2020-08-17 - B is for Boat and Beer

There are two rules on the Vagabond that captain and guests alike must observe. They are,

1. There will always be a sixpack of cold beer somewhere.

and

2. The cat is always right.

Ravn instituted one. A skinny black cat instituted the other. He named it out of an urge to make a really bad comic book pun, but also because Kitty Pryde is a proud cat. A feral cat. A real cat as Terry Pratchett would have said, had he but still been alive to say it. Ravn has yet to manage to touch her -- but she's happy to eat his sandwiches and claim the other bunk below. It seems to be working out.

The afternoon is pleasant in that late summer way where you want to just lounge somewhere with a cold beer and listen to the surf and the seagulls. This is exactly what Ravn is doing because it's certainly been a busy few days. There's a book in his lap, a beer can in one hand, and the black cat lies curled up into a small watchful ball of contentedness near the prow. Life is, in fact, not so bad at all.

There were times Lyric just disappeared for no reason. The past few days had been just the case. Suddenly though, she does make a reappearance and she looks as she always does. This time in jean shorts though and they are paired with a tank top that's black with the words Five Finger Death Punch on the front. Beneath, it appears she's wearing a swimsuit of some sort, if the ties are any indication. Her feet are bare and she's got a canvas type bag she's toting along. It's obvious she's looking for a particular boat and she seems to find it as she looks over the name. "Ravnnn!" Calling out to him in a sort of singsong voice before she approaches. "I hope there's not tentacles on the other side, here." Wearing a cheerful grin, she gets nearer, not even noticing the cat in her glee if finding him.

"Hey there! Come onboard. She's hardly a cruise ship but there's definitely room for a few more people. I wondered where you'd run off to." Ravn raises one hand to pull at a bit of rope that hangs over the railing. A small box is pulled up; it contains several cans of beers and a few smaller boxes. It would appear that the absence of a proper fridge is something that can be solved with a bit of creativity; the ocean is never boiling this far north, this close to the Chehalis river and its glacial waters. "Want one? I've got soda as well if that's more you."

At the prow, the cat sits up lazily and stretches aaaaallllll the way from the back to the front, before looking Lyric up and down.

With the invitation, Lyric does climb aboard and it's about then she notices the cat looking her over. With a studying look, she returns the inquisitive gesture right back. "What's your cats name?" Asking Ravn instead of asking the cat. It was an iffy moment, could have gone either way. The question from him has her glancing more his way then and she bobs her head. "I'll take a beer, thanks!" Walking on over with another look towards the cat, this one bordering more on wary. "Where'd ya get him?" There's no explanation offered for her absence.

"Well, she hasn't told me so I call her Kitty Pryde," Ravn grins and tosses a Heineken Lyric's way. He seems to still not quite have gotten the hang of which local beers are worth buying and playing it safe with a European brand he knows well enough. "She walked on board yesterday, ate my lunch and declared the boat hers. I mean, who am I to argue? Quick question before you settle though: Am I Danish or Swedish? Not a trick question. I'll tell you why I ask."

Lyric catches the beer! Yay! But it's a little shook up now so she doesn't open it right away. Probably not for that reason. It's more to study the cat with that same wary expression. "An' you let him stay?" She meanders over and squats down but makes no move to touch the cat. "Are you a veil cat?" Just sayin'. "You better not hurt him. I'll end you." With that said, she smiles at the cat. "Nice to meetcha, otherwise." Standing, she ponders the name now. "Kitty Pride?" The reference completely lost on her. It's good that he distracts her from the cat, probably. "Aren't Swedish from Sweden? And Danish from.. where you're from? Maybe Denmark? I guess Danish?"

"Oh thank god," Ravn murmurs. "I'm pretty sure she's just... a regular, feral cat. And I'm very relieved to hear you say I'm Danish. There's something absolutely whacky going on in town, Lyric. People all over town keep telling me I'm actually a Swedish celebrity chef -- think Gordon Ramsay but with an accent. Bennie asked me to stop bringing my paparazzi to work for frick's sake -- and there's another writer, people think he's literally a Russian spy. Because Grey Harbor is... the obvious place for a Russian spy, you know? I'm not sure what's going on there but I have signed several women's tits with sharpie pens and I'm mildly bothered by the fact that one of them said she was going to find a tattoo shop right away."

"Course you're Danish." Apparently she'd not heard the one about the chef, not a rumor of course, but the altered history. The cat is all but forgotten though as she ponders him and his accent. Though now he's talking about the spies and she bobs her head. "I knew they were here. But even if Itzhak is a spy it's okay he plays the violin good so he can still be in the band." Eyes widen at the mention of signing booooobs and she giggles and giggles. "Did you sign your real name on 'em? Cause that's kinda funny." Certainly the cat is about forgotten except a glance over towards it. "Did you break people while I was away?"

"Mrow," replies Kitty Pryde and stares at Lyric with ineffable felinity.

Ravn nods firmly and then backs up. "Wait, what? Itzhak? I talked to him yesterday. If he's Russian I'm a goat. I went to see him at the garage, had a long talk about --"

The Dane glances at Lyric. "Goodness, things move fast here. Yes. A long talk about the dead man Itzhak found in his sand figure in that sand castle competition. Headless, decomposing body full of Sumerian glyphs. Put a bit of a dampener on the festivities, that."

