2020-10-07 - Pizza (Non) Delivery

Winter is coming, and not only in the tag-lines of questionable HBO series with highly questionable last season plot development. It is a very real concept not too many weeks away now, and the first boats are starting to disappear from the marina, hauled ashore to pass the winter safely away from the storms and the eventual ice. The ocean here will not freeze -- but as any yachter will tell you, the ice and salt will do a number on the rigging and the hull even so. Some boats are built to weather the winter -- the Vagabond is not one of them.

She's still in the water, but her occupant has begun preparing her for the change. He's currently going over the contents of the stow rooms under deck -- and though he'd swear he did this just a month ago when he leased her, he's still somehow managed to find a secret stash of softcore skin magazines anno 1983. He's taking a break now, sitting in the aft end of the boat, flipping through the pages of the top one and reaching the conclusion that seriously, his parents' generation was odd. And probably high most of the time. Also, hot pants that look like they trim the bush for their owner are in fact not all sexy, and neither is John Travolta in tight white pants.

But the stars are out and the weather is still good, if chilly. Enjoy the season while it lasts -- if Washington weather continues to act like Denmark weather, Ravn reasons, everything will be slush and drizzle and winter flu from November 1. Enjoy it, indeed, while it lasts.

He probably wouldn't hear her coming, the soft wash of the water lapping at boats all around the Vagabond masking most of any gentle footsteps from tennis shoes on the wharf. Finally spotting the little boat, Zoey grins to herself as she makes her way to the nose of it, calling up at the little bit of Ravn that she can see, "Ahoy!" It's the limit of her nautical phraseology, "Something something come aboard, Skipper?" Okay, maybe some of it came from hours of Gilligan's Island as a child. In her hands, she holds up a bottle of bourbon and another bottle of flavored vodka, "I come bearing headaches!"

Ravn looks up -- and down -- and up again with a slightly comical expression. Of course skin magazines exist and of course everyone knows they do. That does absolutely not mean that he is comfortable with the idea of a person of the female persuasion walking up with him sitting with a pile of them, -- and really bad ones at that. He quickly elbows the pile back into the box he found them in, still sitting on the seat next to him, and waves.

"Come on out! Offerings of headaches surely can't go bad. Just, before you do -- tell me, you're not one of those people who... pick up on things by touching them, are you? Because I feel I should definitely warn you about this boat first if you are."

Zoey pausing as she sees the gaudy pictures on the covers of those magazines, Zoey grins at the flashes of flesh color. Couple that with his scramble to hide the mags, she is stepping onto the boat already teasing him, "Oh, you don't have to hide your girly-mag stash from me, Ravn, it's okay. I'm a modern girl." Trying to figure out how to negotiate her way from the front of the boat to the back, she is tucking a bottle under one arm to free her hand to hold onto things as those small feet pick their way. "Nice boat!" comes a happy chirp.

"You can have them if you like vintage porn," Ravn murmurs and determinedly ignores his own embarrassment. "She is a nice boat. But before she was my boat she had a... history. When I took over the lease she was painted in mint green, hot pink and lead grey, and I tell you, I have found more old weed stashes, pills, and porn magazines than anyone should be able to fit into her stow compartments. Locals in the marina still tell me about the adventures they used to have on her, when they were teenagers. That's why I asked about the reading thing -- touching her actually makes some people highly uncomfortable because they ... well, they see what happened here."

Zoey gives a non-commital shrug to the offer, mostly focused on finally alighting safely on the back deck of the boat. "Sounds like an old party boat, then, right?" she helpfully points out, once more holding out a prized bottle of bourbon... whatever brand the liquor store clerk declared was the top of the middle-class bourbons! Pausing at the words, she looks around, "I don't think that I've ever 'read' anything like what you are saying..."

"Party boat is probably a good word for it. Floating whorehouse is another. Either way, she's clean. Now. Let me find a couple of glasses so we can pretend to be civilised people." He disappears under deck -- though that does not remove him from Zoey's line of sight given the relatively small size of the sail boat. The cabin comprises a seating area and small kitchenette, and up front, another small area that probably counts as the sleeping section. A cat lies curled up there -- a small, black thing that raises its head long enough to send Zoey a green look of I don't care who you are, all the tuna on this boat belongs to me.

"Little Miss Hospitable there is Kitty Pryde," Ravn says and fishes two plastic cups out of one of the boat's small cabinets. "I'm afraid I don't have proper shot glasses -- generally, anything easily breakable is not a great idea on a boat that actually sometimes leaves the harbour, unlike most of these fancy house boats and catamarans around us. So what brings you out here tonight, besides an obvious urge to bribe me with bourbon?"

Zoey makes a little 'Oh' face, a breathed word to match, but she finds a place to sit her butt down until she gets used to the water-rocking. As Ravn disappears, she says a bit louder, "Nice night out, too. You can see so much more sky down here. I bet it's amazing out on the water!" A grin is given as she ducks and looks in, waving to the cat like a people, "Miss Pryde," she says with all of the courteousness that she can muster. "Oh, just get plastic cups, I'm not fancy," Zoey says with a chuckle, "Got any food to go with? Bread or cookies or something?"

