2020-09-05 - Mixing Mimosas

Who the hell came up with the idea of egg whites in a drink?

Ravn Abildgaard isn't entirely certain how he feels about this bartending gig. Does he want to impress Bennie and Vic? Absolutely. They're good, fun people who have been a pleasure to work with -- yes, even Vic -- and he wants to make sure there won't be complaints from patrons waiting for them. Does he feel confident mixing drinks and looking like he knows what he's doing behind a bar? Ha. No. Absolutely, definitely not.

The one thing he does know how to do, though, is keep that bloody drinks manual open under the counter for quick reference -- Add sugar, what is this, eggnog? -- and put on a bit of a show. At least some patrons aren't too unhappy about obvious inexperience and learning on the job when at least their drink is served up with a display of sleight of hand skill and making the maraschinos dance across the bartender's gloved knuckles before they seem to bounce into the tumbler on their own.

He's also pretty sure that after reading that ingredients list he's never having another whiskey sour because bloody hell, that's one sure fire way to get a salmonella infection, or something.

Sparrow attracts looks when she arrives. It used to be her style, impeccable and colorful even at its most casual--tonight, a black tee declaring her a CULT LEADER over a pair of rainbow-dyed denim cut-offs with key lime and aquamarine bleeding into violet and magenta, purple hair complemented with a hint of shimmery teal on her perfectly lined eyes--but now it's gossip. Some people are sympathetic. Of course a young mother like her needs a night off from tending to her brood every now and then, and it's so generous of the fathers--oh please--to babysit their own kids. But some of those whispers are derisive, disgusted, so very terribly judgy.

She pays all of no mind whatsoever to any of them. She just saunters over to the bar, takes up an empty stool and smiles toward Ravn with potentially beatific patience. It's defiance, really, but she imagines it looks angelic, that stubborn unwillingness to engage in all the bullshit around her as she waits for service like she hasn't a single care in the whole wide world.

Service does not take long; there are fortunately more than one man working the bar, and the other one does not proudly sport a 'bartender in training' tag. Thus, a certain Swedish chef ends up in front of a certain mother of thirteen in not long time, and indeed, leans on his elbows on the counter, flashing her a brilliant smile -- possibly for the benefit of the couple of tourists taking pictures, but more likely for the benefit of the townies over there at the table by the window whom he mentally pictures choking on the olives in their Martinis. "Let me guess -- put the bottle on the table and order a taxi by midnight?"

Sparrow's smile only brightens when Ravn leans in, dark lashes dipping low in what might easily be read as flirtation. Is she playing it up for their audience? Is it sincere? Who knows. What's definitely genuine is the abrupt little laugh at his guess at her order. "I mean. I'd kinda still like to get up for my morning yoga tomorrow, so. Maybe not?" But, by the sound of it, maybe not maybe not. She flicks a glance toward the options behind the bar like she might be considering which whiskey to pick, but when her brown eyes refocus on the bartender-in-training, she counters, "Just a pint of whatever sour--" Beer, she means. "--you've got on tap, thanks."

That order is certainly within Ravn's capability, and he goes about it while sending Sparrow a crooked smile the kind that at least some people might definitely read as laying on all the charm. Add to that that for once he's clean shaven and in a splendid mood -- and apparently a bit of a showman. At least the pint glass spins on his fingertip before landing on the desk in front of Phil without a drop going missing and the coaster apparently sliding itself in under there on its own.

"I checked up on Dante yesterday. How are you holding up?" He asks in a low voice, leaning in a little -- possibly for the benefit of anyone who still needs some kind of juicy gossip fill, but more likely because some subjects perhaps don't need to be shouted out for the entire Twofer to listen in on. "Even put on a proper jacket, that's how much I care."

Sparrow's black brows arch high as her smile widens for the show with which her drink is delivered. "If you're angling for a better tip, handsome..." Well, it sounds like it might be working, even if it means scraping the bottom of her fairly barren wallet. Metaphorically speaking. She doesn't carry cash. Who carries cash these days? Mirroring his lean, she takes a taste of her beer, sucking her upper lip in beneath her bottom lip to clear the resultant foam from the freshly poured pint. Her smile's dimmed a bit when that cleaning's done, though that lasts only a second, grin brightening as she offers, "You ever need a plus one for that place, I clean up real pretty." But that's just filler before she asks, "What's the context for your concern? Just so I can make sure we're on the same page." Are her Dante-related complications so numerous that she really requires that clarification?

