2020-11-02 - Drunken Autopilot

Halloween. It is a holiday most prevalent in the United States, where it seems to be celebrated in one of two fashions. The first, is all the little kids in adorable costumes, going door to door (or lately business to business in malls, or trunk to trunk in church parking lots) begging for candy. The second, is grown ass adults wearing less adorable and more sexy or scary costumes, going out and begging for drinks instead. Victoria Grey has been having a bad time of things lately, so she decided to do the latter.

She pre-gamed at home, downing a large portion of whiskey, before digging out an old Halloween costume, the sexy nurse one she'd worn a thousand years ago when she was just dating the man who would become, then stop being, her fiance. She hit a few bars, then went to the Pourhouse, where she tried to pick a fight with Ruiz, bobbed for shots in a white outfit that ended up see through, and had to break up an actual fight with Ruiz and her boss, Joey Kelly. Then she headed out, dried off on a walk to a liquor store, bought more whiskey, and drank it as she wandered around town looking for a real fight to get into.

So it is, at about 4 am, Vic stumbles home. Well it was home just a month ago, and she is drunk and addled from a few punches that got through from the idiot college guys who hit on her when she was itching to punch someone. They look a lot worse than she does, guaranteed. She has a split lip to show for her troubles as she unlocks the door of the airstream trailer in Huckleberry on the fourth try of keys on her keychain. She tugs off her nurse cap, kicks off her heels, and peels out of the slightly bloodied (mostly nor hers) costume, leaving her in her red lace lingerie set she had on underneath, before she staggers to the bed and flops down into it, curling around her body pillow tightly. She used to have a body pillow.

The body pillow in question is rather unaware that someone else has a key to the trailer. He knows it on some superficial level -- of course she does, she owns the bloody thing. You don't expect your landlord to pop in wearing next to nothing at three a.m., however, and thus, the notion that Vic Grey might in fact do exactly that does not even occur to the man fast asleep in the bed he now finds himself sharing with someone else.

There are ups and downs to this. The down being, he lives alone. He doesn't expect company that isn't a cat. No need for a fancy pyjamas to bed for modesty's sake. Hey, maybe that's not a downside after all, depending on how one feels about those things.

The downside of that, though, is there is a reason Ravn Abildgaard usually covers up and wears gloves. Unfortunately, the reason is not an interesting kink; it's neuropathy.

There is something profoundly depressing about slipping into a dream in which some unnamed woman's warm body slides in next to you, wraps itself around you and then -- it fucking hurts. Everywhere.

He sits up with a yelp and rubs his face. Bloody cat probably tried to weasel under the covers again. Last time it did, he ended up with claw marks all over his chest because he yelped and flinched and scared the cat and thank god the silly animal was not trying to nest ten centimetres lower, indeed.

Wait a second...

What.

Ravn pinches his own arm. Just like in a bad movie. Because this is Gray Harbor. He's been punched in the face by Itzhak Rosencrantz, been set up for a blind date with Gina Castro, and tackled by a school teacher who never existed before he got eaten by a monster which most certainly did. And that was just this week. Vic Grey passed out next to him wearing the equivalent of Chanel No Five and a hopeful look is almost par for the course.

Where's a stick when you need to prod something.

The yelp was not something that belonged in the universe of her safe little trailer. Vic didn't make the sound. She has no pets. She has no roommates. She does, however, have the equivalent of a few bottles of whiskey in her system so she is slow to react. She makes a grunting sound of displeasure when her body pillow seems to move away from her of its own accord, and reaches blindly to try and drag it back in.

"C'mere, asshole. I need to cuddle tonight." Ok, so she used to TALK to her body pillow. Her life is a sad, sad thing it seems. However, to the poor Dane whose privacy has been thus invaded, it might sound like a real invitation.

The penny drops.

Ravn hides a chuckle behind one hand even as he figures out what's going on here -- or thinks he does. "Look," he says -- and then gets a grasping hand to the shoulder, pulling him back down.