"Actually, I have a packet of fry bread. I have no idea what that means because I haven't opened it yet. But it contains chili and looked exciting, and someone told me it's a Native American recipe, so I have absolutely got to try it. I'm afraid I don't really run much of a kitchen here -- I do have a fridge, but honestly, me and cooking... Although apparently, lobsters are my thing now." Ravn emerges with the plastic cups, scooping up a packet of not entirely awful looking flatbread from the shelf. "I'm absolutely willing to call for a take-out delivery if you're starving, though."

She just laughs, for that answer went /everywhere/. By now, though, she has opened the screw cap of the vodka and upended the bottle to her lips once settled into someplace to relax on the deck. "Lobsters? Oh /this/ has to be a story," the redhead laughs as he emerges back out into the cool evening air, where already the purples and violets of sunset are fading into cobalt blues and midnight black. "They deliver here? Wow! Yes, I'll spring for pizza if you're in? I'm a straight pepperoni and 'shrooms girl, take me or leave me."

"I'm absolutely in." Ravn dips into his pocket -- for once he is not wearing a blazer but a leather jacket, possibly in deference to the turning of the seasons -- and procures a cell phone housed in a bright, sparkly pink Hello Kitty cover. "Any rumours of me having the local delivery service on speed dial are absolutely founded in reality." He taps away at it -- probably one of those people who do indeed download the app and get a free soda with every eight delivery.

Then he looks up. "There's a story all right, and thank heavens for it. Remember the Swedish celebrity thing? That's been... edited. And by edited I mean that if you go look up last week's National Enquirer, the story of me roofying a girl here on this very boat never happened and thus, never got printed. There has to be a story, apparently -- but the new one is that I'm some crazy foreign guy who in all seriousness trains combat lobsters and runs an illegal seafood fight club. Here, on this boat, the designated Discowhore as Vyvyan Vydal calls her." He shakes his head lightly. "Gray Harbor, you kind of get used to it."

Zoey raises an eyebrow at the Hello Kitty phone, but it only goes as far as a smile, finding it adorable. Even for Ravn. As she listens, he opens up about the roofie incident, which furrows her forehead just a bit in concern, "Seriously?" Like, that all doesn't even really /go together/ in her head so much as it sounds like the ramblings of some blathering idiot. "Fighting lobsters? Wow, Ravn, you have some crazy-ass friends," she snorts before taking up the offered cup and pouring herself a healthy drink.

"I do at that, but the lobster thing is all me. Or rather, it's all what the Veil thinks funny to throw at me -- but, rather crazy foreigner than rapist, you know?" Ravn reaches for the bourbon bottle. "May I? You get used to it. I know I've said so before, probably too many times, but it's still true. You learn to appreciate when things are happening that may be ridiculous, sure. Idiotic, definitely. Embarrassing, probably a bit. But no one is getting hurt, and honestly, a man doesn't die from being laughed at a bit."

Beat. "Besides, the locals who turned up last night for the first fight night were actually quite charming. Very small town rustic. Very enthusiastic, some of them. Because of course the Veil doesn't just give me this story, it also provides thirty lumberjacks with a secret passion for illegal crustacean combat."

Zoey easily hands over the bottle, even adding a little "oh yeah, this is for you" flourish as she does. "Just seems too crazy," comes her admission, leaning back against whatever box is behind her, "I can't say that I'm sad that I've so far missed out on the crazy. It's been quite enough to handle already." A sip of her berry-flavored vodka as she watches him speak, causing a small smile, "You're charming, Ravn. You're a person that has a good soul, I think. You're nice to hang out with."

Ravn pauses a moment in pouring himself a generous shot of bourbon and actually looks a little flustered. "I think I'm just as... knocked on my arse as you are. I've just been here just that bit longer that on some level I've come to accept that it's just... how stuff works. It's crazy. It's insane. It's very often murderous. But most people here are --really good people. Gray Harbor seems to sort of bring out the true colours in folks after a while. Maybe it's that feeling of being at war. You have to rely on the other blokes in the trench. Or realise that you can't, and get the hell over in another trench. And we need to get you introduced to people here who really do know what they're talking about, and aren't just trying to show off or impress."

It might be coincidence that Zoey cozied up to the deck box that was near where Ravn was seen tucking the nudie mags away, for she is casually poking at them as they talk. "It's surprising," she does admit, in a soft voice, "That people here are as nice as they are. Maybe it's because it's out in the sticks, people are more 'country', but I have had a great time waitressing at the waffle place. I don't get nearly the assholes and attitudes that I did in Vegas. In that town, it didn't matter /what/ shift you took, people were mean and self-centered." Giving his words a bit of thought, "It's scary to think that I'm walking into a war, though." Fixing Ravn with a wary look, "Okay?"

"Yeah. It is. It's why people keep telling us to just get back on the bus and keep moving, after all. Gray Harbor is a war zone. My... boss just came back from the dead. Gone six months, presumed dead. Turns out he's been lost in a nightmare for all this time. The Veil dumped the man right into karaoke night at his own bar, wearing nothing but a grass skirt and looking like he escaped off the set of Jumanji. I wasn't there to see it but from what people have been telling me of the things he's talked to them about -- I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have made it six months in Jurassic Park." Ravn fiddles with his glass, swirling its contents. "But it's not all terrible. I do realise how it makes me sound, saying it, but I like it here. People here actually care what happens to other people. Just like you said -- it's not all assholes and attitudes everywhere."

