2020-11-30 - Breakfast with the Greys

It's a cold early morning at the Black Bear Diner, and the place is mostly filled with mill workers either about to go on shift, or having just come off shift. It's a sea of grumpy men in flannel, really. Alexander sort of fits in, although he looks more battered than grumpy. Still in flannel: an oversized flannel shirt is under his old Army surplus jacket. His nose is roughly the size and shape of a potato, clearly having been broken sometime in the recent past, and there's bruising all over his forehead. More, one of his hands has two of the fingers bound to splints keeping them from moving. With his other hand, he's reading the local newspaper. By the coffee in front of him, he hasn't received his food, yet.

There's a fair number of people coming and going in the morning rush; and typical for most are that they are local, blue-collar types, many of them wearing flannels or practical outdoors gear. Regular folks, small town Americans, salt of the earth types. And then, of course, there's a tall Dane who no doubt thinks he blends in just fine, but really should swap the black wind breaker for something in army green or blue if he ever wants to pass for a local. And maybe lose a few inches while he's at it.

Ravn wanders past the counter where he places an order for something that involves far too many calories for a skinny guy and picks up a mug of strong, black coffee. Then he looks around for an empty space -- and spots the battered visage of Clayton. Both eyebrows shooting up in surprise he wanders over. "Mornin'. You look like the train came to Gray Harbor and hit you first. Mind if I join you?"

Alexander looks up with eyes that are no longer weed-reddened or with that softness that being perpetually high had given them. But he recognizes Ravn, and so his face softens into a small smile. "Hey. Good morning." A brief, amused sound at the comparison, and then he nods to the empty space on the other side of the booth. "Long as you don't plan to have the omelette. I can't stand watching a man abuse himself at this time of day. How are you?"

"Oh god no. I only make a mistake that grave once. I ordered bacon and eggs, on toast. Cook here hates the omelette, not me, so it should be safe enough." Ravn pulls the chair out and flops down on it, curling his gloved hands around the coffee mug as if his life depends on him hanging on to it. "From the looks of you, I'm better than you are. All the emotional and ethical hangups about last week but no injuries. Which is more than you can say -- did you get hit by a truck?"

Alexander grins, then winces as the changing shape of his face displeases his nose. "Nice to know you learn from your mistakes, Ravn." He shakes his head. "I'm fine. And you didn't do anything too bad while stoned. That I saw." He takes a careful sip of his coffee, then shakes his head again. "No. Was just helping someone out. It'll heal. I was out of town for a couple of days. Anything interesting happen?"

"Not on my end, no -- everything's a bit quiet. I think most people are kind of contemplating burning their phones and pretending last week didn't happen." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "But you know -- in a way, maybe last week wasn't such a bad thing? A lot of things came out from under the carpets. Some of them probably had been stewing down there too long. And some of them were good things -- I mean, Vic Grey and Seth Monaghan seem pretty intent on hitting it off, that's a good thing in my book."

Alexander chuckles, the sound tinged with weariness, but still genuinely amused. "I thought about it. I have a few very silly text conversations in there. But they were mostly harmless. I even texted Monaghan anyway. I think we'll put the waffletaco on the back burner for a while," he says, very solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "And don't push those two too much, yeah? It'd be nice if they were friends, but it's their thing. I do hear that you and he got invited to dinner with Miss Grey and her father."

"I'm not pushing anything. I just like seeing people I like hitting it off -- what they want to make of it exactly is up to them." Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "I don't think I've been invited to dinners though. I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like that -- pot week or otherwise. More so if it involved Vic. For a while I had to explain to a few folks that there's nothing between Vic and me."

"Huh." Alexander rubs at his face, thoughtfully. "Seth mentioned that you were invited. Maybe she hasn't gotten around to it, yet. If it was supposed to be a surprise, then I apologize for spoiling it." He breaks off as their plates arrive - Alexander's is a stack of pancakes, hash browns, bacon, and fried eggs. He proceeds to pour a ridiculous amount of maple syrup on the stack. "It's a small town. Even with actual monsters trying to torture and consume us, a lot of the time, the most interesting thing is who's fucking who. Sorry."

