that, and look, she doesn't even frown when she mentions his name now. Progress! Even if she is drinking his favorite drink, sitting with his dog, on the deck of his business.

"Rowanbird." August tries the name out. "Not sure Ellie will like it. Maybe just Rowan?" He listens to Ravn pronounce his surname, trying to imagine where the two a's fit in. He gives up with a shrug, grins at Bennie. "That's a perfectly exotic name, being named after a song. I was gonna ask you if it was special, and there you go--it is. Benny's probably from Benjamin, which is a regal name and suits you nicely."

She doesn't flinch to say Easton's name, and August smiles at her, briefly sad and tired. She's a hundred times more resilient than he is in the face of this. He'd have hopped into the Veil and never come back out, in her shoes.

Ravn has far from managed to pick up on all the bloody history of Grey Harbor but he has identified a few obvious pitfalls; talking to his co-workers, for instance, brought about the knowledge that the Two if By Sea is owned by Bennie's fiance -- who disappeared into the Veil. The Dane is still not entirely certain what that means exactly but he's got enough situational awareness to pick up on the looks and the sad smiles. Looks and sad smiles are definitely something you see a lot in this town.

Instead, he nods. "In Danish, I'd have guessed from Benedikte -- from Latin, benedictus, blessed. Bennies are almost always Benediktes."

"Regally blessed. I like that." Bennie smiles serenely and must decide that's a good note to carry her into the abyss of blacking out drunk on the couch in the back office. She shifts and Gunner must anticipate that she's getting to her feet, because he after a bit of a stretch and shake he's standing with a wag of his tail. "I'm going to go raid the maraschino cherries." Declared, but unlikely to follow through. She bends and sweeps her hair aside to kiss the top of August's head. "Love you friend." Then, "Love you, employee."

"Mmmm, Benedikte or Bejanmina," August murmurs. He toys the two options over, shrugs. He raises his glass to Bennie in approval of her combination of the two, smiles at the kiss and reaches up to give Bennie's arm a gentle squeeze. "Take care, hon. Let me know if you need help with the hangover." He grants Gunner a pat on the head as well. "Take care of her, big guy."

Ravn throws a crooked smile at Bennie's lingering after-image and murmurs, "I swear, I've never met a ray of sunshine like that woman before. She lights up a room just by being in it. World could do with more people like that." His admiration sounds genuine, in the fashion of someone who's seen a lot of unhappy and generally miserable people go about their lives making sure to inflict their misery on everyone else too.

August mmms in agreement, watching her go. "She does. And, it could." He looks sidelong at Ravn, tilts his head. He's eyeing the gloves. "So. Do you have the," he rubs his fingers together, "reading gift? Is that why the gloves?"

Ravn decides to linger a moment at the table; things are quietening down a little anyhow and at least for the moment, no one is throwing fries on the floor or demanding their shirts -- or worse -- be signed. He shakes his head and glances at the cheerfully bright blue gloves. "I've got an acute sense of touch. I'm really uncomfortable touching most things or people without some kind of protection. But from what people around here explain to me, my thing is moving things. Used to do a bit of stage magic at bus stations, that sort of thing -- you know, the three cups and the nut game? Pretty good at that. The -- thing you do, reading people and looking into their heads, I've never pulled anything like that."

August ahs softly, nods. "Got it." He blinks, looks around them. "Wow, that must make a job like this kind of brutal." Another glance at the gloves, a slight shrug of his right arm. "Well, not like I didn't have to work in gloves most of the time in the lab, so. And, movement would make all kinds of magic a ton easier, I bet."

He shifts in his chair, settling himself so there's no pressure on his left shoulder. "I can't really...well. I don't look into their heads, so much as, share space with them. Unless you mean the other thing, the," this time the gesture is for himself, "seeing what someone's made of bit. That's different, though. That's shaping."

"The nut may have not been in the right cup a few times because it was in my pocket," Ravn confirms. "Still, no one plays that game and expect to win -- they play it to see if they can spot how the guy does it and they don't mind losing a few bucks to get to see if they're fast enough, so I don't feel very bad about cheating."

He nods at the gesture. "Like you did to me when we were in the water, yes. The thorough stare. Aidan did the same thing the first time I met him. Said it was a healer kind of thing -- finding out who people are, and what they can do, and obviously, what their injuries are. It makes sense. Creeped me out at first a little because it's so intense, but it makes sense when you know what it is. I've never done anything like it. Compared to the things people around here do, I am honestly a complete amateur." The Dane doesn't sound particularly bothered by the admission, though. Somebody's got to be the amateur.

"Mmmm, yeah. It's--well. It's easier to not think of it as healing, since it's not just that." August sits up, looks around for something to use in a simple demonstration. Then he pauses, because he was just hammered within an inch of his life, no doubt for preparing Itzhak for a very uncomfortable conversation with Joey. He sighs, opts not to for the moment.

"With the moving, it feels like we manipulate not just things, but...space. Distance. We define 'here' and 'there'." He raises his eyebrows briefly, continues. "And with reading, we're feeling emotion, and sharing thoughts, making electricity, even. Manipulating it, channeling it, using it to fool people's senses. And shaping," he gives in, holds up a hand, and a small teardrop of fire, lightly lavender tinted, forms there in his palm, "some people call it mending or healing--it's molecules and their energy. We can speed them up, or slow them down. Break them apart, put them back together." He closes his hand and the fire vanishes.

"I bet you can do more than you realize. But that's not even important. What's important is," he has a drink of beer, "if you stay, you'll do more. Get stronger. And you'll keep staying. So that's an important thing to ask yourself: is that what you want?"