Lyric has to laugh again, "THat sounds crazy though, but maybe he's just trying to hide that he's a spy." With a squint to Ravn, she grins. "You don't gotta be Russian to be a Russian spy do you?" Sitting down cross legged on the deck she opens the beer and starts drinking it, another look to the cat, this one less wary, but she doesn't try and touch it. "There's been lots happening huh? Lots and lots. What else is there? You're famous and sign boobs. That's funny."

"I got to admit I'm not quite as excited about it," Ravn murmurs. "I kind of like my personal space without random teenagers and cooking show fans in it. Or people who want to ask me about the best way to bast a ham or pickle a herring. Anyone who's ever actually encountered Swedish pickled herring can tell you that they're registered as chemical weapons of mass destruction under the Geneva Convention."

He sips his beer and thinks back. "Well, I visited Itzhak, like I said. Love his snake -- she's gorgeous. And I've been doing some research on that dead body in the sand -- trying to put some of my university contacts back home to use a little. Apart from that -- I bought a laptop and promptly met three or four professional writers at the Espresso Yourself, and now Write Club is absolutely a thing and you can probably guess what the first rule is -- except not really, it's just hard to resist the bad jokes. Amusingly, everyone in it seems to be European. I think we're pretty much only missing Taylor."

"Fangirls." Lyric can't help but be amused by it all. "I guess I never had pickled herring. Maybe you could make some for me sometime." Not even realizing what she was saying, exactly. She tilts her head as she muses, "I can kinda cook but not that. I can make a few things, I went to a cooking class once." Shaking off the food stuff, she takes a drink of the beer, "I didn't know Itzhak had a snake. Or that there was a write club or anything. It's good you're makin' lots of friends, there's really a lot of fun people here in this town. Helpful people."

"You realise it's raw, fermented herring where the can may literally explode if you don't handle it carefully?" Ravn makes a face and looks at a seagull circling overhead. "I'm definitely not a chef. I can cook... you know. Basic things. Fry you an egg, make you a sandwich, boil pasta. Sounds like you know more about it than I do."

"Mrr," says Kitty Pryde and goes back to sleep. Food was apparently not happening. She is on the skinny side.

"People here are exceedingly friendly," he says in a more serious and quite appreciative tone. "Everyone seems to know everyone. Every looks out for everyone. I'm sure that Grey Harbor has its amount of bigots and unpleasant people and what have you -- but so far, I haven't met any of them. Everyone has been very friendly or, at the very worst, indifferent. I ended up playing with Itzhak -- nothing much, just a bit of practise. He really is very good and very passionate."

"Explode?" Lyric just keeps giggling about most things that he keeps saying, things that are so off the wall and out of the norm, even for Gray Harbor. "I don't know a lot, it was just one class to make chicken parmesan." The beer is sipped and as the cat goes back to sleep she idly asks, "Why Kitty Pride?" As far as names go, it's not one she's familiar with. Sitting up a little she tilts her head slightly, "You played together? The Devil Went Down to Georgia? Did anyone record it? I'd like to see you both play together, but I never even saw you play. Not yet."

Vic is still achy, and cranky (although the latter seems to he her natural state), but thanks to Itzhak having supercharged her healing the night she was shot, the doctors have been amazed to clear her to do most things just a mere two weeks or so after major surgery. Sadly, most things does not include smoking or working out in the gym, but she can drive, and she can walk, which are her current outlets for the constant anger that seems to haunt her. Thus the Amazonian blonde, fully blonde now, having forgone bothering to put the dark wash in her hair since the attack, is walking along the docks.

She's wearing black running shorts that fall to mid-thigh, high end Asics, and an old, faded, black tee sporting the logo for Def Leppard's Pyromania album. On one arm is a nicotine patch, which is the only thing keeping her from slaughtering the general population of Gray Harbor in a massive nicotine fit. Her hair is back in a loose ponytail, and sweat beads on her forehead. She's clearly been walking for a while.

"Just a bit of classical," Ravn murmurs, absolutely not lying whatsoever -- just leaving out the part where it was highly advanced classical music, a fact which is entirely irrelevant, no one cares, nothing to see here, go away now.

And then Vic appears, like a saviour from a clear blue sky, sparing the Dane from having to admit that no one was indeed recording or otherwise comment further. Hallelujah! She gets a wave from the deck of the Vagabond -- a small but definitely sea worthy sail boat of older make upon the deck of which lounge Ravn, Lyric and a black cat. The latter is pointedly ignoring everything since no one is made of tuna. "Hello, Vic! How's the everything?"

"Classical is good too. He plays lots of different kinds." Lyric doesn't seem to mind him not divulging further information, but she does allow herself to get distracted by the sight of Vic. She waves cheerfully, "I hope you're feeling better?" Watchful eyes look over the frame of the woman who had gotten shot at the church and probably saved a lot of people in the process. Her beer is held, rapidly warming in the warm day.

Vic glances up at her name and spots the waving bar-back. Her first reaction is a grumpy frown, but it eases when her brain catches up from whatever she'd been thinking and recognizes Ravn and Lyric. Her voice is still working on getting back to full volume, it seems, because she skulks up to the moored boat before she replies. "Better than it was, not where it should be." That about says it all, doesn't it?

She gives the sailboat a scrutinizing look before her eyes return to the Dane's. "This is what you're living on?" asks the woman who lives in a literal trailer in a trailer park. She wrinkles her nose like she's not sure it will stay afloat if she adds her own weight to it.

