2020-09-13 - Morning Walkers, Morning Runners

Dawn is breaking. The sky is growing light in the east and the grass along the path skirting the edge of the forest glisten with drops of dew; thousands of tiny diamonds scattered by the careless hand of some unnamed deity of the morning. The air is fresh and damp and while the day will no doubt be warm and pleasant, the breeze uses the first little sharp teeth of winter on the faces of the joggers and wanderers who have ventured outdoors this early. In another hour the sun will chase the chill from the shadows but the warning is imminent; winter is coming, also outside of TV shows with disappointing season finales.

One of these wanderers with a face kissed red by the morning air is Ravn Abildgaard. The Dane wanders along the path, hands deeply buried in the pockets of a black leather jacket, letting his feet take him where they want. One might think for a moment that he's yet another newcomer to town stupidly wandering up to the old sawmill, thinking that just because everyone else has failed, he is the right man to tackle its ghosts and mysteries. But then he walks on past the fork in the path, taking a route that will eventually lead him to the beach and back towards the marina.

He whistles slightly as he walks -- a bar or three of Mack the Knife, though what prompted him to think of the Three-Penny Opera heaven only knows.

Early morning finds Gray Harbor's Crim Psych on her morning run. She is wearing a sunshine-yellow sports bra above a pair of grey running leggings, and a pair of well-used running shoes. All of this is topped against the morning bite with a grey, zip-up hoodie that is, at this point in her run, unzipped. The woman has the color in her cheeks and the easy rhythm to her breathing that labels her as a regular, practiced runner of some distance. Her hair is drawn back in a high pony-tail and a band is swept around her head to keep stray wisps of hair out of her face.

"On your left," she calls out as she runs up behind Ravn and passes him, with a brief side glance as she strides by with a whoosh of morning air and the scent of woman and ocean left behind. Six strides.

It takes six drops of her feet to the path before she abruptly halts her run and whirls around to stare at Ravn as if he were either a figure of her imagination or somehow walking somewhere that he shouldn't be, due to some arcane rule that doesn't exist -- it's a strangely welcome-yet-accusatory expression. The incongruity really shouldn't startle her as much as it does, given they first met on the beach. The man has now earned himself and outdoorsy-descriptor in her mind. Hands on her hips, shoulders rising and falling as her breathing takes longer to ease back to regular respiration rates, she regards him with that sharp, pale blue gaze, either watching him approach her or watching him stop as well. Hands on hips, breathing leaving slight puffs of condensation in the cool morning air, she waits for him to say something. Not unlike the last time. Except this time she can see him.

Ravn steps aside at the sound of footfalls, still whistling softly to himself, mind clearly preoccupied -- and then comes to a stop when he realises that the runner that overtook him did not keep on running. He refocuses on the reality that his body is currently occupying, and recognition flashes across steel grey eyes, settling in a lopsided smile. "Beach ghost!"

That serious look, though; the copper blond straightens up somewhat and takes his gloved hands out of his coat pockets, quirking one eyebrow. "I didn't startle you this time, did I? I wasn't trying to be quiet."

He really wasn't. He was whistling a tune from a three hundred years old opera, for one. That really ought to disqualify anyone from 'trying to be quiet', even if the opera in question is about a stealthy asshole of a highwayman. He's still got that all black look of someone you don't want to meet in a quiet place in the woods or the beach down pat, though -- even if it is very likely entirely unintended.

"Romantic sea-stalker," Olivia retorts with more warmth than her expression initially displays. The 'romantic' bit in reference to being a romantic rather than behaving in a romantic fashion. But he can misconstrue all he likes. Plus, there is the benefit that it does sound like an obscure ocean creature. Her smile finally curves into view. Sweaty and flushed, definitely not wearing a bohemian dress this time. she crooks a finger in invitation. "I don't smell that bad, and you were walking this way anyway. Get your Danish ass over here and keep moving with me or my muscles will complain." Her blue gaze does flicker down at those hands that are yet again clad in gloves. The woman doesn't miss much by way of minutia. The sweat and warmth may be working together to cool her down rather too quickly, also.