"Had one of those -- dream experiences with the man shortly after coming into town. Seems like a decent bloke, he gave me a few pointers. Then this identity mix-up thing happened and he dropped off the grid. Figured I'd make sure he still had his head. As it happens, he does. Context is, if we don't look out for each other, who will?" Ravn speaks quite softly, mostly in order for the whole bar to not listen in. "He mentioned being worried about you so I thought I'd -- you know, pass that on."

He swipes another coaster off the bar with one hand and spins it on a fingertip, letting it dance on his knuckles and generally draw the attention of anyone who happens to be looking in that direction. There's a benefit to that; to someone who doesn't read lips it's a pretty typical case of bar guy flirts with patron in the hope of a better tip, indeed. Which, after a fashion, is a semblance of privacy.

Sparrow nods at the first detail, recalling the references to the Headless Horseman from both parties. The longer she listens, the more she looks like a hard sell to any onlookers, like maybe she's not all that impressed by his tricks. Or, more accurately, like she can't find whatever clarification she was hoping for. Maybe that last bit helps given how her lips purse, how she shrugs high, shoulders held up there for a couple seconds before dropping. "I'm fine," she assures, almost certainly of the wrong thing. "It's not like I was completed blindsided. I mean. I get the feeling Cris wants someone who's gonna fight him for him, and I'm not that person. Dante is. And that's good. They're good. I'm good." Her smile is genuine if a little off-center, like it's hiding some tiny secret somewhere in its curve. "I should prolly reach out," she considers idly before refocusing on Ravn and telling him directly, "Thank you. For passing it on. For caring." With a sidelong glance to no one in particular, more likely meaning the crowd as a whole, she wonders, "How are you holding up?" on her way to taking another pull from her beer.

A glance at the other bartender and a raised eyebrow which in turn is replied to with a nod. Yeah, I got this, go ahead and lay on the charm, Bennie's Prettyboy.

Ravn rests one elbow on the counter, for all intents and purposes just striking up a conversation, being a friendly ear, making a hard sell. "I have no idea who Cris is -- Dante didn't treat me to your entire personal relationship history, whatever it might be. Just said he'd considered reaching out but wasn't sure whether it was a good idea, with all this ... stuff... going on." He tosses another crooked little smile. "I'm all right. Kind of starting to roll with it. Have yelled at a few patrons in Danish since they can't tell one European language from another anyhow. It's surprisingly fun, actually."

Sparrow blinks. It definitely had not occurred to her that he might know Dante and not know who Cris is. Which leaves her in a little bit of a weird position. Which has her blushing. Which only makes it look like Ravn's doing a damned fine job making flirtatious conversation. That awkward smile might read as smitten from the outside, but she's mostly trying to figure out just which stuff he means. It's easier to focus on the anecdote at the end, a little laugh preceding an idle inquiry of, "What kinda stuff do you say when nobody else can understand you?" with a cheesy waggle of her eyebrows.

"And, uh." Her index finger taps against her glass restlessly, unconsciously matching the cadence of some sound--song?--in the background. "Cris is Dante's boyfriend. We'd been seeing each other for a while, but. See above re referenced break-up. Which is what I thought you were asking after. Which you weren't. Which makes me think maybe you meant the whole double-husband thing? Cuz, yeah. I'm catching rumors about that now too. In addition to the whole kids thing, but. Then you'd know who Cris is. Cuz he's supposedly husband numero two, so." She's still not entirely sure what he meant, but... "Just in case? All that bullshit is shit, and I hate it. My parents aren't even talking to me, and I have no idea how to rewrite the world to make things the way they're supposed to be again, so." She shrugs, flashing a tight smile. "I'm not thinking about it."

Grant rolls up to a stop at the door and pops the tail of his board snapping it up into hand. With a spin he grabs and holds the door for the person walking out. Face flush a bit from rolling all over town (and notably not right into the bay) he strolls in. Free hand signs a greeting while he murmurs, "Heeey two of mah favourite people." Seeing Sparrow's ears take colour he drops to the side giving her cheek a smooch. "Technically triple hubby thing." technically. He drops into a seat warming a grin to Ravn, "Suuuup Tunabro! Needed tater tots. Heard everyone was here." He falls silent though trying to catch up on the mood of the situation while he stashes his board and grabs a menu for 'suggestions'.