The redhead just stares out over the water, gives an incredulous single laugh before upending the vodka to her lips for a rather -long- pull. Leaning her head back against the deck box, she sighs as she looks up through the rigging lines to the stars emerging out of the darkening skies above. "That's crazy shit," she says, trying to wrap her head around someone returning from the dead. "The gods must be crazy, or at least laughing their asses off," she notes wryly. Lifting her head, she lifts her cup this time, "To crazy, and those that help ya through it."

"I'll toast to that." Ravn raises his own plastic cup and clinks it against Zoey's. "And I think we should take Seth Monaghan's offer of giving us a few self defence pointers too. Knowing how to disable someone may come in handy. And I for one have no intention of starting to pack guns. Where I am from, guns are something you take out for shooting deer, not people."

A few nods before she agrees verbally, and even then it is a small voice, "Seth's offer sounds good... and if you're in, I'm in. That guy has a bit of a dangerous vibe, though, don't you think? And that paramedic guy from the coffee shop knowing kungfu?" She leaves those insinuations hanging out there, perhaps as she fits puzzle pieces together. A moment later, she lifts her cup to her lips with a 'huh' sound, "A war." Zoey is starting to get it.

"Yeah. There's a few others... Two kinds of people in particular that I kep running into here." Ravn sips the bourbon at last and looks at Zoey while he talks. "Fighting men of some kind -- most military, not all. And foreigners like myself. The Veil wants warrior types, and, apparently, it also has a thing for intellectual chew toys from abroad. Surprising amoung of European writers of some kind or other for a town this size, you know? My theory is that it likes for us to speculate -- but it's all theory. Everyone's got one around here."

Zoey snorts a bit, hands wrapping around her plastic cup of warmth, "I'm neither of those things, so maybe that's why I'm not thrown feet-first into the crazy?" A pause, "It's scary, as one might expect, but it's also sort of amazing to realize that it's all real. Like, all of it. Last night," she launches into a story, her tone changing from mystified to serious, "I was thinking to myself about how maybe those that we've committed to institutions aren't truly crazy, they're just sort of like us. They perceive things differently that their stupid doctors can't understand, so they get written off."

Ravn falls quiet a moment, perhaps searching his vocabulary for the right terms. Then he says, "I did that. Spent time in a mental ward, trying to explain to people that I see things. People, to be precise, dead people. I'm not a kid in a Bruce Willis movie, obviously, but that's -- pretty much what it's like, sometimes. I gave up after a while and signed myself out of treatment. But yeah, that's pretty much what it's like. You can't explain this to people who don't have the shine thing. There's no point in trying."

He is close enough to her that Zoey instinctively reaches out and touches him somewhere on the arm or leg, lending non-verbal support for what he is feeling, remembering all ofthat, for going through it. "I almost did. I was a cutter at fourteen, and they swore that I was seeing things," she whispers, curling up into a tight little ball as she hugs her knees. "I learned to cope, but it was hard," she adds a few moments later.

Ravn tenses slightly, surprised at the touch. Then, carefully, he brushes gloved fingertips over Zoe's arm in a similar gesture, brief and light. "But you saw things. That's what you're saying. You -- can tell whether people are telling the truth, I know that much. Medicine doesn't make that stop. It just makes it harder to control."

Zoey gives a small, fragile smile at the mention of medicine, "I never took it. The medicine scared me more than the things I saw... the thought of not being in control of my own self was horrifying to me," she says with a note of total resolve. "But I learned to act complacent, the way that they wanted me to be, and eventually I wasn't watched constantly," Zoey says with a faraway look, "I left as soon as I could, never looked back. I've been out on my own ever since."

Ravn sips his bourbon again. "I've always seen people others didn't see. Learned to keep quiet about it as a kid. Then -- my life broke pretty bad some years ago, and I kept seeing some very specific dead people. That's why I ended up just getting up and leaving in the end. Been pretty much running since. Staying here, I know they'll catch up eventually. But, I also know that now I live in a town full of people who routinely tie knots on nightmare monsters, and honestly? A couple of ghosts are going to have put on rather much of a show to impress anyone who grew up here."

The redhead's brow furrows at this story, at this image of the reality that she is currently immersed in, and somehow it all pulls at her heartstrings. "Ravn," comes her whisper, "Someday, you'll tell me all the shit that you went through, in detail, and we'll bury it in a box under a tree somewhere. You and me, both, I think." Taking another sip of the vodka, she gives a small snicker, "Listen to us. Two broken souls caught in a whirlwind, and us talking like we're doomed. We're not doomed, are we? Tell me we're not. Tell me that I didn't do something stupid by staying."