"She crossed the Atlantic from Finland, she's not going to sink now. And I did manage to get the smell of pot out of the cushions below deck," Ravn replies with a grin and reaches for the rope again, hauling the box of beers up from the water and taking one out for Vic. The cat continues to sleep; people are not important unless they carry sandwiches, that much is obvious.

Then the Dane glances at Vic. "So, trick question time, Vic. What's my nationality?"

"I'm glad you're getting better." Lyric offers over and at the hesitation on joining, she grins her encouragement, a bob of her head to reinforce the words of the Dane. "Ravn thinks it was a floating playground for a guy and all his women." At the question he asks of Vic, Lyric looks at her expectantly, since the question had been asked of her also. She definitely was curious of the response, if her demeanor was anything to go by.

"When did she make the crossing? With the goddamned Vikings? She looks old enough for that." Hey they stopped making that model of sailboat in 1978, it's older than Vic is. The cat gets a narrow-eyed glance for a moment before the beer lures the bartender in. She finally steps onto the boat and accepts the beverage. Ravn's question has her looking confused, but as she lives mostly in isolation, and even more so in the last two weeks because of her injury, she hasn't heard the latest weird rumor shit from around town. "You're Danish. From Denmark," she notes.

Lyric's words get a snort which makes Vic wince. "I'm not sure it could hold that many women. It's barely bigger than my trailer." She nods to the young woman. "I'll be back at work tonight at least." She seems almost happy about that. Clearly no one told her it's karaoke night.

"Oh thank god," Ravn murmurs, exactly what he replied when Lyric called him Danish, too. "Most of this town is convinced I'm a Swedish celebrity chef. They ask me for autographs and recipes. Bennie asked me to not bring my paparazzi to work, for chrissakes. And I'm not even the one with the strangest story. Apparently Itzhak Rosencrantz is now a Russian spy."

Though technically it's not rumors. It just is. As if it's always been. But Lyric is in the same boat (haha more than literally) as Vic is. "Yeah he's Danish but people think he's a chef and he had to sign boobs and stuff. It's really kinda funny." Solemnly, Lyric nods, "He's a spy but it's okay, his heart is in the right place. He's a good guy. Though I wonder if we should all have a go fund me for Sparrow. We can start her one. Her band broke up and there she is with all those kids," she laments. "The money would help her I bet."

Vic blinks at Ravn's explanation a few times. Then she opens the beer and downs about half of it in one go. "This fucking town," she mutters after, wiping her forearm across her mouth. Such a lady. BELCH Such. A. Lady.

A pair of summer yachters walk by, an older couple, and begin to talk excitedly to one another, pointing towards Vic on the boat. Snippets of conversation can be heard drifting on the air.

"...should she be hanging ... celebrity like that? ....someone takes a photo and posts..."

".. serial killer ex saw it and came here... set up shop.... maybe already here. Chief Thatchery...."

Vic's head snaps around to glare at the couple, and they balk and hurry on their way. "What the ever-loving fuck is going on. That's the third time on this walk people have been whispering about me." She blinks at Lyric. "Who the fuck is Sparrow?"

"It's not funny," Ravn murmurs plaintively and even the cat looks at him as if to say 'suck it up, already'.

He's about to ask a question not dissimilar to Vic's, although probably more politely worded, when he too grows aware of the tourists. Sinking deeper into his chair he murmurs, "Congratulations, it's happening to you too. In a moment someone's going to turn up with a camera. I refuse to sign more tits and I am out of sharpies anyway."

"Cory's sister." Lyric says simply as if that is explanation enough. Course Lyric has lived here all her life and knows or knows of most everyone. Hearing the whispers and part of the snippets of conversation, she looks between Vic and Ravn before asking suspiciously, "Are you a Swedish Chef? I mean, everyone thinks you are." He could have been lying after all about being Danish! Though she does hear Ravn, she contemplates her phone all of three seconds, "I can take your picture but you can't see my boobs." THe suspicious look is still cast towards Vic. "What do they mean though? Why can't you be hangin' with the celebrity?" Oh great, now she's doing it.

Vic scrubs a thumb across her forehead, eyes closed, several times, like a miserable headache has begun. "Maybe we should cast off and sail down to Acapulco," she suggests with a tired sigh. "It can't be any weirder there, right?" She looks for a place to sit, and settles in, pressing the beer can to her brow to cool herself off.

Clearly Vic has no idea who Corey is either, from the look on her face. That turns into an eyeroll at the question. "If I knew what they were whispering about, I'd correct them, believe me."

"...That does it." Ravn gets out of his chair and disappears under deck. He emerges a moment later, waving a bright crimson EU passport. "Look here? Danish? Says so right here."

It does, too, at least when you look directly at it. Maybe not if you don't. "Look," the man says in frustration. "I'm Danish. I have never been Swedish. I'm pretty sure I don't even have Swedish ancestry, and I'm literally from a family that traces its family tree back to the early 1200s. I really don't want to see anyone's boobs -- I promise that if for some reason I change my mind about that, I'll ask, all right? I'm not gay, I just -- you know, consent is a thing? Yes." Slight undertone of exasperation there; it's entirely possible that more than one fan girl has crawled on the man's lap uninvited within the last 24 hours. "Acapulco does sound kind of good by now."