At least he saw it coming. As far as the odds of accidentally screaming somebody into the face, this is probably a good thing. The Dane sighs and allows himself to be re-arranged like 6'3 of body pillow. At least it's going to be an interesting conversation once she sobers up. Probably quite fun too. Provided she doesn't pack a gun somewhere in that bra.

"I really, really hate to break it to you," he murmurs into the mop of blond hair that's roughly at face height. "You're dreaming. Or were dreaming. Would you mind waking up before we need to have a really embarrassing conversation?"

Since when does her body pillow talk? Wait, it should be fluffier than it currently feels. Vic's hand stops, then moves here, there, in a few spots, and yes, 10 centimeters lower, before she is the one yelping and sitting upright, rolling right off the bed onto the floor, scrambling to get up and WHACKING the top of her head on the table. It's a 22' airstream, everything is crammed together. No wonder she wanted to get into a house. A stream of curses in mixed English, Spanish, and maybe Demonic come out of her mouth as she grabs her wounded noggin with one hand and flails around blindly in the dark with the other, her hair over most of her face, making it twice as dark.

Ravn in turn flattens himself against the far wall because groping, flailing people infer a rather high risk of sudden physical interaction that he's not quite ready for. Or that he is quite ready for, and that actually just makes it worse because he's going to have to look this woman in the eyes tomorrow and let's just not go there, office romances are a really bad idea, onwards noble soldiers, time to think of something else. He scoops up the blanket because she bloody well at least has panties on and half hides behind it, half uses it as a shield.

Somewhere in this trailer, a small black cat is dying from laughter. And probably declaring Vic Grey its new hero.

"What the hell were you dre--watch your head!" Ravn winces. That looked like it hurt. "Are you drunk?"

"Of course I'm drunk! It's Halloween! Grown ass adults go out in slutty costumes and get drunk! WHO ARE YOU!?" She bellows. At least she's still drunk, and the current headache is injury, not hangover, related. Yet. She crawls under the table, slapping her hand on the underside, looking for the gun she has taped up there. Had taped up there. She moved. A month ago. Which means she is not home. She's in someone else's home. She's in...

"Oh fucknuts paddling a douche canoe. Ravn, is that you?" she slurs, her words sliding one into another from the current level of her BAC.

"Who the hell were you expecting?" The Dane almost gapes, and then shakes with laughter at the sight. It's not that Vic is bad looking in that little red number, but arse in the air groping for something under the furniture is not exactly dignified. "Bloody hell, looks like I missed one great party. Were you at least dressed when it began or is this the new definition of slutty costume?"

Offer her a blanket or something. Tell her your coat is just over there. Be a gentleman, you ass.

Ravn takes a look at his own mental voice. Then mentally gives it the finger. Because if he's going to deal with embarrassed, probably angry, and practically naked Vic Grey, life owes him at least laughing his arse off about it.

Yeah, Victoria ain't got many secrets in this bra and panty set. That's for sure. And Ravn gets a first hand look at some of those secrets when she finally reaches a light switch and slaps it on. He hasn't seen her back before, what the thin bra strap doesn't conceal at least. From shoulder blades to above the curve of her bottom, she looks like a patchwork quilt, the scars all over, as if she had to be sewn back together from fragments of her own skin, the lines and dots of stitching stark white against her flesh, and one discolored, nearly perfect square on one side of her lower back, which was a skin graft. It's a horror show, and clearly why she always has something covering her back.

She stumbles to the bathroom to grab whatever towel is handy, assuming he has one, and wraps it around herself. "I had a costume on!" she shouts. "And I forgot I don't live here anymore!"

Ravn just can't stop laughing quietly to himself over there in his blanket. Only after a while does he manage to squeeze out, "Well, if you'll toss me my bloody pants I'll put on some coffee? Or, you can go back to sleep if you like. I doubt either of us have any vigilant fathers with shotguns turning up in the morning but if you do, I'm going to put on some clothes so I don't wake you up screaming every time one of us moves in our sleep."