"No, no. You surprised me, but any startling was my job this time around since I came up behind you. I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Ravn." Round minus the 'd'. Or ever? Somewhere between the two is the actual answer. "Does the whistling mean your spirits are high this morning, or are you out hunting spirits?" She plays with the word, probably intentionally. Her breaths are slowly returning to non-exertion breaths, shoulders not quite as visibly moving.

Ravn starts walking again, trying to fall into stride walking. "I can't run," he warns. "Not only am I not wearing the right shoes for it -- I'm asthmatic. The cold air would have me curled up in a ball of coughing in ten minutes or less."

The lopsided smile lingers as he shakes his head. "Everyone, and I do mean everyone, has warned me against that sawmill. I figure I'll be smarter than the average curious foreign academic in a Hollywood movie, and actually stay away from it for now. I don't even own a suitable red shirt to put on, after all. I was just... Walking. I like walking when the streets are quiet and everyone is asleep. You can learn a lot about a town from just wandering its streets and lanes, looking at things -- and no one disturbs you at this hour. Unless, of course, you run into a raccoon or a police stake-out. Guess which I managed."

He can't run. Olivia listens, dips her chin, walks alongside the Dane. "Let's avoid you curled up in a ball on the trail at this hour of the morning." Because other hours would be acceptable?

As they walk she splits her attention between the path, what's ahead, and glances to Ravn's profile -- with a look or two at those gloves again. "Well, you have to weigh your options. If you're looking for a near-death experience, or to become a ghost yourself, I think the sawmill is an excellent choice." She states, as if she were a sommelier of dangerous life choices. He makes a red shirt joke and her attention skips back to his face with surprised amusement. "Star Trek fan, or do you just have your toe dipped that deeply into American pop culture?"

He was walking while everyone was asleep, while it was quiet. "Yes, in my data set of two entire encounters, you certainly seem to keep to the hours most people are asleep." No one disturbs you at this hour. Here Olivia's laughter, warm and throaty, lifts up into the dew-tipped trees as they walk. "I don't know if you can say that, this morning, Ravn. I think I have disturbed your walk not-to-the-sawmill while in the company of just your thoughts and the wildlife." She keeps walking, and she'll keep the pace as fast as Ravn will move, though it's not pressuring. One can tell such things. "So you ran into a raccoon at a police stake-out? How intriguing for you." She considers this, then adds, "If you knew it was a stake-out, then they weren't doing their jobs very well." This information is more pertinent to Olivia than Ravn yet knows.

"Did you tell me the other night what you are doing for a job here in Gray Harbor and I missed it somehow? Or are you rich aristocracy slumming with the average populace of the Pacific Northwest?"

Ravn walks at a brisk pace at least. "I may have watched a number of episodes as a kid. And teen. And adult," he says with a slightly sheepish grin. "I'm more of a Next Generation boy than Original Series -- though I think that the red shirt thing is really so deeply ingrained in pop culture anywhere that you don't even need to know where it's from to get it. I'm not red shirt enough to ask the police what they're doing either; when a police officer tells me to bugger off, I bugger off. Whatever makes a police officer hide on a porch at three a.m. is not something I should take too much interest in, I figure."

He raises one hand and wiggles his fingers a bit at the woman next to him. "The gloves are for protection. I have a sensory disorder -- touching things without some kind of protective layer is not very pleasant. Feels a bit like I imagine how it'd feel to stick your fingers into an electrical outlet." This is clearly something he's been asked many times before -- or not asked, as it may be. It's evidently not something he's ashamed of, either. The kidskin gloves are sleek and fits his fingers perfectly; they were probably not bought in a dollar store. His fingers are long and slender, the kind that sometimes get described as a surgeon's or pianist's hands.

That last question clearly startles Ravn, though; he pauses and a frown darts across his face before it's gone again, as swift as the dew drops in the grass must fade before the power of the Sun. He shakes his head. "I clean tables at the beach bar -- Two if By Sea. They let me take over the bar every now and then when it's not too busy too, I'm still learning -- some of the things people insist on mixing into a cocktail glass are bloody bizarre. It's a pretty fun job -- I get to meet a lot of people, and show off a little. Used to do a bit of sleight of hand at fun fairs, still know how to juggle a few things."