While Vic doesn't know the rumors and Ravn goes about proving his ancestry with the passport, Lyric does pull out her phone and tap out a few things on it. It's not something she usually does, pretty much never, using her phone while others are present and talking to her. She is brief and then puts it away before looking back between the two. "We can go away. I've never been there." Away, that is. "But I have to get my obsidian and my tiara first. And all my savings." Because apparently, she'd go!

Vic watches Ravn's antics with a little bit of amusement creeping into her expression. "Well that's a first. A straight guy who doesn't want to see boobs, regardless of the reason." She sighs though. "If only, if I didn't have obligations here, I'd steal the boat at this point and sail myself." What obligations? Slinging drinks at Bennie's place?

Ravn tucks the passport into a blazer pocket. "Get back to me on the boobs thing some quiet night with the sun setting over the ocean, a bit of mood music and, you know, wining and dining me first, and we can definitely talk about it. I've had five or six different women more or less force me to autograph their boobs so they can have my name tattooed, though, and the only funny thing about it is that at some point they're going to be asking themselves just what the hell they were drinking that day." He sits back down with a slightly sulky expression and sips his beer. Pout.

"Yeah he doesn't even go see boobs at the strip club." Sagenod. Lyric does grin at Vic though, "If you go I'll go, just cause. I have to come back sometime though. Maybe just a sail then. One not so far away. I don't know where Alcapulco is, cause my geography teacher wasn't that amazing. But I know it's somewhere.. south." Because where they are, everything is south! The pout from Ravn was sort of endearing and she smiles whimsically. "I can cook if you want her to wine and dine you. Then I can play the music for ya both too," she teases.

Vic snorts at that. "And wondering how drunk their tattooist was for spelling Raven wrong, because clearly they meant the bird." At Lyric's mention of not knowing where Acapulco is, she helpfully provides, "Southwestern Mexico coast. Way south." The rest has her looking towards the heavens for help. "I'm not really the dating type, kids." Because dating requires more effort than she has time for, considering her real job.

Ravn opens his mouth to say something or other along the lines of how do you like it if guys grope your butt in passing in defence of his fragile male ego, then decides against and shuts it instead. Maybe he realises that Vic's answer, at least, would likely involve promises of very precise violence.

And then opens it again. "The reason I'm wary of just wandering into that strip club is because we don't have them in Denmark, and I have no idea what to expect except it probably isn't the meth-soaked brothel with music Hollywood pushes in movies? That said, I will be heading out there soon because I've got reason to believe that the dead bloke Itzhak uncovered was a regular, and I want to know more about a guy who ends up part of a sand castle."

"I'm a regular there too, but it's just cause I work there, that's all. I hope you like the music when you do go, Ravn." Lyric does look curious though as to who it could be who was a regular and isn't anymore. She sips at her beer, wondering at the seeming frivolity of the moment despite it being so serious and she smiles again, this time ruefully. "I guess I don't really date either. No boyfriends or anything. Definitely no girlfriends too." Just sort of detatched from that sort of thing. "Mexico, I guess I'd need a passport then." Something to think about.

Vic's reasons not to date go a bit deeper than most. The fact her real job is liable to get any lovers killed at some point is high on the list, but having self-consciious issues with her scars is bigger. She narrows her eyes at the mention of the dead guy. "Clearly I missed some things while I was laid up. What's this about people in sandcastles?"

Ravn mentally kicks himself for the spark of relief that Vic's question saves him from detailing his own position on romance, or lack of it. "There was a sand castle competition on the beach. All fun and games until Itzhak Rosencrantz found a decomposing headless corpse inside his sand snake figure. Things went a little downhill from there. I was thinking I'd go check out some of the places he had loyalty cards to in his wallet -- the Cabaret being one of those places, so I will visit." The Dane rather casually neglects to say anything about how he'd know the first thing about what a dead man had in his wallet.

"Everyone always finds bodies. I wonder how long he was dead." Lyric doesn't really seem alarmed at the fact there was a dead guy in a sand castle. Or sand sculpture. "If you're looking to find out who he is, are you helping the cops do it? Or are the cops helping out too?" She finishes off her beer and stands up. "I gotta go now. Thanks for the beer. I have some things to do."

Vic eyes Ravn about the wallet bit. Don't think she missed that, buddy, you'll likely be having a quiet discussion at work about it. Really though, if he has no issue rifling through the pockets of a corpse, he might actually be useful to the Monaghan organization. Does she want to drag the Dane into criminal activity though? Maybe not so soon into his being trapped here with the rest of the inmates on Crazy Bay.

Vic tips her beer can towards Lyric. "Take it easy. Don't believe anything you hear about me."

"Anytime, Lyric. Don't be a stranger, all right?" Ravn nods amicably to the white-haired woman. "I promise, the cat is just a cat. A very angry cat, but just a cat."

Vic watches the white-haired woman go and sighs. "Isn't Austin, Texas' motto Keep Austin Weird? Is Gray Harbor bordering on copyright infringement with all this crazy shit?" she ponders aloud, between sips of beer. When the DJ is gone, she fixes the Dane with a more serious look. "You rifled through a dead guy's pants for his wallet?" she asks, with a faint smirk.

"... Well, somebody had to," Ravn murmurs and gives a circling seagull overhead a look of complete innocence. "The park ranger in charge of it all -- kind of turned his back, pointedly took a while in calling the police, letting us shiny people get a good look. I did hand the wallet in when I was done photographing everything inside it. I'm not really sure why I did it to be honest -- my fingers get ideas sometimes, and they're usually right."