"Goddammit!" Vic shouts. Oh the neighbors in the trailer park are probably not happy with her tonight. She grabs his pants and throws them at him, then invades all of his privacy looking for a shirt to pull on over her underthings, that isn't a goddamned turtleneck. "Coffee, definitely coffee," she mumbles. That way she'll be awake and drunk and not accidentally crawl into bed with Joey and Nicole if she makes it back to Elm Street.

As it happens, Ravn does in fact own numerous shirts and button-ups that aren't turtlenecks. They're just all black except the midnight blue silk shirt that's clearly part of some slightly more fancy getup than what he usually wears. The Dane pulls his sweat pants on and gets out of bed; unlike Vic, he doesn't seem to have a scar on his body. Nice abs, though -- must be all that walking around town. "Was it at least a good party? Also, please tell me there's a slutty costume on the floor here somewhere and you didn't actually walk through half of Gray Harbor wearing nothing but two red strings and an empty promise. Not that I think most of Gray Harbor would complain exactly, just, might have a lot of new friends coming down to the bar tomorrow."

Is he still laughing? Yes, he's still laughing. At least he's not commenting on the patchwork horror that's Vic's back. Might be the man has some sense of human decency in him after all.

Vic grabs a black tee and hauls it on, like a curtain coming down after a standout performance. No applause though, that can't be good. At least he's tall, so it does manage to skim the tops of her thighs and cover up all the bits that need covering. At his question, she grunts and tips her chin to the crumpled up "sexy nurse" outfit on his floor. Of note, it has blood on it. So does her lip, which is puffy on one side, where she clearly took a hit.

"Which one? I hit a few bars I think. I remember a liquor store too. And breaking up an almost fight. Then starting one in an alley."

Ravn drags a hand down across his face in a gesture reminiscent of an exasperated father. "And you didn't even invite me."

Then he walks over and fills the kettle. "Are you seriously injured, or did you just have a good night? Also, I'm very flattered to be the first harbour sought in a storm by the a fragile little sea urchin that I know you to be, but let's just be honest here: You forgot you don't live here at the moment, didn't you? Be honest, my ego can take it. I won't cry -- much."

Yep, still laughing. But at least coffee is being made.

"I totally forgot I don't live here anymore," Vic admits, with a sigh as she slides down to sit at the table. Her tongue flicks out to poke at her split lip with a slight wince. "I think I just had a good night." Not the way he is probably thinking. The scrapes on her knuckles seem to say there was real punching involved.

She arches a brow at him, even with her eyes not quite focusing easily due to the amount of booze making up her bloodstream. "You would have gone to a Halloween bar party? Really? Half-naked people all crammed up against each other?"

She frowns. "I totally thought you were my body pillow. I should apologize for that." She should, but she doesn't.

"I might," Ravn replies with a small chuckle and distributes instant coffee into mugs. "Would have been interesting to watch. Get in there with the half-naked, sweaty people? Probably not. Bit too high risk of someone accidentally elbowing me. I've gotten into a few scrapes that way, somebody thinking I was trying to pick a fight for yelling at them. This thing of mine? It's not good with crowds. Not wanting to be in the middle of the mosh pit doesn't mean I'm a complete hermit, though."

Cups go on table. So does cat. Hence, tuna can also goes on table. Hermit and his cat.

"I think I'm just glad you decided that I was your body pillow. Imagine how much fun we'd have had if you'd dreamt someone was assaulting you, or getting frisky in ways you didn't ask for. Might have ended up in a pile on the floor next to the other pile." He glances down at the dress. It's not a lot of dress. As dresses go, it is in fact mostly an absence of dress. Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "Imagine you looked good while punching people in the face at least."

"Damn straight I looked good," Vic huffs. She eyes the cat, one predator to another, narrowed gaze, no attempts at petting, just settling into their respective spaces. "So how do you fuck if you can't stand being touched?" she blurts out, still drunk enough to have her filters swept aside by questions popping into her head.

"I can stand it if I know it's happening," Ravn replies in the surprisingly casual tone of someone who's answered this question about -- thirty million times, one more, one less. "It's not knowing that causes my nervous system to send the wrong signals. The sensation of having a bucket of cold water splashed at you, or being set on fire, or just hurting like hell -- it's honestly a bit of a turn-off."