Ravn takes a deep breath and tilts his head back a little to look at the scars. "Honestly? I think we probably shot down any hope of dying peacefully of old age, staying here. But I'm willing to die on the hill that the time we get here may be worth every bit of time we lose. I've spent the last couple of years just travelling, by myself. Alone. Never staying anywhere for long, never really connecting with anyone, just -- waiting for somebody to stab me for my wallet in some hostel, something. Life here matters. People matter. So at least to me, Gray Harbor is better. Even if it'll probably leave me dead in a ditch when it gets bored of me. Does that make sense to you?"

It is a long time before Zoey responds, instead taking two separate, full drinks from her cup before refilling it as she mulls over the implications of those words, the wisdom within. "It is nice to feel like you're welcome, not just alone like a leaf on a river," she says finally, looking at Ravn with a nod, "Feeling like I could somehow serve in whatever this war is, that's something that makes me feel better. Makes things not so bleak and useless."

"Leaf on the wind." Ravn cracks a small smile. "It's not just an expression from a sci-fi show, you know. In Danish, a leaf on the wind is someone who goes where the wind blows them. Someone without much purpose besides just... floating. That's who I am, or were. And now I'm not. Crazy lobster breeder? Sure. Anyone might actually notice if I don't turn up for work some day, or disappear? Yes. And that makes it worth it."

Zoey gives a giggle, "You breeding a lobster? That's a funny and gross image." A glance is given to the porn mags before she decides to reach out and pick a couple up. Straightening her legs, she lays the magazines on her lap and starts to flip through the top one slowly. "I'd notice," she volunteers, "I mean, if you didn't come into the waffle shoppe one morning, I think I'd wonder what happened. By afternoon, I'd be worried. I'd text you."

"I'm surprised our parents' generation ever managed to create us, considering their apparent tastes in that," Ravn grouses, glancing at the magazines with the dark look of someone who is honestly still quite embarrassed at the idea that he might actually own them. "I'm going to toss those off at the local historical archive in the morning for shit and giggles. I mean, it is local history of a fashion, this boat apparently is quite famous in some circles -- mostly the circles of those who were probably conceived on it."

He shakes his head lightly at the thought. "Are you up for -- telling me what it is you do? You heard Ignacio de Santos' warning about -- being careful about that, I know. Which, incidentally, you should absolutely heed, because de Santos is one of the people in town who really, really knows what he's talking about. August Røn is another -- he runs a gardening shop but he's also sort of the den father of a lot of folks with these abilities. And there's people like Aidan Kinney and Grant Baxter whom you never really register as anything more than a couple of colourful artsy folks, but in actuality, they are very, very powerful."

Zoey grins a little, "Why Ravn, am I hearing you correctly? This was high fashion back then, and the sexiest stuff around, I'm guessing! But no, you're tossing these out? That's a shame. I mean, there's some sexy people in here. And, I'm being serious, the /articles/ actually seem like something worth reading." That magazine is closed, set aside as she opens the next one. Looking up, she gives a shrug, "I don't /do/ much. I can move things by thinking about it, sometimes without thinking about it. I can feel people's feelings, at times, like, if they really do like my company or not. Fakers actually hurt."

"No, I was going to toss them at the historical archives in town, though I suspect they will probably toss them out." Ravn grins slightly. "So, basically, you're Deanna Troi. You've seen what I do -- I move small things. Although, to be honest, I'm better at just doing that with my hands. I did stage magic for a while. I pick a mean pocket too, should it ever prove handy. Not to brag, just -- fair's fair, you show me yours, I show you mine."

Zoey sits there flipping pages, not really seeing them, for a few moments. Finally, with a slow intake of a steadying breath... she holds her palm out... (pause for roll)

...and in that palm slowly starts to burn an ember, rising into a hover as it pulls in energy from the air around it. It is a pale blue glow that brightens and brightens, from a regular bulb level of yellow to an LED level of blue-white... and keeps going brighter. "I wonder if I would ever need to use something like this," she muses as she sits watching it bob and /glare/ in her hand. It's almost painful to look at.

Ravn watches with a small, appreciative smile. "See, something like that -- far beyond me. You've seen me levitate a fork. That's about as high as I go. I did shove a ten kilo bag of kitty litter off a shelf once, but I was royally pissed off at the time, and I doubt I could do it again just like that."

Then he laughs softly at something that strikes him as funny. "See, if I really was the kind of bloke who roofies women on his boat. Imagine being that guy in this town. Imagine trying to intimidate some poor woman, and then she does that. Heavens, I can think of a few times around hostels and buses where something like that would have come in insanely useful. There have been times I was very very glad to be six foot something and able to yell loudly in a foreign language, you know?"

Zoey puts out the blue-white flame by closing her head, leaning her head back and blinking up at the sky to clear her vision, laughing a bit. "I don't picture you as a club-creep, Ravn. I tend to pick on people like that pretty quickly. Knowing what I'm stepping into before he realizes that I've already figured out his game, that's always fun... but it's also horrifying just how many people out there think the ways that they do. A /lot/ of people are raging infernos of this and that, you can almost see it like an aura on them." Lifting her head, she grins, "I don't picture you as a victim."