"I mostly tell them that they're absolute bloody morons for buying into this ridiculous mix-up story without even pausing to consider easily available facts such as bigamy not being legal in the state of Washington." Ravn shoots Phil a sympathetic look. "If there's anything I can do, you let me know, all right? I don't need your life story to offer a sympathetic ear or run a distraction. Like I said, we look out for each other."

Grant gets flashed a grin, no doubt causing even more confusion at the window table. "Hey there, fish boy. Apparently people are giving your dream wife a hard time. Reckon we can cheer her up a bit between us?" He wanders off a moment, no doubt to acquire the tater tots in question and perhaps give the two somewhat better acquainted people a chance to greet each other.

Sparrow tilts toward Grant's warmth as reflexively as a flower might turn toward the sun. Though, ya know, a good deal faster. The cheek-kiss certainly eases her smile, and she corrects, "You're my one true husband, Baxy. And Nicole's my future wife. Like. If they're gonna make me a polygamist, can't they at least get the details right?" Cuz that's the most frustrating part of this situation. Uh huh. Right. "And, really." She levels Ravn with an all-too-serious look. "It doesn't have to be actual bigamy. I mean. Maybe two of us got married, legally, and then all three of us held some sorta handfasting to bind us all together in the eyes of whatever gods are into this made-up bullshit." For all that the words sound cutting, her tone's slipped back toward more conversational pleasantness. One might guess she's wondered why people buy this nonsense rumor herself. "But it's not about logic, cuz." She lets the thought trail off, not bothering to bring up her parents again. Instead, she notes, "Tater tots would help," as the bartender-in-training heads off to oblige then turns her focus to Grant. "You're looking tasty today," she chirps, though that's really no different from any other day.

Grant preens along with that blush of self confidence that comes with it. "Whyyyy thank you, Phi. I may have finally landed a double kickflip shove-it today aaaaand did not land in the hospital. " Not that this is English to anyone but he does clarify, "Working on my flatwork. Been on vert a lot and my game's kinda suffering for it. Trying to do it without nudging the board so I can skate Cali when Spring hits. Dad said if I can get it done with out jenking the play he'll foot the ticket. Can't say no to learning life on hardmode." Hey it's some good news, or sounds like it.

Glancing back to Ravn his brow creases and he looks back to Sparrow, "We got a flock of Carens? Really maybe write a thing for the paper saying the whole thing was a scam by the person funding the kickstarter or whatever and like you're a victim in it." Pausing looking to the sandbar-tender (fish puns! Never getting old are they?) he admits, "Things don't have to be true or logical to be believed. Have you met the internet?"

"Just my usual fan club and the regular cast of gossiping townies." Ravn wanders back carrying two generous plates of tater tots and they too dance on his fingertips, switching places a few times before hopping down to sit on the counter; what he hasn't got in drink making experience he clearly has decided to make up for with silly manual dexterity tricks. "I'm starting to think we need to do something about this mess, though. I'm fine, but -- a lot of people aren't. And I got to admit, I wouldn't cry about not having to kick people with cameras off my boat, either, or having to sign everything from people's napkins to their boobs. Is there some kind of procedure for finding out who's behind this and kicking their backside?"

"Good," Sparrow chirps to Grant. "One friend in the hospital is enough." Which reminds her she really ought to check on Gigi, that note fairly visibly mentally flagged before she keeps going. "And good!" That's for the kickflip accomplishment and the potential of a dad-funded Cali trip in a few months. She might even have some inkling of what it means after watching him for years, but nobody quiz her, okay? "You know I'll come with, schedule permitting."

But the conversation's circling back to all the awful, her head shaking in denial of any current Karening. Even while she watches Ravn, gaze tracing up from hip to fingers with decided amusement. Her free hand lifts to hook a finger in the collar of her tee and tug it down just a bit in playful invitation, but she doesn't bust out a sharpie, so it's probably insincere. "I mean. If something goes seriously weird around here? Chances are, They are behind it," comes with a roll of her eyes. "Our own local council of Voldemorts." Leveling a look toward Grant, she notes, "Which is the problem. Fighting the illogical with logic isn't gonna work." Smirk. "Have you met the internet?" Looking back to Ravn, she notes, "I have no idea how to fix this. See above re not thinking about it." And see her flex the tools at her disposal, happily drinking some more of that tart beer.