He settles on his own chair across. Kitty Pryde, she of the rather geeky name, glares back at Vic. An understanding has been reached there -- don't touch the cat's tuna, don't pet the cat, just accept that the cat is in charge of this household. Resident alpha predator is small but determined.

And then, just because he can't resist -- this whole situation being bloody ridiculous in the first place -- Ravn cants his head and looks absolutely, one hundred and ten percent naive and innocent. "Why, is my chastity something that concerns you a lot, then?"

Vic turns her cool, if unfocused, gaze from cat to Dane. "Yes," she deadpans. "I worry about your sex life, along with your general health and well-being. You pay me rent. Also you clean the bathrooms at the Twofer and that is a really, really important job if one wants to keep me from going ballistic at customers." Having to pee in a disastrously dirty bathroom? Clearly on Vic's list of anger triggers.

She snorts though. "I was just curious. I know why I don't have sex, but I imagine you get propositioned a lot." Because he's hot? Or because he was basically a hobo?

Ravn is actually not too bad looking without a shirt, if one fancies the slender type without an ounce of fat; some people, on the other hand, might just get a strange urge to stuff a sandwich into his face. That comment causes him to snicker even as he raises his coffee cup. "Unknown to the common man, I hold the most dangerous job of all. I should ask for a raise."

He takes a swig of his (insanely strong) instant coffee and then hitches a shoulder. "You know, no man with a pulse would give a damn about your scars. Or if you manage to find one who does, I give you my blanket permission to punch his lights out, not that you'd ever wait to ask for it. So please tell me you're celibate because you're pining for a girl in Oakland who turned you down in favour of joining a convent, because body shame would be rather silly."

Vic sips her coffee and snorts over the rim at Ravn. "Not the scars so much, as where they came from, and the ones you didn't see." There's more? Yikes. "Also I tend to have really really horrible taste in men, so I set myself up for epic failure there. The unavailable, unemotional, assholes really pique my interest for some reason. I think because I was a cop for so long, I have a thing for bad boys. A stupid, useless thing," she declares. God coffee, please work fast before she tells him any more personal shit.

"Yes, well, you just answered your own question about my sex life right there, too." Ravn offers a lopsided smile. "The women who take an interest in a guy like me don't want a boyfriend -- they want a dog. Someone who's properly house trained, always hoping for attention, and happy to get thrown the occasional treat or be taken out for a walk around the park. So I don't. I do realise it's becoming a bit of a running joke around the Twofer by now, but no -- I do in fact not get propositioned all the time. Not that I'm sorry about it, since it'd really just be rather embarrassing."

Vic has to interrupt him when he says she answered her question about him. "You like bad boys too?" she quips, before letting him explain. "Ehn, wanting a nice guy isn't really wanting a dog. Most women don't realize that nice guys are who they really need in their lives. I had one, almost married him even. But the siren song of work destroyed that relationship." She shrugs. "Don't sell yourself short. You come across as a nice, but not stupid, guy."

Ravn laughs softly. "I'm not selling myself short. Quite the contrary. I'm saying most women aren't worth my time. I'm simply not interested enough to go to the effort of maintaining a relationship. Might change if I meet someone some day who essentially wants a cat that can make coffee. I can stay out all night, get lost for three days, and turn up with a dead mouse -- my kind of relationship. Obligations, commitment, doing all the social things together? Excuse me, I need to go buy a bus ticket to Portland. Did that once, once was enough. Girl ended up bloody well getting herself killed to get away from the boredom of it, and odds are I'd have done the same if she hadn't."

"Ouch, harsh" Vic murmurs, though about which part is up for debate. "Yeah, relationships just aren't something I'm any good with any more." You know, being a criminal and having to off people now and then, kinda puts a real crimp in romance. The whole fear they can be used to get to you, or become collateral damage, or that you might wind up in prison is a real relationship downer. She sips deeper from the coffee mug now that it's had a few moments too cool off a bit. "Anyway, if anyone gives you shit about it, just lemme know." Bleach, lye, and buckets? She likely has them.