So Ravn is the sort to watch for ghosts on the beach, but he is not the sort to have a precarious interest in an ominous police presence. Don't think Olivia isn't comparing the two facts. She shakes her head with a small smile at the description of the universality of the 'red shirt' colloquialism. "So you buggered off. How did the raccoon come into play?" She clearly is a woman who is accustomed to hearing (or wanting to hear) the whole story, be it actual or contrived.

He addresses the glove conundrum and Olivia watches that hand with its wiggling fingers with obvious interest. "Central Pain Syndrome or something tipping more toward the psychological side of the scale?" Really, Olivia? You just met the man and you're questioning him about his medical history, both physical and psychological? Whatever the case may be, she went there. "Remind me not to show you that aspect of my Gift, then, Ravn," she murmurs mildly. "Is it all of your skin or just your hands in particular?" Yes. She asked about his body. Until he lowers his gloved hand/s, she continues to consider them, with just enough eye on the path to keep moving along smoothly.

"You're a busboy? With your hands ... well, that's impressive, I suppose. At the very least." And he either mixes or serves drinks. "I wouldn't have guessed that would be the job your wanderer's soul would choose of those available in Gray Harbor." Strangely enough, as strong as the words are, they're more observation than judgment. Almost entirely. She has air about her of lacking in judgment. One might think she did something professionally that involved that skill. "It's an interesting venue," she says of the Twofer. And she seems to mean it. "What's the strangest drink you've made so far?" Pure, playful interest. He also does sleight-of-hand despite the pain. That isn't what one would expect. She wonders about that for a dozen or so steps, her silences comfortable (at least for her).

"The raccoon turned out to be a police officer," Ravn replies with obvious amusement. "You hear something shuffling around on a porch, you expect it to be some animal, you know?"

He glances at his gloved hand and wiggles his fingers again. "Well, yeah. CPS. Though I can probably find you a few people who'll insist I'm messed up mentally too -- but hey, aren't we all. It's mostly my hands." No degree in psychology is required to tell that he's answered this question many times in his thirty years of life. His tone is not tired or resenting -- just matter-of-factly, this is a thing, I've got it, you are definitely not the first person to ask.

The lopsided smile turns into a small laugh, though, at the comment about busboys. "I'd just come into town and needed something to do, somewhere to stay. People put me up and directed me to a bar that needed a pair of hands. Beggars can't be choosers -- and besides, it really is surprisingly fun. I'm not sure I'd bail now if I got offered something else -- I've done some teaching in the past and it really was not for me. I absolutely hate having a class of students staring at me and taking notes of everything I say. I mean, it's probably what I'll end up going home to some day but I'm sure as hell not in any hurry."

The hand that Olivia is not watching dips into a coat pocket and a dollar coin appears. Ravn flips it with his right hand on to the left and it dances prettily on his knuckles. "It's not nearly as difficult as it looks like. Just takes a lot of practise. And, I think that's probably straight tequila. I mean, most cocktails are pretty much about getting alcohol to taste like anything but alcohol. And then there's those people who just want to be drinking paint stripper."

Olivia's laughter is bright and sudden, playing through the trees. That statement should be the punchline to some long, drawn out amusing, joking anecdote. "I can think of a few other things," she answers with a mild tone once the laughter has ebbed.

"How do you compensate?" She presses on. "Surely the gloves can't be enough to stave off discomfort or pain." As for psychological possibilities, they might just be in the forefront of the mind of the blonde in running clothes and damp skin.

Beggars can't be choosers. "I'll be honest, Ravn: my antennae aren't usually this off when it comes to reading a person. You don't strike me as someone in need of money so much as someone in search of the right diversion." But that's all the argument she'll give at the moment. Besides, it really is surprisingly fun. Olivia nods her head, clearly believing that, whether because of the work or the man doing it, that part isn't as clear. He's not a fan of teaching -- which, given his academic field is unfortunate -- but it's right there that he adds some details that fill in the picture just a bit more for Olivia. It's probably what I'll end up going home to someday. "No. You absolutely don't strike me as a man in a hurry. At least not in most ways."

The coniferous forest is really quite lovely as the sun continues to rise. And Olivia shows no rush to get where-ever she was originally running. Not just now, she doesn't. She watches him deftly maneuver the large coin. It's interesting what he says: that it's more strange to serve alcohol straight up than to combine unusual couplings of liquids in cocktails. "Hmm," she replies. "What sort of person do you find tends to be more the straight-up type, or, conversely, the sort to want the most outrageous of cocktails?"