Down the dock is a boat only a bit bigger than the Vagabond - a Catalina 36 MK II, white with her name lettered in blue on her bows: Surprise. A decade or two younger than the Dane's boat, but far from new. She's trim and well-kept.....and at her masthead flutters a black flag. A variation on one of the old Jolly Rogers - a standing skeleton. But instead of holding an hourglass in one hand and a blade in the other, one hand holds a coffee mug and the other an assault rifle.

The hatch opens, and a rather dozy-looking Joe emerges, coming out into the light, scratching at his scalp. No glasses, for once. The sailor's in jeans and t-shirt, and stands gazing around thoughtfully.

"Can I see the photos?" Vic asks, her expression going shrew now. If this guy patronized any more of Felix's holdings, maybe it was a message from Reyes. She then glances over the boat. If what Ravn says is true, and he isn't adverse to a little bit of lawbreaking, he might be able to move product or money for the org on his little boat.

Her glance heads Joe's way, and she squints, making sure she's seeing who she thinks she's seeing. Then she actually turns a bit red in the face and downs the rest of her beer in one gulp, gesturing at Ravn for another.

Ravn pulls his improvised beer cooler up and lets Vic help herself. Then he dips into a blazer pocket for his phone and taps up the folder of photographs of a very bloated, very decapacitated park ranger who's clearly been in the water way too long before he was in the sand way too long, and incidentally is covered in slash marks that bear an odd resemblance to some sort of strange glyphs or writing you'd expect to see in a roleplaying game organised by someone who'd overdosed repeatedly on Lovecraft.

"Look away," he murmurs and waves to Joseph whom he recognises from the day previous -- the Russian spy whom he has been directing people to all day, every single person asking to audition for Twofer Swedish Chef Celebrity Cook-Out getting referenced to Mr Cavanaugh, yes, he's the showrunner.

Poor Vic. She's been spotted....and she gets a bit of a squint in return, and then a grin. Joe hops up on dock neatly - he's clearly used to life aboard - and comes ambling down to the Vagabond. "Well, hey, y'all," he drawls, grinning. "Vic, long time no see. Heard you stopped a couple. You doin' all right?" He, in turn, has scars on his face that weren't there last she saw him - lip and brow. But he seems healthy enough, and his movement is easy.

Ravn gets that smile, too. "Hey there. That's your boat, huh? She's real cute."

Vic grabs another beer and cracks it open for another quick swig before she focuses her eyes on the photos, flipping through them with a frown. She doesn't look grossed out at all, but as Ravn is aware, she used to be a cop, so that's not surprising. "Forward these to me? I can ask a couple people I know if any of those markings look familiar to them."

Then Joe is ambling over and she can't quite meet his eyes. Stupid drunk texting with Javier. "Cavanaugh," she mutters, eyes sweeping quickly to take in the fresh scars on him. "Just one, but it was point blank. Just got cleared to go back to work tonight."

"Mine insofar I'm renting her," Ravn agrees. "Figured that I had the choice between a familiar type of boat and a place that everyone refers to as the murder motel..."

The black cat napping at the prow raises its head and gives him a yellow-green look. Clearly, this is her boat now.

"Sure thing," Ravn says and taps away at his cell for a few moments. He doesn't seem all that surprised -- this is Grey Harbor, everyone who has that shine, song, aura, whatever you call it, want to know everything. Given the speed with which lack of knowing everything can turn lethal here he doesn't blame them -- just hopes that in troubled times to come, somebody will return the favour and keep him in the loop too.

"Right on," Joe says, amiably. Then he jerks a thumb at the little boat behind him. "That's mine. Had her for 'bout two years, sailed her here from Savannah." That'd explain the accent.

Vic's reaction makes his smile dim a few watts. "Oh, c'mon, sugar, don't gimme that look. Don't tell me you bought into this crap where I'm a Russian spy?" He sounds more grieved than angry this time. "I'm glad to hear you're doin' better." He doesn't ask how she's out of the hospital so fast. Plenty of healers in Gray Harbor. He's even one of them himself, in a minor way.

Vic confirms that she's gotten the photos and tucks her phone (traitorous thing that it is, letting her text while she's blitzed) back into her shorts pocket. She still looks less than 100 percent, but Joe didn't see her at her worst, in the hospital. He may notice her hair is fully blonde now though. No more dark wash in it. She wasn't able to lift her hands over her head for two weeks, so she stopped bothering with it.

Joe's words have her looking at him owlishly, blinking. "Wait, I thought they said it was Rosencrantz who was a spy. I am just hearing all this shit today. I've been laid up so I hadn't heard much." The idea of the astronaut as a Russian spy has her amused again, though. "Well you do speak the language, Comrade Cavanaugh. And were you not a cosmonaut?" she teases.

She rolls her head to look at Ravn. "Joe here is an author, but he was also in space."

Ravn wouldn't know Poughkeepsie from Gramercy as far as US accents are concerned but at least he is able to recognise that the writer sounds like he's from out of town. "Grab a beer and a seat," he offers. "Vic and I know each other from work -- she's the one who hired me. As a bar-back, not as a celebrity chef, whatever our mutual boss seems to think."