The Baxian to English translation would be: tricky trick is tricky but I think I got it, yay! The rest of the details are less important and he seems to not be hung up on the minutiae of it. The offer to go warms a grin, "God yeah, that'd be awesome, yeah I'll totally let you know." He listens and gestures to both he and Sparrow. "Tater tots. Hers is on mine." She gets a wink in a silent 'welcome' to her silent gratitude for fixing the tot drought. It does get him to thinking though, "Ya knooooow we know the problem's like not here. What if like we go there and see if anything's changed?" Though in his infinite slacker wisdom he says to Sparrow with care, "The wave's not doing to yield and the vert ain't gonna bend. You see yourself running at the coping you can either hit it face first or ride it out and make it work for you." Now if only he knew where he was going with that simile.

"Ask me to write on those and I swear, I'll write down my grocery list," Ravn grouses at Sparrow's collar tugging, grey eyes glittering with amusement. Everything is easier when people are able to laugh at their problems, however ridiculous those problems might be. Then he looks to Grant and says, "I have absolutely no idea what it is you just did, but I commend you for doing it. No feeling like finally managing something that you've been trying to do for a while."

There are no sharpies lying around on the counter -- not that a bar counter is a place you'd usually go looking for one in the first place. A sharp eye might note, though, that there are several sharpies lying under it, almost like sharpies tend to disappear in this place before anyone can ask for them to be used. Ravn does not even try to parse those last few comments from Bax; there's English, and there is understanding English, and then there are words which are no doubt English, but they are not and have never been, you know, English. Maybe he's just getting old; it was like that at university too, the students seem to get younger each year, somehow.

Sparrow gives a little head-wobble at Ravn's threat like she's not entirely opposed to the idea, but, again, there's still no sharpie, no attempt to look for a sharpie, and no actual request. Just a lingering grin that borders on genuinely flirtatious. Potentially to keep from dipping back into gloomier moods. Though she doesn't actually succeed at that. Grant's way too casual suggestion of going in earns him a Very Stern Mama Bird look that says flat out, unequivocally no. For all of two seconds before relenting as she allows, "Gigi wants to go in for Ember," rather quietly. "We've talked about it the context of dreams, which. I mean. I'm down for actually getting the experiments going. Safely. But I'm not letting either of you just waltz into the woods and get eaten again. February fucked you both up, and I'm just... not. No. Okay?"

Grant flinches and were he still stuck as a tiny desert fox his ears would lay back. The brows furrow up as he shrinks from the patented Sparr-No(tm) look. "But Itzil knows how to get back out He could teach us!" Solution to do everything right? if an 'adult', or someone old enough to have to fail out of being converted by responsibility, can do it then it's okay to do? Maybe? Hrmm???

Taking a deep breath he looks to Ravn and says "There's a space just on the other side of the soap bubble holding reality together that looks like, but is mos definitely not, this place is. There's some COOL stuff there. Do not go off the path lightly. That's where Daisy lost a plant." But then she mentions February and his eyes shift away to- oh look, creamers to stack up into happy little pyramids to distract himself with. "February ended okay..."

And suddenly this conversation is not about skating contests or whatever it was Grant managed to do (somebody dub or subtitle that kid) but about going in. Ravn may be new in town but he does not need to be a mind reader to recognise the tone and the caution; the people at the window table no doubt come to odd conclusions at the mixed signals from the conversation at the bar.

He listens quietly, frowning lightly, before murmuring, "To me that sounds like bathing in bacon grease and then hopping into a shark tank. Even if Itzhak is powerful, he can do only so much. He's only, you know -- human. I know we talked about trying to -- do things. But maybe a little planning in advance, at least?"

"And he's got plenty on his plate without needing to worry about us," Sparrow adds softly to Ravn's own note on Itzhak, but... yeah, she's had him flagged for potential pestering for a while now. Trying to secure a reliable safety net for the inevitable rescue and correction attempts likely to occur over the next several weeks may well be reason enough to do so. She tilts to the side to rest her head on Bax's shoulder, aiming to offer some comfort in the wake of drawing all those firm lines. Nevermind that she might also kick off some frequently recurring gossip about how close she is with her high school ex still. Do her husbands not care what this hussy gets up to? For shame!