The coin does a spin and dances on to the other hand; the man can walk and make a coin do backflips simultaneously. Maybe Ravn can pat his own head and rub his belly at the same time too. "Mostly I just don't think about it. I stay warm -- it helps with both, the asthma and the CPS. That's why you see me wrapped up in a coat while you're wearing, well, enough to not get arrested."

"I came through Seattle pretty good -- lots of tourists there," the copper blond murmurs somewhat evasively. "And the pay at the Twofer isn't bad at all for an entry-level job that doesn't require any qualifications. I don't pay a lot of rent, either, living on a leased boat. But you're not wrong. I do have somewhere to go home to, and I don't need to worry about the price of the plane ticket when I decide to go. Everyone's running from something. I'm running from boredom, largely. " Ravn grins and adds, "Straight shots for physical types, mixed drinks for the more brain wired. Except when they want to prove that they're buff and tuff too."

With a glance sideways and the coin spinning on a gloved fingertip he finally decides to get a question of his own in: "So what do you do, when you're not being accused of premature hauntings by random foreigners on beaches?"

The unlikely duo stroll along together, he all wrapped up in his leather and looking like he ought to be in magazine ads on the high end side of things, she looking like a woman who already ran five miles this early in the morning. Despite the perspiration and the mussy hair, there's a certain elegance to the woman that isn't quite erased by the incredibly casual circumstances. Add to that her genuine interest, that relentlessly inquisitive aspect, and her easy-going demeanor, and it's not an unpleasant stroll. Though who's to say what an introvert like Ravn is truly feeling just about now?

She listens when he speaks of Seattle, about his work at the Twofer, his rent and living space, and then the agreement that he is indeed a person of some means: all of this with dips of her chin here, sidelong glances from her startling blue eyes there, and quiet murmurs manifesting that interest now and again. He's running from boredom? "You came to the right place, be it fate or serendipity." Her laughter is warm but behind closed lips as he identifies the types who order which sorts of drinks. "The tips any good? Any rowdy, uncooperative drunks? I'll bet both the men and the women are constantly hitting on you." Buff and tuff indeed.

She's watching that coin spin when he slides in his own question. She's surprised he resisted as long as he did, and likely attributing that lack to several most likely causes. "I'm a Criminal Psychologist," she answers quite bluntly. "Some people like the word 'forensic' better, but it all simply boils down to a job at the GHPD. Though you'd be surprised how much of my time I spend being accused of premature hauntings. It's a problem. I'm working on it." Blue eyes sparkle with the last bit.

Ravn laughs softly again and shakes his head, also again. "Not really. I mean, this Swedish chef thing, it's pretty insane. Tourists keep asking me to sign napkins and whatnot for them. I have started stealing and hiding every Sharpie in sight, though, because some of those young ladies apparently think that my name would make the best breast tattoo ever. There's some kind of joke about chicken breast in there but I honestly find it bloody embarrassing when some teenager starts taking off her t-shirt in the middle of the bloody bar. Apart from that, though -- no, it's not really a problem. I'm not really someone who attracts a lot of that kind of attention. Thank God for that."

Olivia's response to his inquiry about her occupation gives him pause a moment, though. And then, another small laugh. "Sorry. That surprised me. I'm usually pretty skittish around law enforcement. Didn't have you pegged in that department at all. No wonder you wonder about me popping up at odd times in odd places, wearing gloves and whatnot. Did I officially make the serial killer list yet?"

He's joking. Probably.

"What Swedish chef thing?" Olivia hasn't yet tapped into the gossip lines in town in the few short months since she returned to Gray Harbor. Her steps slow until she's simply staring at him, lips parted, listening as he gets to the part where young women want him to scrawl his very Danish name across their breasts. She tries to refrain from laughing. She really does, but it's a losing battle. She lifts a hand to press her palm to his shoulder and stops herself just before doing so (while still laughing), perhaps thinking even such a light touch might cause the man pain. She hasn't entirely diagnosed what she thinks his condition is really connected to. But she respects it; she respects him.

Not someone who attracts attention? Has he looked in the mirror recently. Olivia regards him levelly for quite some time. It's the kind of gaze that questions the very statement that preceded it, that announces clearly: 'bullshit'. But there's no verbal argument.