He nods at Vic with a smile. "We kind of bumped into each other at Espresso Yourself yesterday. He may be a Russian spy but he's also the showrunner of my new prime time TV show. He made the mistake of volunteering and I have in fact been directing people to him all day." The Dane beams, asshole that he is.

"Yeah, they think it about Itz, too," Joe sighs. "Crap either way. Yeah, I been outta town, visitin' family. I come back, an' all these folks I don't know're givin' me the fish-eye." He snorts. "I do. I'm fluent, in fact, had to be for my job - lived there for more'n two years. And technically, I was, since the last time I went up, it was out of Kazakhstan."

He grins at Ravn. "People get real cranky when I tell 'em there's a waiting list and that we've got so many to consider that auditions will take weeks." A little upnod. "Yeah. I worked for NASA for years, to the tune of three launches. Two Shuttle, one Soyuz," he explains.

"Now I really wonder what that old tourist couple was saying about me," Vic mutters between sips of beer. "This fucking town. I swear to God if I get accused of being a Nobel Prize winning physicist or something, I'm going to set city hall on fire."

The tv show thing seems entirely too funny to her though. "I just keep seeing the muppet when you say they're calling you a Swedish Chef. Bork bork bork!"

Ravn gives a low whistle; meeting someone who's actually been to space is kind of cool. "Sailed from Moscow to St Petersburg on the Volga and up across the Ladoga once," he murmurs. "Just playing tourist, though."

He winces at Vic. "If you had any idea how many people have bork bork borked at me today... It's as bad as those yachters who have a deep and serious late-night conversation with your chest."

"I kinna do, too," Joe admits, sheepishly. "I mean, think of the Swedish chef thing. You're not a Swede though, are you?" A brilliant smile for mention of that trip. "Oh, man, I envy you. I travelled around Russia a lot, but it was on land. I miss that place, sometimes."

He snickers. "I hear that. Man, sounds like many an evening I've had in a yachter's port."

Vic is still not quite meeting Joe's eyes when she looks his way. She doesn't embarrass easily but this seems to be an exception. "Tourists tip shitty too, for the most part." Right Vic, it has nothing to do with the fact you just glare at them until they go away with their drinks.

"Am Danish as apple pie," Ravn says, fully aware of how he bastardises an Americanism; apple pie, however, is a remarkably Danish thing even it involves nothing Americans would recognise under the label of pie. "And I'm rapidly developing an intense hatred of the Muppet Show. I was just telling Lyric and Vic earlier, I can literally prove there's no Swedish blood that I know of in my family tree back to the 1200s -- although I suppose if you count Scania... It was Danish at the time, anyway."

The bar-back grins at Vic in a fashion that suggests he's quite aware by now why tourists are unimpressed with her. "I still think you should bring back drinks roulette. I am deeply disappointed I didn't get to try."

The sailor laughs at that. "How Danish is apple pie?" he retorts, lapsing into a grin. "The Muppet Show's actually pretty cool, but then, I grew up with it, I admit." He settles down on a bollard, rather gingerly. "I think....." But he trails off, shaking his head. There's that little indent appearing between his brows, as he looks at Vic.

"It wasn't roulette so much as it was beer on the nearest tap, or cheap whiskey, depending on if they asked for foo foo beer or foo foo cocktails," Vic explains. "I was trying to teach them to not be pretentious assholes, but what do I know?" She sips from her beer again, the first one having already taken the edge off a bit. She presses a hand to her ribcage on the right side for a moment, feeling a bit of discomfort that is mostly psychological at this point. And partly Glimmer. She can sense the metal in her body now and it's freaking her out a little. She can feel Joe's gaze and willfully refuses to look back at him.

Ravn holds up a Heineken, indicating tossing it to Joseph if he wants it. "Well, as far as I am concerned, we own apple pie and the thing you people are so fond of is a very nice cake. I guess I'd have gotten nearest tap beer, then, seeing as I don't order cocktails." He smiles contentedly; the guy in the black turtleneck, blazer and kidskin gloves apparently doesn't mind the idea that anyone might think him pretentious. He's probably been called that and worse on several occasions.

He's not blind to the fact that the two other people present clearly have history. He just decides that it's none of his business and pretends not to notice the odd looks. "What's it like? Space, I mean."

He turns that blue gaze on Ravn, holds out his hand. Ready to catch it. "Fair enough," he says. "Y'all were makin' it 'fore we were even a country, I know." Apparently leaving the matter of Vic's reaction for now.

The question makes him smile again, but it's wistful, almost dreamy. "Wonderful. It's...I miss being weightless, sometimes. I dream about it, a lot. A long stay in the station is hard - I used to joke about it bein' white-collar space jail - but....I'd go again. I mighta got another launch if I hadn't gotten hurt.....and I'm sad I won't be workin' on the Artemis missions."

Ironically, they don't have history, Joe and Vic. It's just that Vic maaaay have noted to Joe's boyfriend that she would totally tap that while on a morphine drip. And said boy friend maaaaay have kind of given permission to do just that. And she maaaaaay have some extreme hangups about her scars which make that a non-situation to begin with. And then maaaay have been informed she and Joe's boyfriend bumped uglies while extremely blitzed like 5 or 6 years ago. It's kind of a shitshow in her head right now. She sips her beer some more and listens to the space conversation. ""Where are they sending Artemis?" she asks.