"Sometimes?" she begins, looking to the bartender while she keeps her head right where it is. "There kinda bleeds into here and you get some really messed up stuff without ever having to fall asleep. Like being attacked by skittering dinette sets or suddenly getting drafted into dancefloor cheer-offs. Which might be what happened in your misadventure with Dante?" At a guess. Maybe it was a dream. She doesn't know! Straightening, she urges, "But I'm all ears if you've got plans," and goes back to nursing her beer.

Grant tilts his head and takes a deep breath, "Have ya know I've been practicing and have opened a door to... space-by-proxy. This is something we can do but," He pauses and looks to Ravn and the fire of 'I can do it' fades a bit thinking about Vyv, his dad, and a very upset Sparrow. "yeah planning's good. I'm just not-" He pauses looking at the hand and sliding an arm around her resting his head on her shoulder briefly. "I won't use myself as bait for the carousel." Which is a WEIRD THING to need to promise aside from being very specific in nature. Sitting up again he says "Also? A 7-Up? if you can, man. Sooo yeah I mean just wanting there to be a problem? That's great. Denying there's a problem is ignoring and enabling it so, maybe, we just take a look. I'll get some tips on doors and if we opened it one way we can do it from teh other. I'll look into that before we just run over. Alright?"

"I'm starting to realise that Rosencrantz does in fact have quite a lot on his plate." Ravn nods at Sparrow and looks a little sheepish. "I feel a little bad about that -- I was pestering him for, you know. Lessons. Didn't consider that the rest of town is probably pestering him too. Oh well. You're right -- Dante and I got to play Ichabod Crane together in a special theatre production, Gray Harbor style. Very unexpected, definitely. But if you're talking about going in there deliberately, maybe some planning in advance would be a good idea?"

A Seven-Up he definitely can provide -- and that in a glass, spinning from one hand to another in another little display of screw you, physics. It eventually slides to a halt before the purple-haired youth. "I'm not saying we should ignore it, quite the contrary. Just, let's decide what we're looking for, what we're trying to do? Assuming, of course, that there is a we."

The door opens with some vehemence, and in stalks definitely not a regular, radiating the kind of vibes that suggest people getting too close just might get bit. This does not usually go with a cream linen suit of that calibre, nor the cheerful yellow check of the shirt or the plum tie and paisley pocket square, but it's part of Vyv's ensemble right now and perhaps not the best time for someone to suggest it's less than flattering.

He scans the area as though any of those present might require disintegration by glare, and that if so he's quite ready and able to oblige; it only lightens a bare fraction when he finds purple hair at the bar (and recently-familiar copper-blond behind it, too), and directs his stalking that way. "The next person who mentions Periplaneta americana or any of its cousins," he informs them crisply as he gets within range of unraised voice, "is getting crushed beneath my heel like one." It's a nice heel, too, all leather soled. Be a shame.

"What problem?" Sparrow asks, leaning right into the accusation of denial. "I love not talking with my family and being earning disapproving looks of various shades everywhere I go." On that sarcastically cheery note, she lifts her glass to toast to the terribleness and downs the rest of her pint. Mostly. There's still a little bit at the bottom, but she surrenders the glass to the bar. And eyes the bottles of whiskey behind the bar again with a bit more intention.

With the conversation circling around the idea of planning without any plans actually being made, she abandons her booze perusal to bounce a look between the boys, settling on Ravn as he prods toward purpose. And plurality. "You keep telling me there's a we, handsome," comes with a flirtatious grin, an attempt to keep things light despite all the heaviness bobbing about in the water. "But I think there's probably some other we with way more experience with all this bullshit who are prolly way better equipped to handle any real rewinding of all this revisionist history we're experiencing. Like Rosencrantz. Like Roen. Like Isabella and Alexander and, ya know. Everyone who's been at this way longer than any of us. And I am a-okay with that." To be clear, it sounds very much like her preference. And the entirety of her plan: don't think about any of it too hard and wait for other people to fix it. Bax might recognize this as entirely antithetical to her approach to normal problems, but none of this is normal.