"I'm definitely not. If I'm anything, I'm a bit oblivious, maybe -- at least people keep telling me that I am, you know? I have this friend. You absolutely need to meet him, wonderful bloke, plays the violin so that you hear the angels sing. According to him I'm about on par with your average wet brick when it comes to figuring out what people truly want. He's probably not all wrong, either. I am so used to just being on my own that I tend to either overthink and overtalk, or just sit there staring blankly." Ravn pauses. "But, we've got that in common, don't we? You don't like crowds either."

Zoey closes her eyes to the thought of such music, a cleansing breath. In her state of oncoming-inebriation, that imagery now playing in her head is blissful relief. A shake of her head, "I suck it up when I am working, but that's when I have things to focus on, like getting orders or wiping off messy tables. In a social setting? I'm as high-strung as a cat with all those people judging me, talking to me, expecting /answers/?! Like, sometimes I have to think about my answers, people, lest I come off as a complete idiot." A small grin as she sips from her cup some more, "Just used to being on my own, like you said. Maybe /why/ I was on my own."

"Yeah. Ignacio de Santos is the same way, if you ever need to talk to someone about it who isn't me." Ravn refills his plastic cup and glances down the pier. "Pizza's taking its sweet time. Anyway. Yes. I get anxiety attacks under pressure. It's why I gave up teaching. It's a little difficult to be telling thirty twenty-year-olds about the correlation between eighteenth century farm life and the archetypes of the supernatural for the same time period when your hands are shaking so hard you can't hold the chalk and you're hyperventilating."

"How are you and he, anyway, after the other day?" Zoey asks with seriousness in her soft voice, turning her head to look Ravn in the eye, "He seemed very upset with you." All anecdotal conversation seemingly slid to the side in favor of checking in with her only friend on that one off-kilter item that she was present for. "He seemed like a nice guy," she adds in, giving a swirl to her cup before refilling it, "so hopefully you two patched up?"

"We did. I went and apologised to him. That's the thing about de Santos, he doesn't carry a grudge. He tells you why he got upset, and then you can take that information and decide what you do about it." Ravn nods. "And as it happens, he's probably right. He told me that there are people in Gray Harbor who are absolutely playing for the other team. I didn't know that. I'm the oblivious bloke, remember? I assumed that if you're human, you're obviously on Team Humanity. But that's -- apparently not a given."

Zoey scrunches her nose a little, "Playing for the other team?" Clearly, it hasn't occurred that there were teams. The look on her face betrays the belief that she just (naively) assumed that all of the humans were on each other's team, not rootin for the ghosts and nasties. Another small piece of news that sends her mind reeling again at the implications, "Like... who?"

"I don't know who," Ravn replies and refills his cup a third time. Judging from his tone, this is something he takes very seriously -- very, very seriously at that. "That's the problem: You don't know. That's what had de Santos falling apart, listening to us going on there about how people show off to us new kids. That when they do that, they may just be announcing to that guy what they can do, that they exist. Which then is kind of the equivalent of rubbing mustard on themselves and going for a naked run around the lion's den, as far as the Veil people are concerned. I am going to take his warning very seriously. I can't do much -- but if that ever changes, I don't think I'm going to tell anyone I don't trust."

Zoey can't help but snicker at the imagery called forth by those words, hiding her mouth behind her hand as her tipsy brain cannot release the thought of a naked man smeared in mustard running in circles. This culminates into a sheer peal of laughter as it finally bursts forth, her hand slapping over her lips in an effort to stifle herself. Loud noises like that carry well over water. This is a serious subject, Zoey! Why are you laughing!!? She quickly waves her hand, apologizing in that way that someone does when they cannot breathe.

Ravn just shoots his eyebrows up and glances from her to the nudie magazine in her lap and back. That face says everything. All the wrong things. Somebody get a camera.

Zoey draws her feet up under her knees as she sits forward into a cross-legged pose, still laughing for a few seconds. Finally able to draw a breath, it's a big one, followed by a few lingering snickers before she can finally say, "I cannot, for the life of me, ever remember anything so funny! But.." Ahem, she swallows, shakes her head to get serious again, "Yes okay." WHOOOOO, she breathes out, eyes blinking wide, "So talking about these things in public, not a good idea. Yes, I get that."

"At least not assuming that everyone is friendly. But it's difficult because most people are, and most people want to help and to show off. Honestly, these days, I kind of try to show off with sleight of hand instead when the urge comes over me. Because from the point of view of those mustard eating lions, that's entirely vegetarian. Ravn can do a mean card trick at you, yay. No dinner to be had there. No attracting their attention." The Dane nods again. "But then I also have friends here who absolutely use their power to cheat at boardwalk attractions, or grow bird cages out of living trees, and those are some of the most experienced and powerful people in town, so who are we to tell them how stuff works?"

Zoey gives a helpless shrug, "I have no answer for that. I take my cues from you, for I've learned more about all of this, that has plagued me for my entire life, in the last couple days than I have all of my meager years." It's true. She's never really had anyone to explain this stuff to her in any way that seems applicable, honest and reasonable. "So we don't get flashy. I don't pour your syrup for you from across the waffle shoppe. It's not some teen-magic TV show, I get it." A thump as her head leans back again, "It's all I can do to just watch out for dangerous people, so hiding is easy to do."