She watches him react to the answer about her job with some amused interest. "I'm not really the 'enforcement' part of the law. I'm what you might call the motive investigator, or the chick with all the questions, that gal who sees a little more than most people do. But as far as stake-outs and raccoons go? That's not in my purview. I don't carry handcuffs or a gun..." Her blue eyes sparkle. "...most of the time." She gives it a moment, then inquires quite sincerely, "Do you feel skittish around me, Ravn?"

He goes into her wonderings about his wanderings and his gloves. "Honestly? All of that was entirely off-duty curiosity. You're an interesting person, even for a man with a vision problem." The dry teasing is left to hang on its own right there. Has he made the serial killer list? "The better question is, Ravn, do you want to make the serial killer list? I mean, if it's an aspiration, I do have some connections and a little bit of pull." How much of this can he take while they both stand there on the earthen path as the sun truly starts to warm the day? They're not so far from the trail head now.

"Honestly?" Another small laugh from the man in black. "Yes, a little. You just told me you're law enforcement. I don't have what you'd call a criminal past but I've worked enough as a carnie and small-scale confidence artist to have a solid programming of Fuzz In, Ravn Out. Mostly because every police force consists of ninety-nine good people who are doing their jobs to the best of their ability, trying to keep us all safe -- and one asshole who lives and breathes to make drifters and buskers miserable in any way he can. That last guy sours the experience. Don't worry, I promise to not run away screaming. Because, you know, asthma."

Ravn waves his hand a little, clearly joking on the last bit. The coin jumps up his forearm, then back down. He grins slightly at the inquiry about criminal ambitions. "Hell no, I don't want to be a serial killer suspect. I was for a few minutes though, I think. At least it was sort of up in the air -- I mean, you'll have heard of that Sumerian sacrifice killer, yes? There's someone identifying him by saying he looks like me. And here's me being suspicious foreigner who conveniently turns up a week or two before the first murder and always wears gloves, leaving no finger prints. I can prove I wasn't in the US at the time of the original murder in Spokane, but yeah, I can see why the idea at least went through the detective's mind."

Then he hitches one shoulder in a slightly theatric sigh. "The Swedish chef thing though? That's just insane. For some reason the whole bloody world has convinced itself that I'm basically Swedish Gordon Ramsay. That I'm in town to do some kind of reality TV show. It's happened to a lot of people here over the last few weeks, not just me. There are people who have been hit really hard. For me, it's just annoying and frustrating. For some people the stories are bad enough that they're looking at maybe losing their businesses or livelihoods. And that poor girl who's been granted thirteen kids and two husbands, I mean, good lord -- she's what, twenty? People who don't have the -- shine thing, they gobble it up. It's true. Even if I can barely boil an egg without setting the kitchen on fire. I had someone help me try to find proof that I'm not bloody Swedish, but even the people I literally grew up with are convinced I'm actually not Danish at all."

He's honest with her (or claims to be). That's something. His carnie-con-artist past. Dirty cops. She can understand the sentiment, though if it is pervasive enough for him to catch her in that net of skittish reaction, it's a pretty grand scale. "I'm no angel, myself. I'd tell you you're safe with me, but if you already are uncomfortable or mistrusting because of my career, the words really aren't very potent, are they? It's definitely a conundrum. But I can return to my run if you'd feel more at ease and if you'd like your early morning solitary stroll back." The woman means it, it's there to read in her eyes. Or she's crazy manipulative and a phenomenal liar. Poor Ravn.

Her attention skips to the jumping coin, follows it for a bit before she looks back at him. "Honestly? The Confidence-Man life has always intrigued me. Maybe someday when you trust me enough to share a drink and swap stories, you'll tell me about that part of your life." Or maybe he'll avoid her in the future whenever their paths might cross. He goes into the murders that he discussed in such detail with the town's effervescent librarian, and there is a bit of a dip to her chin. It may just be that Olivia is in on the scoop there, from the law enforcement angle. That sort of profiling is right up her proverbial alley. "You don't strike me ..." Nope. She was slipping into work mode there and she's trying not to spook the Dane further.