With Vyv announcing his approach, she quiets the conversation about fixing Gray Harbor and looks his way. And, sure, why not flirt that direction, too? Give all the Karens something to gasp about. Lashes dip low as she tells him, "That's not my kink, but! I might know a cute someone or other who's into it. If you're looking."

Grant listens and hears them out nodding slowly, but agreeably, "Alright then, we." it's settled. He can be included, sure. Looking to Sparrow his flat look softens not insensitive to the constant strain of people talking. That... well that he does know, just not to this volume. His hand finds her shoulder for a squeeze murmuring, "yeah but we say teh same about the government. People who should do things aren't. We gotta Greta Thunberg this one and step up, but not without a plan." His jaw sets looking to Vyv not interruping but a hand extends out with wiggly fingers as silent invitation and some grabbing at air.

Soberly he says, "I've fought with the Captain, and Itzil, and them. Twice now in the times I been out with them shit happened because it took someone thinking differently and I could do something they couldn't. we can do things. See a problem from enough angles you get a much better picture of it and someone's in a position to fix it." Sparrow's flirting with Vyv though brings a grin and a laugh, "hey don't try to get me kicked. That's not fair!"

Ravn shows his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Right, right. No we. Leave it to the professionals. Gotcha. Minding my own business commencing. Can I get you anything, Vyv?"

He must know what Periplaneta americana are. At least he doesn't ask.

In fairness, asking would surely constitute mentioning, and the penalty thereto has already been established. "Yes. Is there a decent scotch back there? That sounds reasonable at present." And not very much practice for the bartender, alas, but maybe later with the cocktails.

Vyv does at least manage a bare ghost of an upward turn of the lips for Grant's grabby-hands and Sparrow's flirtation. "Might you? I can't say I'm in the market right now, but always good to be prepared in a pinch." He slides into the seat beside his boyfriend. "How is it not fair? Depriving you of the pleasure of doing it yourself?" One of his feet swings just enough to poke the skater in the ankle, nowhere near enough force to qualify as a kick, but the idea remains. "How have you been, Sparrow? And," broadening scope to all three of them, "what's there no 'we' about?"

"I hear no plan, no direction and--" Sparrow gestures toward Ravn. "--no we." When her hand comes back down, she pilfers a few tater tots, politely waiting until after she's winked at Vyv when he provides that maybe later before popping one past her lips. She might even have time to finish a second before his attention returns to her, though her tongue seems to be working at one of her back teeth if the movement in her cheek is any indication. "Pretty great," she ... lies? Half-lies? Who knows. "Semester looks like it's gonna be interesting. Picked up some psych. Aaand I got a new job. BFF's still gorgeous as fuck. And he's happy, which makes me happy, so." She smiles brightly at the couple as she tilts on her seat, reaching back to snag her wallet from her pocket so she can get out a card to pay for her beer, offering it over to Ravn. As for the no-we? Someone else can field that.

Grant gives the hand a squeeze shaking his head in answer to most of Vyv's question. "Things are messed up and it sucks not knowing what's broken to go fix it and we... actually need a plan if we're going to try." His voice disconnects a bit with a murmur in a slightly more bitter tone, "Don't want to sit here when every time there's an epidemic my family winds up smaller and I'm a damn ghost again." There's a pause as he pans a look back up to Sparrow and says "Plans... take time. So step one we talk to experts and see what we need to know. We talk about what we found. Move from there. So no there's no plan yet other than find out."

there's a pause and she fills in Vyv and he gets a compliment that he jsut suaoks up like a cookie. His hand finds the center seam o the back of Vyv's coat and runs his fingers down it to sit at his lower back. Looking back to Sparrow and the card he says, "The plan is to stick together and not be reckless with people's loved ones for first." His hand reaches over and swats at her card telling Ravn, "I got paid. She got my pancakes. I got it." he looks back to her meaningfully. "I mean it. And... sorry."

"The Glenfiddich isn't bad, but then, Glenfiddich never is," Ravn replies and processes the card he ends up with -- presumably Grant's. Finding and pouring Vyv's request is a convenient reason to let prickly matters drop and he does so, spinning the small ice bucket behind the counter just so that three cubes seem to hop out of it and stack themselves neatly in the whiskey tumbler before engaging in a nice bath of golden alcohol. The glass sliiiiiiides towards Vyv and comes to a halt in front of him. He's probably better at stage magics than at mixing cocktails.