Ravn leans back too. He's getting a tad tipsy, and the rocking motions of the boat are as calm inducing as the stars overhead are beautiful.

"You're right," he says after a minute or two. "I mean, that's what people like us do. Watch out for dangerous people. It's just that here, the dangerous people are real, and so are the monsters, and on some level that's bloody comforting because at least you know you're not crazy. You can absolutely live here and be happy here. Though like me, you probably need to find some kind of coping mechanism for when it goes badly. I'm still working on that part."

Zoey lifts her vodka, "I've known my coping mechanisms for a while now, this is one of them. The other isn't for polite company," she assures as she watches the stars. She, too, is starting to feel the dizzyness settle in like a fog on the cove. "One learns those coping mechanisms, when out on their own for a while," she says seriously, "Once you finally convince yourself that you're not crazy, as you say. I wondered, though, for a few years there. That can tail-spin you into a wild ride. It did me."

"Yeah. It can make you walk away from your entire life and hitch-hike to another continent, living in a backpack and making bus fare by playing the violin at random people in the street. I drank a bit too much for a while, too. Talked to myself a little too much. It's how it is. I'm promising myself to not do the coke and alcohol one -- seen that one go badly a few times too often." Ravn's voice grows a little wistful, in the manner of someone thinking of somewhere very far away. "Nothing wrong with needing a little pick-up and all. Except, at least to some of my friends, it stopped being a little pick-up somewhere along the way."

Zoey watches Ravn for a long time, living through that phase so recent in her own memory. Granted, she didn't jump continents, but she's walked away from life as she knew it. She watches his face and all of the experiences behind it as he speaks. Consideration given to the liquor in her cup. "Then let's make sure that we both keep both feet on the ground, then, hmm? We could make a good team together, watching out for each other," she says with a hopeful sound to her quiet voice, "Friends?"

"Friends." Ravn nods firmly. "And for what it's worth -- that's a pretty big word for me. I know, I know. Everyone says that. Particulary some half drunk bloke on a boat with a half drunk girl. At least this time there won't be somebody hiding on the next yacht over with a tele lens. My friend the violinist -- Itzhak Rosencrantz, you'll meet him, trust me -- used his shine to blow up the man's camera. Didn't stop he bloody paper from printing a story about us making out like rabbits right here." He pats the seat. "I'm so fucking relieved that's all over."

"I," Zoey declares with a lift of her vodka bottle, "tend to ruin friendships, Ravn, so don't go thinking that this will be some rainbow and unicorns tromp through a field of daisies!" Yes, she's tipsy, but giggly, "I've fucked my best friend's guy, I've called another best friend the worst thing that has happened to me since birth. I've done some doosies," she says with a sardonic smile. Then she gives a shrug, "I've given up thinking that I care about what others think of me. It's too painful, too much work. I live my life for me, not some imagined group of loving supporters that I have to maintain."

"I think I got you beat. I got told yesterday straight out that if I want to screw a friend, said friend's boyfriend won't mind in the slightest. Said out loud in front of several other people. I bloody well near fainted." Ravn pauses a moment. "I'm not interested in screwing said friend, incidentally. But, still. Wow. Anyway, yeah. That's actually one of the coping mechanisms someone recommended to me during my first week here, find someone who's up for that a lot. To each their own."

Zoey is silent for a few minutes before she asks, "Why not?" A pause, then, "I mean, why are you not interested in this friend?" She knows that she is treading painful territory here, so she is careful her voice showing it, "You seem to be very against being touched, I've noticed. Is that it? Or is it just this one person that you're not interested in that they're trying to hook you up with?"

"It's a bit of both," Ravn says, still looking up at the stars. "I have a touch disorder. Touching something I'm not expecting can be everything from unpleasant to outright painful. That's why I wear the gloves -- so I don't pick something up and feel like I grabbed on to a livewire. I mean, that obviously complicates things. And of course there's the part where I'm not gay. But also the part where I'm also the kind of bloke who ruin relationships. I'm far too much of a loner -- when you're with someone, they expect a lot of attention. Besides, I'm the kind of person who just don't -- notice. Rosencrantz telling me I'm oblivious -- and he's not wrong. I never notice that someone's dropping hints until they've given up and found someone else, and then I go -- oh. Oh well."

Zoey smiles just a touch at the gay comment, for it clear something up for her, at least. "Okay," she says in support of all of that confession, "So you're not a person with sexual needs. Nothing wrong with that." Pause, "So now I know why the gloves, too, so that helps. I'm not going to pile on with advice that is none of my business, and I don't want you thinking that I'm doing so. It's just that everyone is different. Learning what makes you you is interesting to me."

"I fell in love once. Just, it didn't work. We were in the process of breaking up when she died. That's what sent me spiralling." Ravn tucks his arm under his own head, and puts his booted feet up on the seat across from himself; you can have no manners like that when it's your boat, right? "I didn't pay enough attention to her, she said. On my end, started to realise I was going to marry my mother."

Zoey's hand covers her mouth and she stares at Ravn for the longest time, tears might even well up, visibly. It goes without saying that she is mortified by that whole revelation, and gives it several silent moments before she can be heard to whisper, "I'm so sorry." For everything, really, that this reveals.