The Swedish chef thing. "Maybe you are Gordon Ramsay and your mind has convinced you otherwise, she muses as if she had partaken of some particularly good weed and was considering all the ways reality could turn on its ear. With humor. "More seriously, that sounds like quite an aggravating state of affairs, all Sharpies aside." She looks faintly surprised. "People from places other than Gray Harbor are sharing this delusion? That's a new one for me. I say roll with it. It's going to tail around behind you for awhile until whatever shady chicanery wears off. Might as well toy with it and have a little fun. Not the actual cooking, I mean. But adding wildly interesting details added here and there, perpetuating the story in a direction that you choose could at least return some of the efficacy back to you." She rolls her shoulders in a shrug that's less apathy and much more laissez-faire. "But that's me. I like games." As he might recall.

Ravn shakes his head. "Like I said -- ninety-nine good ones. I don't have anything to hide; old habits die hard, that's all. You don't need to keep moving or leave me alone, officer, I'm pretty sure you're not coming after me with a warrant." A small chuckle and then the Dane shakes his head, smiling lightly. "I don't know that small time hustler life is quite as exciting as Hollywood would have you think it is, but if you want to know about it, sure. I guess I did break a few laws on a very technical level but that's what carnies do, and everyone expects them to. When people go to a fun fair or a boardwalk and they seek out carnies, they know they're about to get fleeced. The game isn't whether that'll happen -- it's whether they can tell how. Everyone involved knows that it's my job to entertain them and rip them off while they try to figure out how I'm doing it. People like feeling smart. They'd stay the hell away if they didn't, but they can't resist the urge to figure out the grift. If someone was actually to call the police about being cheated in the three cups one nut scam, your colleagues would laugh them out of town."

"The Dane's tone grows a bit more serious. "The chef thing is not a big problem for me. Annoying, absolutely. But manageable. It's a lot worse for some of the other people who have been hit. Imagine some red baseball hat nut job going to take a shot at the supposed Russian spy on the boat next to mine? Or Vydal losing his business because of the story that his chocolates are full of roaches? I know a woman who's in witness protection from her serial killer boyfriend -- except that the boyfriend never existed. It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt."

Olivia might be far less optimistic in terms of the percentage of cops who aren't such 'good ones', but if that's the case, she's not saying so. "You do realize I am not a police officer? I work in concert with law enforcement, but I don't have a formal badge, a sidearm, handcuffs, a taser, or a pretty-pretty hat to wear." She adds a moment for that to sink in before adding with the only hint at her caprice somewhere in those pale blues. "Most of the time."

Ravn goes on to talk about the hustler life and Olivia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her attentive gaze steady and sure. The posture she holds says she could spend the day right here and neither run out of queries nor lose interest. "Sure," she agrees at the idea of everybody looking for the rip off. "Is it hard to do that sort of thing with gloves on?" His description of that pursuit tells Olivia fascinating things about the person Ravn is. And where it is less clear, she makes her own inferences and theories.

Listening to the other examples of people who have been 'hit' by the misinformation explosion, Olivia just shakes her head slowly. "Any time the forces at work here dip a finger in our lives, it's very likely someone will get hurt. It's not matter of if so much as when. Olivia's damp skin has dried; fortunately for her the sun is now fully out so the chill that would have been significant in the cool-wet of the early morning . She glances at the athletic watch on her wrist and narrows her eyes slightly. "I probably should get a move on. There's a desk full of work waiting for me, along with some interesting interviews I'd like to prepare for. "Ravn, I want to respect your ability to escape all connections to law enforcement, but if you'll let me, I'll give you my cell phone number. Then it's entirely up to you if you want to get in touch." The offer is made without much of an ado; she looks as though she will be content either way. It's his choice.

"No, I don't, actually?" Ravn offers a lopsided smile. "I have next to no idea about the workings of law enforcement, and particularly not in the US. My frame of reference is pretty much Hollywood, and I suspect that cop life is a lot less exciting than pictured on TV. I mean, I kind of hope so, for your sake. Although in this town..." He trails off a moment. This town indeed. Contesting the blonde's point about people getting hurt seems futile; the death toll in just the month he himself has been in town is up to at least eight. Sometimes, you cannot argue with facts, however much you want to. Sometimes you just need to be glad that you're not on that list of eight, and that you didn't know any of them personally.