"Things are always messed up, I don't know if you've noticed," Vyv says dryly, though a dark glance over his shoulder has him adding, "Is this about half the town losing their absolute minds? Because all my plans regarding that involve either meeting very accommodating pig farmers or importing a large team of psychiatrists from... somewhere."

He accepts the glass with a "Ta," that understates the touch of impressedness implied by the lift of brows as the drink ends up before him, and he takes a sip, then sighs. "Maybe if you've picked up psych, you can sort these idiots out before one of us ends up removing their spleen. I'm reasonably sure one needs that." The bit about her BFF does get a tiny smile, though he doesn't address it in words. Which probably means yes, in general. The fingers along his back don't hurt. "I vote for this lack of recklessness idea. I'm still not sure regarding what, but just on general principle, I'm in favour."

Sparrow's manual dexterity doesn't come close to comparing with Ravn's, but that doesn't stop her from flipping her card between her fingers with a little flourish as she files it back into her wallet without protest. It's not clear if she knows what Bax is apologizing for, but she flashes a reassuring smile all the same. Looking past him, she grins at Vyv again and tells him, "If you want some proper scotch?" Well, seems she's got a bead on that, too. This time, the offer remains entirely implied in her impishly inviting expression. But, really, what could a girl popping tater tots know about proper scotch. Either she's got opinions or she's looking to cause trouble. Probably both. "At a rate of one psychology class per semester? I might be able to address a few delusions here and there in, uh." Blink. "A lot of years..." She starts considering the math, abandoning it after a few seconds.

Refocusing on Grant, her smile falters a bit. "I'm not really feeling the we here, gorgeous. Pretty sure I shut Mr. Magic up, so. I think I'mma get. Maybe check in on Gigi. Maybe just..." Well, that's a sad thought. She opts not to voice it, instead making a silly face to mask that bad feel. "Good luck with your plans and your experts." Hopping from her bar stool, she flicks a look toward Ravn like she might wanna say something. Like, ya know, goodbye? But she doesn't. She nods toward Grant and Vyv and, unless otherwise impeded, heads back out into the evening on her own.

Grant looks confused and nods regardless. Shut Mr. Magic up. He wonders to himself who that is? This is perhaps part of the thing he really needs to process here. He sighs catching on to the fragment of the other part, "Aaaaah'm an asshole. And no one's... an expert." Least of all Mr. Guesswork Baxter. There is a stop and he doesn't say anyhting but will opt to give Sparrow a long hug.

Wading back to his seathe rests forearms on the bar his shoulders slump. Looking up to Ravn he announces, "Today's gonna need more tots." There's a small pause and he looks to Vyv with a faint flinch, "I'm sorry work was more argumentative and less just 'creative' today. I think... I think today's maybe a great day to not make any big decisions." There's a pause and he signs maybe.

Ravn looks after the purple-haired woman as well when she departs, although at least he makes an attempt to not be too bloody obvious about it. "Tots can happen. In fact, I'm pretty good at those," he murmurs and heads towards the back to do exactly that. He emerges a moment later -- because let's face it, tater tots are the number one dish patrons ask for and they are pretty much a matter of go fill a plate and try to not drop it. Ravn has yet to drop it.

"I am a little confused," he admits. "When we met at the Waffleria, whatever its name is, Phil tried to sell us on psychotropic research -- I guess that's why I assumed that there was a we. Not that it's any business of mine at all what's going on, really. Obviously put my foot in my mouth there."

Tater tots notwithstanding, Vyv quirks a brow at the mention of proper scotch, intrigued if nothing else. Which likely means that sort-of-invitation is getting filed somewhere, to be investigated when the bestower is not in the process of making herself scarce. "Ah well. I suppose investing in lime stock it is, then." He takes another sip of his scotch and gives it a little lift to her, returning that nod of farewell.

Grant's not wrong about work today, but the drink and the little touch and company that is NOT spreading scurrilous lies about the state of his kitchen are helping a bit, at least. "I'm going to have every single health inspection report since we opened printed, laminated, and nicely bound in some heavy leather," he says conversationally, "and then I'm going to start beating people about the head with it."