"Kind of how I feel about just getting on a bus or a plane -- the first, destination anywhere. Doesn't matter where, as long as I've not been there before, won't go there again." Ravn nods and tosses the beer up to the man on the bollard. "That said, I figure I'll be staying around a while. This place is too weird to leave."

The Dane sips his beer, nodding at Vic's question, also wanting to hear that answer. Blissfully unaware of how vanilla his own personal relationship issues are in comparison. It's probably best that way.

There's a little tinge of laughter to his voice as he replies. "The moon. It'll be the first women on the moon. See, in Greek myth, Artemis was the sister of Apollo, and the goddess of the moon. I like the symmetry," he says. "I'd'a been too old to go, likely, but I coulda helped." No bitterness there, though. He did get to do what so many long to.

Joe snags the beer, pops it open with a keychain opener. "Yeah, that's kinna how I feel," he says, more quietly. "That and I found someone I'd lost, here, an' he ain't goin' nowhere, so...."

And on that note, Vic decides it's a good time to exit. She drains the second beer, putting it in whatever trash receptacle Ravn has. She doesn't litter, though she looks and sometimes acts like someone who would. She was a cop once, and some things from that have stuck, despite the rest of it having washed away like waterline footprints on the beach. "Need to get a nap before work tonight. Catch you boys later." She steps gingerly off the boat onto the dock, not having sea legs of her own.

Another low whistle of appreciation from Ravn, much to the annoyance of the black cat who flicks an ear and then drapes a paw over it, shut up, shut up, shut up, noisy humans. "Think I'd definitely stay put for that. Finding someone special -- yes, that'd probably do it, even for me," he murmurs. "Or it might send me packing right away so I wouldn't have to stick around and lose her to some silly argument or random accident."

He waves at Vic. "See you in the morning if you're still on when I get there."

Vic raises a hand below shoulder level to wave back at Ravn, kind of. Then she stalks down the docks back to where her truck was parked near the boardwalk.

Joe takes a long pull, lifts his bottle in salute to the departing Vic. Another worried glance after her, but he only wishes her farewell. His smile turns rueful. "I lost him once already. Not willin' to do it again. So yeah, here I stay." A shrug. "It was time to rest, anyhow. I'd been on the move with Surprise for more'n a year and a half..."

"If you're sure he's the one and that he's not going to disappear on you -- I'd stay too." Ravn realises that his beer is empty and fishes another out of the improvised cooling box; the Vagabond either doesn't have a fridge or it's not working yet. "I started running because of something like that. A girl who died. Haven't stopped running yet."

"He's the one." And for all the gentleness in his voice, there's a note behind it. A steely certainty. "No, he won't disappear. He's got other ties here, and when it comes to the power, there're few stronger in this town."

That comment makes Joe cock his head, birdlike. "Yeah?" he says, softly. "I had a fiancee in Russia, but she died. 's why I'm not still there, I s'pose. Or in Massachusetts, watchin' her sew spacesuits."

Ravn holds up his bottle to clink. "To dead fiancees, then. And finding happiness again, some day."

Careflly, he leans over to tap his bottle for the toast. "To lost love," he says, mildly. "And future happiness." The sailor's eyes are thoughtful, as he regards Ravn. "Why....why all the covering up in this heat? Modesty, or...." He certainly doesn't have much care for concealment. Not with those long scars down his arms that he's not in the least self-conscious of.

Ravn glances down at himself, then shrugs lightly in a fashion that most of all says, I have no idea? "The gloves are because I have a condition -- I've got an acute sense of touch. It's pretty uncomfortable for me, touching most things without some kind of protective layer. The rest is mostly just... habit. I haven't really gotten around to shopping for clothes here yet. I should look into buying some shirts, maybe. When you live in a backpack you kind of make sure only to own what you can carry, so to speak."

He clicks his tongue in sympathy, after another swig of beer. "That's hard," he says. "I just bet. And I know what you mean. I had to do a lot of shoppin' when I decided to stay here, and had my family send some stuff out to me. I mean, I never owned a whole lot of stuff, I spent a lot of my life on the move, and I left a bunch behind when I left Houston, so..."

"I bet. I suppose I could call somebody back home, ask them to send stuff over, but it'll honestly be cheaper just to replace things." Ravn nods. "But yeah -- it's part of why I'm not really thrilled about having people climbing all over me if I haven't asked them to. It can be really uncomfortable -- feels like really bad static electricity. Of course, everyone's pretty convinced I'm gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide by now," he adds, grinning, and indeed, paraphrasing a hit novel recently turned into a hit TV show. "Something I guess I'd mind less if I actually was gay, but then, not really an issue at the moment anyhow."

"Hell, I don't like that, and I don't suffer from any particular excess sensitivity to touch," Joe admits, nodding. "Also, I imagine American...." He pauses, looking for the word. "I guess we've got a very different radius when it comes to personal space. From what I remember of Scandinavia, there's more regard for it there. Americans tend to get up in your business."

"I think that depends on who you are. How formal the setting is." Ravn nods. "But you're probably right. Americans are more blunt. I like that, though. I'm far more comfortable with someone who'll call me an idiot if I act like one, than I am with a dainty attitude and polished manners." It sounds pretty ironic coming from him; granted, he's no Dante Taylor but he's still scoring pretty high on the European smooth-o-metre; body language and intonations worthy of a BBC newsspeaker at times.

"I agree," the blond approves. "I mean, that's what I prefer. That's one of the things I liked about working with Russians, they don't mince words. How'd you end up workin' for Bennie?" Joe's working on that beer, deliberately. More to be sociable, really.