"Hm, yes, I can see that. I used to travel with people like that, you realise? I wasn't joking when I said I bummed across the country with hustlers, confidence men and prostitutes. People who never stayed long anywhere, like myself." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Got me away from my terrible past of coming from a family with enough of a name to attract a fair bit of female attention for all the wrong reasons, too. My home town's parallel to being an Addington here, I imagine. Anyone gives you shit -- no, I'm not going to threaten to kick somebody's arse for you because that'd be a bloody joke. But I'd definitely get you a lawyer and I suppose that counts for something. I'm also very pointedly never going to ask where it is you go, when you go, but I think you noticed that a few times already."

"I credit you being a smart man for not asking," Vic says pointedly, her eyes going laser focused for a moment at that. It's for his own safety he doesn't know what she really does for a living. "Man it's a good thing I didn't wander into Seth's house to his couch again." Someone who can relate to her! Also someone who might have shot someone breaking into his house at 4 am.

"Take it from Grandma Abildgaard here -- don't want to know, not asking is usually the best solution." Ravn shrugs. "I'm not blind, you know. People seem to assume that I'm this completely innocent little flower just off the airplane from a magical fairytale country where nothing ever happens outside ducks crossing the street on posters and H. C. Andersen readings. What I am is really good at is minding my own business. Now, do you want to sleep over? There's room enough for two, I figure, as long as we agree that I am in fact not your body pillow. I mean, it's your bloody bed, you know how wide it is, and I'm not kicking you out on the street at half past three in the morning."

Vic hesitates, looking from her coffee mug, to her old bed with someone else's sheets, then to the door. She frowns. Getting back into her nurse outfit and stumbling back down the road, possibly waking up an already very cranky Joey Kelly? Not a bright idea. "Yeah, ok, if I can borrow some sweats in the morning to get back to the house in. You do know this area turns into a second bed, right?" she offers. "Unless the cat will claw my face off for taking her spot. In which case, I'll try not to use you for a teddy bear, but no promises what I do in my sleep."

"I didn't actually, but that just makes defending your poor virtue even easier, I suppose. Kitty's more likely to sleep on your face just to spite me." Ravn gets up and heads for the clothes drawer. "I mean, you may have to roll up the legs a little but I've got sweats. You get a choice of black or black. Hell, the only thing that's not up for grabs is my new red, blue, and purple tie-dye hoodie. That one's a piece of art."

Vic mouths "tie-dye" as if in shock such a thing exists in Ravn's vocabulary. "Right then." She gets up and locks the table down into a position even with the bench seats, then moves the back cushions over the table, a nice little bed there. "A pillow and a blanket are all I need. Leave the sweats by the bathroom and I'll get out of your hair first thing when I wake up. If the hangover isn't entirely debilitating."

"If it is, I promise to not play my violin until you've managed to crawl off into the sunrise. Mostly because I'd like to not be beaten up with it." Ravn fishes out items of clothing and tosses them through the bathroom door onto the little counter space out there. Then he goes about finding a spare blanket and pillow. "Hell, I'll even treat you to a sandwich in the morning. Don't say I'm not a cheap date."

"If the hangover is as bad as I think it will be," being as she crawled into his bed thinking she still lived here, alone with her body pillow? "Food is not going to be in my to do list." She hunkers down on the banquet-turned-bed. "Thanks for this, Ravn. And you know." For not taking advantage of a situation she herself created, comically. "Night." She'll be passed out in no time.

It takes a while before the trailer's owner settles in to sleep himself. Not that he doesn't try, just -- he's really not used to listening to someone else's breathing and all the other little sounds people make. It's oddly comforting and at the same time, it brings back a lot of memories that have nothing to do with Vic Grey or the amount of men she socked before getting here.

Although that's a pretty funny mental image too. Vic Grey in a small sexy nurse outfit, punching some unidentified big idiot to the ground.

Let's just face it. I'm going to remember parts of this night for a while.