For now, though, after a faint hesitation, what he's going to do is return the earlier contact, reaching over to brush fingertips down the younger man's slumped back. He doesn't even give the tots a dubious look when they appear. "All right, what have I missed? What's going on with experts and 'we' and psychotropic research and not being reckless?" There's only a hint of impatience in it, which is arguably not bad considering his mood on entrance. It's really only down to a lower simmer, but an attempt is being made.

Grant rubs his temples and then just drops his head onto his folded arms when Ravn explains and there's a groan. There's is also a rescued tator tot fished out and brought down and stuffed in his face without lifting his head up.

Taking a deep breath he says "Oooooh kay Sooo we are so talking about two fucking different things. So like at the Waffle Haus we- Sparrow, Ravn, my cousin and I, were talking using drug treatment to get into a lucid dreaming state to go the dreams. That's Noooot the Veil that I was talking about here that's all Beetlejuice Land with a town hall and that's an echo of this world that we can go in and out of. A lot of people have gone to the Veil. No one that I know tried going into a dream specifically. Sparrow might be the first but ... yeah the idea something over there- of which there are two there's- is broken and causing people to be fucked up."

"People still giving you a hard time about bugs?" Ravn apparently reads the papers too. He quirks an eyebrow at Vyv and says, "If you want me to shuffle down there and tell a few reporters that your kitchen is absolutely up to Swedish chef standards and that story was just part of the set-up for that new cooking show I'm supposedly doing, I can do that. Of course his kitchen is fine, we just needed to make good TV, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. At this rate I don't really care any more. If the whole damn town wants to think of me as some sort of bizarre Göran Ramsay, let them. At least I can help you out a little on that account?"

He pauses and stares at Grant in not-quite-comprehension for a moment. "Wait. You're suggesting that people get these strange new identities here because something is broken over there? Like, one reality trying to rewrite the other, or something?"

The look Vyv gives Ravn for the initial question suggests that a) yes, they most certainly are and b) he is not entirely certain that 'bugs' does not run afoul of the warning he gave upon arrival. If he were a cat, the ears would be going back and the hackles up. Handily, he is at this time a human, and though there's a definite tightness to his jaw for a moment, he's able to take the offer for what it is. A sip of the scotch doesn't hurt. "At the current rate, I may well end up taking you up on that. It's probably less humiliating than a mass murder charge. Though of course one can't be certain one would be caught..."

Grant's explanation of what's going on here is a welcome distraction, and his brows lift. "Mn. I've been to Veil City Hall. Odd place. So you're proposing something's gone wrong there, and it's causing... this, here, then? And meanwhile, your Sparrow's hoping to use psychotropics to control the Dreams-- or to go into them at will?" 'Lucid dreaming' leaves him uncertain. "If it's the former how would one ever manage to line up usage and, mn, recruitment at all reliably?" Not rhetorical; hallucinogens may not be his thing, but the idea is quite interesting.

Still, one of these ideas belongs to the woman just departed, and one to the man still beside him. The (actual) chef's brow creases as he redirects more thought to the latter. "In the last year," he says thoughtfully, "there have been... changes. In the powers available to people. I don't know all the details, mind, but I do know this: last Autumn, when we buried the remaining bones of a dead serial killer who'd been working through one of the Addingtons -- yes, I know -- there was a feeling of constriction, and many people found the reach of their abilities was smaller than it had been. Just before Valentine's, many of us felt something change, and while I've never quite been sure what it was, I do know that at around the same time, the Addington in question disappeared. And I believe that when people checked, the bones were no longer in the grave. I didn't feel anything change at the time all... this started, but it's possible. I'd say these things weren't in the Veil per se, but certainly there was a... connection. Something could have happened to spur it on either side."

Another sip of the drink. "Perhaps we should visit Veil City Hall again. Perhaps there are some kind of records there that might be relevant."

Grant pokes at his tater tots and listens. "Well we can see when I'm not working and when Sparrow's not in class, and when y'all aren't working and pick a time and go over and say hi." He looks to the door and back to them, "I think she's got the language skills to know like what to ask about this weirdness. I mean she speaks dream stuff,, and you know the way V." Looking up to Ravn he says "We can carry their books and try to figure it out. I've never been there. Sounds kinda neat though. " Looking back to Vyv he sighs and leans sideways so that the side of his arm nudges Vyv's. "I'm really tired of this town not appreciating my damn people. I'm really sorry the two of you are going through this."