Ravn shakes his head slightly in the fashion of someone who has, on some level, come to terms. "It's all history now. It was the feeling that she died because I was arguing with her about breaking up that got me. It's been five years since she died. I'm not going to fall apart now, just -- it's the sort of thing that stays with you."

She reaches and touches his clothed ankle, again subconsciously lending tactile support with love behind it. She just lets the stars twinkle above, the waves rock the boat, a heavy resolution of respect given for long minutes. "I've never done with with the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I always screw it up, somehow, too. When you can tell, at an intrinsic knowing level, how someone feels about you... they can't lie to you." A drink, "When they tell you that they love you, emphatically, and you can feel that they are lying to you just to get what they need from you... well, it comes to an end for me. Just be honest. You don't have to tell me you love me to play around."

Ravn cants his head and looks at Zoey before he nods. "Yeah, I figure that that would... seriously damage someone's trust in people. God, that must suck. You must get disappointed with people a lot. I'm sorry, that's just... Life really did screw you over on that one."

Zoey gives a shrug, "It cuts out all the bullshit, I've found. I can easily just know when someone is using me or paying me lip service of friendship. So, I find my time better served by myself, like you said." A swirl of the vodka in her cup, "Not that I don't miss friendships and boyfriends."

"You can have friends," Ravn points out and sits up just long enough to secure himself another shot. This is going to hurt in the morning. "And boyfriends. Just, your filtering process is a hell of a lot harsher than most. And maybe you should tell them up front if you feel they're jerking you around or lying to your face. Be up front or it's Bye Felipe. Let me tell you this -- working at the Twofer for a month, I can promise you that this town is full of people who are absolutely game for some noncommittal action if that's your thing. And they'll be pretty damn up front and honest about it too, from what I've seen."

"Oh, I do," she says with a knowing tone, "I am very honest with people, things are less painful that way." To the rest of the offered advice, she gives a shrug, "I don't like to think of myself as 'non-committal'. I rather prefer the term 'non-drama'. But when that conversation comes up, most people look at me like I have two noses, I avoid it." Thumbing through the porn mag in the meager light, she just looks at the most blurred of images idly, "Nothing freaks someone out like being interested in hearing about their Tinder date the night before."

"Yeah? Was it a good one?" Ravn grins and leans back.

"Hmmm? Wha?" She seems confused for a moment, "Oh, no... I mean, I asked /him/ about it... and it freaked him out that I wasn't flying into a rage about him seeing someone else. You woulda thought it was weird. He started yelling at me, asking why I wasn't upset." A page is flipped, "I just told him, maybe it made me happy that he was happy about it. I never saw him so confused. I was like, "Dude, she was cute"."

Ravn makes a duh kind of face. The kind that goes with a little gloved slap to his own forehead. "Right. I misunderstood that one. You meant Felipe absolutely wasn't going to tell you that he screwed Felicia last night but you picked up on it anyway. Yes. Definitely not the kind of person you want in your life. Have an open arrangement, fine, whatever works. Lie about it? Dump the asshole faster than a bushel of rotten apples. There, love advice from the prince of what are girls."

She gives an "I dunno" sort of shrug, "He just needed to be honest, and that's what I told him. He can fuck Felicia all that he needs to, just be honest with me, and don't lie." Another page turned, "Why can't people just be honest? I mean, they come off as though they want fights between people they care about. That doesn't make sense to me. Why can't a person have deep relationships and feelings with more than one person without someone getting all territorial over them?"

"I mean, I probably would. Get territorial, that is. But I'd have that conversation way before it got to that point." Ravn looks thoughtful. "Thing is -- and I am absolutely not sober enough to have this conversation which is probably why we're having it anyway. Thing is -- blokes, a lot of blokes get off on that. That they are in control. That they can absolutely have multiple women at the same time, because what they really want is the hunt. Once they catch the girl she's just... You know. Old goods. Pretty sure it goes the other way too, but eh. Heard a lot of blokes talk about these things while I was on the road. There's a lot of macho culture among carnies and grifters, kind of a girl in every port scenario. At least some guys won't be honest with you about it because they need to think that you think they're the only one. And if they come clean, then odds are you're going to say, what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose."

Zoey frowns a bit, subconsciously, as he speaks. Still with her gaze unseeing into the porn pictures, she just nods to the wisdom that he imparts, "You're right." Without all of the codephrases, she comes right out and says it, "But, not everyone is like that. If someone wants you, you should revel in that. Life is too short to wait for perfection, I think. Especially now."

"Yeah. Not arguing there." Ravn points up at a trio of stars. "I'm preeeetty sure that's the Belt of Orion. And that about exhausts my familiarity with stars. Anyhow -- if you gun for perfection then you better be ready to live up to it. That's what I thought I was doing. That she was, and if I could just give her everything she could possibly think of, then I'd be good enough. That's not how it works. You can't keep someone happy and fufilled by throwing things at them. Or you can and then it's actually a lot worse because you end up realising that it was never you they fell in love with, it was their idea of what your life must be like."