"Vic hired me. Guess she was short on hands to do the cleaning up -- or maybe she just decided to take pity on some guy just blowing into town and probably gone again soon enough. Either way, I'm glad she did. It's not exactly a white collar job that you'd brag to your mum about but I get to meet all kinds of people. I probably won't be doing it forever -- but maybe until the end of the tourist season at least." Ravn looks back at the other man, one Scandinavian-looking guy to another. "You're able to make a living from writing now, then? I have a couple of friends back home who're still trying to break into that. They're making money but not enough to stop teaching."

Joseph tips his head from side to side, briefly. "Sorta," he says. "I mean, I could, I get enough. But honestly, it helps that I've got both a Navy pension and some family money....and that I live beneath my means. But I am published, and I have a contract. So I don't have to be out there beatin' the drum as hard as someone who's a real, true pro."

"That's not so different from my friends. They teach at the University of Copenhagen, and write on the side." Ravn sips his beer and watches the seagulls circle. "I thought about it. But unlike them, I don't really have any stories in my head that clamour to be told. Most writers tell me they write because they can't not write. I got a bit of that about my blog but I couldn't do it for actual, serious writing. And of course, the Danish market is painfully small anyway, we're a language of just six million speakers."

"You definitely speak English well enough to write for that market," Joe notes, as he scratches idly at the label with his fingernail. "And....do what you enjoy. I like tellin' stories. I started out tellin' my own, but went on to make stuff up, and that's been well received. I'd do it if I didn't make a dime, honestly."

"That's what I mean. You write because you can't not write. The money is a bonus but you'd be telling stories to rocks if there was no other audience. Yep." Ravn leans back in his chair, still watching those seagulls. "I'm not like that. Have wished I was. Used to write poetry, thinking I was. I have done the world the favour of not trying to get anyone to publish it -- some periods of a man's life should remain buried. Particularly the ones where he wore black eyeliner and fancied himself very melancholic."

Joseph's lips thin out, as if he were desperately trying to suppress a smile. Diplomatically, he says, "I understand. I've got a few early efforts that don't deserve to be midwived into the light of day. Let 'em rest in peace in my desk drawer, as it were. But yeah, I would. It's....for me, writing's a kind of refuge, and an exorcism."

"I play the violin for that. Just, to myself. If you hear somebody torturing a cat some day, that's probably me." Ravn smiles wryly. "You can laugh, you know. I was horrible. I wore black lipstick for a week until I made my aunt cry."

One corner of his mouth curls up, in defiance of his efforts...and he pushes fingers through his hair. He doesn't seem to use anything to tame it, and it's a tumble of loose curl. "Yeah? I bet you're better'n you say. You met Rosencrantz, yet? Tall, black-haired guy - New Yorker with lots of tattoos. He's a fiddler, and he's damned good."

"He really is damned good." The admiration in Ravn's voice is deep and genuine. "I can definitely see him in front of an audience, bringing down the house. I'd pay for a seat anytime. Doesn't hurt any that he's damn nice on the side. Lyric is in a band with him, she says -- I'm really hoping they'll give a performance sometime, get to see and hear that. Violins outside of a classic context is not something I hear as often as I'd like, not counting Scottish and Irish folk music. I've been meaning to find out if this town has some kind of place for -- well, music like that but not quite penguin formal. I don't want to have to buy a suit to get in somewhere."

Joseph's grin is bright. "He's a friend of mine - my boyfriend's boyfriend." .....how does that work? Joe seems blase about it. "I.....you know, I'm not sure, other'n the park and the coffee shop. Maybe in the casino. No, there's not a lot here you'd need a suit for, other than said casino."

"Hey, whatever works for everyone involved." Danish people, or at least this specimen, are clearly pretty laid back about those things. "I went to see Itzhak at the garage yesterday, actually. He's a nice guy, and I wanted to check up on him after the whole beach dead body fiasco. And well, hear him practise. Traded my way in with bagels, figured I couldn't go entirely wrong with bringing some kind of edible sacrifice."

That provokes him into low, throaty laughter. "You got that in one," he says, eyes still gone to bright blue crescents. "Good call. I bet he was happy with that. Yeah, he's a good soul. I heard somethin' about that - some poor ranger killed and mutilated." The smile fades again, into something far more somber.

"Guess he left out the part where he was the one who found the body?" Ravn nods, leaning forwards on his seat and losing the casual air. "I know it probably passes for normal around here -- Alexander Clayton said something about the bay once being so full of bodies that people passing by thought they were shoals of fish. And I've seen some things... Been some things... But still. A man shouldn't be working on a sand figure and then realise he's literally patting down a decomposing corpse."

Joseph's lip curls. "No, I haven't spoken to him since that. God, poor guy. I'll have to track him down. I really been out of the loop, I admit it." He finishes the beer, gets up. "I need to be gettin' on. But it was good to talk to you," he says. Then he indicates the little sailboat down the harbor with a cant of his head. "That's my boat, I'm there pretty often. You need anything, drop by."

"Same to you, neighbour. Who knows? Maybe we can corner Itzhak some night, getting him to give a performance on the pier." Ravn waves and doesn't bother getting up; he's had a few more beers by now than he should for walking on a boat deck.

On the prow, his black cat rolls over to sleep on her other side. Humans. Noisy.