Ravn glances at his hands again and shakes his head. "Doing tricks with gloves on is not harder for me, but I've worn gloves all my life. I imagine that I'd have to re-learn a lot of things if I was to try to practice sleight of hand without them. I'm not entirely convinced it'd go very well, to be honest. I pretty much only take my gloves off in the shower and when I sleep."

The Dane dips into a coat pocket only to produce a cell phone homed in a bright, sparkly pink Hello Kitty casing. "You misunderstand me, though. I have no reason to run away from the police here, and you've done nothing to make me feel that I ought to. I just meant that yes, it sticks on some level -- when you're someone whom officers tend to chase off, then you do end up with a sort of semi-permanent bad conscience, even if it's a little silly. Barring a bit of boardwalk hustling I really am a quite dull and law abiding citizen." He holds the Samsung phone over for the psychologist to tap her number into. "Could also drop by the Twofer some night -- who knows, I might even manage to not poison you if it's my shift. Depending, of course, on what your poison is -- I make no guarantees when it comes to cocktails with more than five ingredients."

She tried. She really did. Olivia decides not to clarify further that she is not an officer, cop, detective, or anywhere else on that ranking of law enforcement officers. She tips a small smile at his confession about the nature of his understanding of 'cop life'. That's clear to her.

It's fascinating that a person can even do sleight-of-hand without the touch of skin and the use of nerve endings in the fingers. Her gaze settles on Ravn's gloved hands for quite some time. Shower and sleep. "You must feel naked without them," she supposes. "When did you first start wearing gloves?" She really can't help herself when it comes to diagnoses.

Annnnd out comes a phone in an utterly unexpected case. Olivia's blue eyes twinkle as she reaches for the phone. He trusts her to put her contact information in his phone. So he gets her first and last name (no Dr.) and her cell number. "Text me before you call --" if he calls "-- so I actually answer the phone." She could drop by the Twofer? "That's definitely a possibility. But you know I'm going to put your bartending skills to the test for my own enjoyment. If alcohol doesn't somehow end up on the ceiling, I'll have failed miserably." She can't be serious. "I enjoy all sorts of poisons," she assures. She clears the contacts screen and offers the bright pink phone back to the Dane. "I can truthfully say that you are excellent company, Ravn. It apparently wasn't a fluke the first time on the beach." She shifts on her feet once more and then says, "I've got to get to work." She kicks one foot back and pulls at her ankle to re-stretch the muscles there, then repeats the same with her other foot. "Good luck in the kitchen." The woman teases without remorse.

"I think I was eight? Nine? Something like that." Ravn offers that lopsided smile again. "My parents decided that if I was going to insist on it, well, fine -- at least I wasn't climbing trees or swimming in the pond unsupervised or something. I do feel naked without them now -- it becomes a habit, you know? I don't wear just any gloves though. These are thin enough that I can easily feel contours and textures through the fabric."

The phone disappears back in its designated pocket as he watches her stretch. "If alcohol ends up on the ceiling I suspect Bennie might have a few things to say to me about juggling bottles. A few things along the lines of 'please don't do that with the expensive stuff', probably. Or, 'this is why we can't have nice things, Ravn -- get a mop and a bucket, Ravn'. Come by some evening -- it's a pretty nice and relaxed place, particularly after the worst of the afternoon crowd clears out and the out-of-town yachters go back to their floating mansions."

That parting repartee, though. That gets a wince. A theatrical wince. A woebegone look from blue-grey puppy eyes that are perhaps not entirely serious. "Don't blame me when you folks find out people are dying en masse and it's due to my cooking. Enjoy your run -- officer." Cheeky bastard.

It's such a beautiful morning. The diamonds of drew on the grass sparkle and dry away, paving the way for one of those bright fall days where the sky is brilliantly blue and everything seems to be getting a few last moments of glory in, before the cold and dark and wet begins. Flowers along the sides of the path still grow and put their colours on display though the bees and butterflies have started giving very serious consideration to either dying off or finding somewhere nice, warm, and dry to hibernate. Birds are hailing the morning in bushes and trees and ignoring that in just a few weeks, many of them will be heading for warmer, more sheltered areas to the south. It's far too beautiful a day for something terrible or tragic to take place -- and thus, something along those lines are almost guaranteed to happen before the day is up.

This is Gray Harbor, after all -- everything is fine.