Zoey smiles a bit sadly, "If I'm not enough for someone, I know that giving them gifts and sacrifices will never make me so." She pauses for a moment and asks, "You ever read the Five Love Languages?"

The copper blond turns his head and raises his eyebrows. "That actually doesn't ring a bell. I went through a phase where I read everything by Jordan Peterson, mostly because I couldn't stop laughing hysterically. What's it about?"

She takes a breath, "It's about how different people express love, how they expect love. Since I've read it, I can totally see how it could apply." Picking her head up from staring down Orion's pants, she says plainly, "You have friends who totally give little gifts, right? They are the huge haul friend at Christmas or birthdays, always with the posh gifts and bright eyes, seeing how excited you get at opening it?" A wave of her head, "Then you have people who are just super-fulfilled at spending time with you. Those are two Love Languages, according to that book. It's interesting. You should pick it up."

"Certainly has Jordan Peterson beat by miles already," Ravn notes. "Most of that circle of writers generally just pontificate on how loneliness is essentially the fault of feminism. What's the other three?"

Zoey leans her head back, trying to recall, "Gifts, quality time, touch, acts of service and one other..." Her eyes scan the stars as she thinks, but since there is alcohol involved, she doesn't get far mentally before she blurts out the next thought, "I'm the quality time and touch type. You're clearly not the touch type, but I suspect you're quality time. Something like that. Anyway, the point is that once you are interested in someone, you can pay a lot of attention to what they shower you with... that's likely their love language, and how they'll most likely respond best in return."

"I can definitely relate to quality time. I mean, I'm assuming that we're talking about more than romantic love here, right? I have had -- a lot of happiness here in Gray Harbor just... spending time with people. Some more than others, obviously." Ravn stares down Orion's junk as well. "Gifts is a sore area for me. I suck at giving them, almost as bad as I suck at receiving them. I feel like somebody forgot to give me the manual on how that works. I grew up in an environment where money was -- a pretty big deal. So I'm always trying to out-guess myself -- is this enough, is it too much, too little, you know? I overthink. And I know how silly it is, because really, people love being shown you thought about them enough to find something special for them, but I just... can't stop myself."

She shrugs, "Doesn't have to be a romantic relationship, Ravn. It works for parents, siblings, friends, everyone. I mean, giving someone elaborate gifts is not your thing, you say you suck at it... and this book explains that it is the very reason that you suck at receiving them. Same applies to touch. You're not the person who seeks holding hands, and the thought of doing so probably doesn't settle well with you. See?" A breath, she laughs a bit, "But acts of service, doing things for people, might be a way to express your feelings for them."

"I can be. Just, takes effort. I'm not the sort of bloke who jumps through the window if someone brushes against my shoulder in the grocery store. It's just -- awkward. You touch someone, give them a hug -- and they do the same thing back at you the day after, because that's what friends do. Only they forgot that you weren't wearing gloves or your skin is having a day, and before they know what hit them, you're curled up in a ball at their feet. Really puts a dampener on things." Ravn makes a face, one that definitely says, been there, done that, it was really embarrassing on the subway.

Zoey frowns in sympathy, but she is nodding in understanding. The girl seems to know how things can be so exposed, so damaging, without the other person really understanding what they did, or how. "Yeah," she murmurs before she sighs, "Well, at least I picked up on it before I screwed things up with you. I'm proud of that."

A guy who calls himself oblivious might not be quite that oblivious after all. Ravn turns his head to look at her face. "You know, you haven't. Screwed anything up. You've been perfectly up front. I'm not... Well, I probably am a bit stupid, but I'm not that stupid. I do get what you're saying. I just -- some decisions shouldn't be made after three or four shots of bourbon and a lot of angsting. And they shouldn't be made at the same time we're talking about becoming friends. I want to be your friend. I'm not in love with you. Maybe we'll decide to fill in some blanks there but -- let's be sober when we start that discussion, yeah?"

Zoey frowns. It seems harsh to her half-drunk little mind, but she gives a slow nod, "I'm not..." Words fail, get jumbled, the put back together, "I'm not in love with you, Ravn, not like... that? I just need someone that I can trust, is all. People confuse me, conversations can sometimes meander off-course. I'm just asking for a friend. I feel safe with you. That's all I know right now." Looking into his eyes, she offers a shrug again, she seems to love that mode of conversation, "And you're not stupid. If you were, I wouldn't want to be your friend!" She laughs a bit, "I screw things up with people. Let me have this little happy win. Please."

Very carefully, Ravn reaches over with a gloved hand and beeps Zoey's nosetip. "You got it. That's what I mean. Friendship. Trust. That's what's on the table right now."

Zoey laughs a little, "And vodka. And Pizza!!" For about that time, the delivery guy can be seen wandering lost down the wharf, and she is pointing frantically at him with a finger.

That poor man. A pizza delivery to a familiar address on the marina. It really shouldn't be so hard, and it definitely should not take long enough that the recipients of said pizzas have time to get wasted and declare their eternal friendship. Not to mention staring at Orion's voonerables.

He looks very hassled. Chewed on, even. And the pizzas? They were definitely there, before the -- things -- got there. He'll go to bed tonight claiming he was mugged and never quite remembering what actually happened.

It's probably for the best.