Ravn seems to decide that this is in fact important enough a discussion that he pulls out a chair and sits on it in spite of technically being on the clock. Although, in fairness, employee discipline at the Twofer is often -- not so much lax as alternative. Vic comes and goes as she pleases, and even if she actually only did so for a short time, somehow has garnered a reputation of playing drinks roulette; order whatever you like, what you get is what she thinks you deserve. It's not likely anyone is going to blow their lids about the bar-back taking five.

"What I want," he says softly, "is to be here. This place feels like home. Much more than my actual home ever did. All of this, the magic, the powers, the sparkle -- it's fascinating and interesting, but on the bottom line, it's this feeling that I've found my tribe that makes me want to stay. I'm sure Grey Harbor has its amount of assholes, bigots, and awful people, too. I just haven't met them. What I have met, on the other hand, is a community that looks out for itself, a community where everyone seems to think it's at least partially their responsibility to look out for the new guy. There's no other place in the world that works like that, Mr Røn. Nowhere I've been that a stranger blowing in matters that much."

August is, it must be said, right up there in alternative employee discipline land. He can afford to be; he has modest book royalties and trees fall over plenty in this area. He also spent a decade hiding in a corner of Olympic National Park, so he can relate to any employee who'd really rather just not for a little while, and is more than happy to empower them. (Anyways they both know Bennie wouldn't care even if she wasn't three sheets to.)

He listens to Ravn say all of that with a mild curiosity, the sort ones adopts when trying to decide if someone is hopelessly naive or really on to something. He smiles before he speaks, so it's probably the later more than the former. "Oh we've got plenty of ugly sorts. Don't worry, they'll find you, if for no other reason than They'll send that kind of thing your way. But the rest?" He nods in agreement, toys with one corner of his shirt. "The Song--the Art, Glimmer--is beautiful, and powerful, and awful, and terrifying. We can't hope to survive something like it without one another. But," he sits up some, "Alexander is going to love arguing with you about that last part." He's grinning even as he says it, so he might be joking. A little. (It's Alexander, so maybe not.) "And I am glad you feel that way, because it means we're doing something right."

"Is it Alexander or Mr Clayton? I struggle to tell when I'm supposed to use first or last names, I admit. We only use last names in Danish if we're being exceedingly formal or over eighty." Ravn nods and rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward a little. "Anyhow, it's possible he thinks I'm an idiot for not skipping town first chance I got, but he still gave me a few pep talks about how things work. He seems decent enough. A bit twitchy but if I'm understanding things right he's spent most of his life investigating this -- situation. From the sheer amount of injuries I've seen people turn up with here over the last week, and the things I've seen happening to me personally in the same time interval -- I'm not going to blame anyone who's been here for a long time for being twitchy. I'm surprised they're even coherent."

August's brows bob up a moment at this revelation in name usage culture as it relates to Denmark. "Huh. Well, here, it's that..." He pauses, clearly trying to suss out something complex. He blinks, has some beer. "Well, there's a couple of things. Anyone who's been in the military is likely to use last names unless they're expressing some kind of closer friendship. That's just how the military culture is, and a lot of Americans wind up serving. Beyond that, there's a feeling here that using a first name's a little more, friendly. Intimate. There needs to be an implied allowance to do that. Even if that's just," he nods his head inside at the bar, where two young men are shaking hands, their expressions open and curious, "meeting someone and introducing yourself. You're telling them what to call you, so it's okay. Alexander, he prefers people use his whole," August's expression makes this a warning, "first name. Me, I'm fine either way. I was only in for three years and my family's altered what the call me over time. So, August, Roen, either of those is okay."

And now that he's pontificated on that, he says, "Yeah, it adds up. What They do to you. So anyone who was born and raised here, they've had it pretty rough. Though, honestly the physical injuries aren't so bad as the," he taps his temple, "other shit they get into."

"I'm leaning towards playing it safe and using last names until people tell me it's okay to do otherwise," Ravn agrees. "And, I sort of figured it might be like that. The... reality shift here is amazing. Take this week. I've never seen anyone get shot before -- suddenly, that scene at the church. I should be all shaken up about that, but the instant I leave the building, I'm running through the woods with the Headless Horseman coming after me. I get out of that and prepare to have a nice little quiet breakdown but what do you know, I'm a fish. Right then -- time to go watch a sand castle contest, do something normal, and of course there's a dead body in the sand. By all logic I should be in a padded room by now, with all of this happening in one week. I can only begin to imagine what it's like, living here for a lifetime."

The Dane doesn't seem all that prone to breaking down into tears any moment, at least. He sounds fairly relaxed about it all, much like somebody talking about how annoying the subway can be, or how the local grocer's cabbages always have wilted leaves.

For all that he was one of the two people wounded at the church attack, it's August who gives Ravn a sympathetic look at that being his first introduction to guns in America. Not a gun show, or someone chatting with him amiably--no, a straight up shooting and stabbing. Yeehaw, indeed. And August would ask about the Headless Horseman, because it's not even October yet, except that turns out to only be the second thing in a set of four (and is the only one of them not connected to August himself).

He laughs, a little helplessly. "Yeah, a couple decades like that and a person probably does gain a, ah," he makes a face, "different outlook on life." He studies Ravn a moment, during which his phone chimes with the nigh-ubiquitous sound of a text. "You're holding up okay so far. But listen, if you ever feel like you're not? Don't hesitate to talk to someone. This place," he glances around, giving the impression he's looking not at the Twofer but their broader environs, "it's not something to weather in silence." He eyes the text, swipes back a response. "That, would be my wonderful fiance, whom I am definitely still marrying, saying she is ready to head home." He gets up, wincing as those odd bruises pull and twinge, and finishes off his beer. "Ravn...Abildgaard," he only mangles it a little, "it's good to finally meet you. Don't be a stranger. And take care of yourself. I own the garden shop on the edge of town if you need to find me." With that, he's off, moving carefully and slowly on his way out the door.