Ravn laughs softly. "Ain't that the truth. The whole ... Revisionist thing didn't help either. I mean, for a while I literally had guys following me around with cameras, trying to catch me in the act of tripping someone up. It's no wonder some people in this town think I have a very low respect for personal boundaries and other people's relationships."

He shrugs. "Maybe people think about these things a lot because it's safer than thinking about the monsters. I don't know. I decided to move on from barbacking though. One of those sit myself down in my weed hangover and have a talk with myself about the future things."

"I'm surprised," Alexander murmurs. "People don't usually get excited about famous people around here. Not for very long. We're easily jaded," he adds, dryly. He starts cutting the pancakes into neat little sections. "But you have an interesting accent, and Americans are always interested in attractive people with interesting accents." There's a suggestion, in the lift of his mouth, that he's teasing Ravn. But his eyebrows arch at the last. "Oh? It sounded like you were enjoying learning the bartending stuff. What do you want to do instead?"

"Oh, it was fun. I liked barbacking, and the bartending lessons were a bonus." Ravn picks out a piece of bacon -- the man is a slow and picky eater; the kind who leaves half his food on the plate, which is probably why he's kind of skinny. "Hyacinth Addington kind of blindsided me last week though. Asked me if this is what I want to be doing ten years from now. And the answer to that is... No, I don't think so? I never thought I'd stay around in Gray Harbor for more than a few weeks. Barbacking was a good way to raise a bit of money, get to meet some people, have some fun. But it's not something you do for years, you know?"

"Hyacinth Addington." Alexander says the name warily, like he's afraid that he might summon her just by doing so. "She's very...driven. Sometimes likes to drive other people, too." He reaches for his coffee with his good hand. "But, then, what would you like to be doing? Care to try your hands at mill work?" A brief flash of a smile there.

The door to the diner swings open to admit a familiar figure, the tall blonde bartender from TiBS. Vic is not alone, however. In her wake comes a silver-haired man in his 60s, with the same dark blue eyes as his daughter. Walter Grey is shaking his head and muttering something about ghost turkeys. Both are in jeans and flannels, with Walt wearing an olive denim jacket and Vic a burgundy leather one.

"Just avoid the omelets, Dad, they are legendarily bad, everything else is good," Vic warns.

"I'm a historian," Ravn says and sips his coffee. "I do online tutoring. I figure I'll just do a bit more of it, maybe finally get around to writing some of the books I've talked about writing since just about forever. I'm not broke and desperate to make rent. But I do think Addington made an important point there, about self respect. That you can do whatever you really want to do, but you should do it with all of your heart and try to be best at it. And on some level -- maybe cleaning urinals isn't what I want to do that badly for the rest of my life."

The Dane looks back over his shoulder upon recognising Vic's voice and upnods to her and the gentleman with her alike. Considering Clayton's recent words, he probably can venture a guess as to whom the man is.

Alexander says, "You should look into the history of Gray Harbor itself," Alexander suggests, after a moment. "There have been a lot of shenanigans over the years. Locals who've tried to look into it...uh, well, the Addingtons generally don't like that. I had a book by one guy who was pretty much destroyed by them. But they can't really touch you as easily. And Margaret doesn't seem to be what she was," he admits, with a flicker of something that's both guilty and satisfied.

He looks up when the Greys enter the diner, and winces. Maybe because he's a mess; his nose is obviously broken and swollen, with further bruising on his forehead, and two of his fingers are in splints, broken as well. But when Ravn looks over his shoulder, Alexander lifts his good hand in a greeting to the woman and older man, tilting his head towards his booth in a silent invitation."

Vic catches Ravn's wave and she beams a smile at him. A genuine one. Her father being here has clearly made some changes to the enforcer's outward personality. She tips her chin towards the Dane and Alexander for her father's information and heads that way. "Abildgaard! Clayton! How are you? Alexander you know my father, Walt. Dad, this is Ravn, he's from Denmark and my bartending student."

Walt gives Alexander a head to toe inspection with an arched brow at his injuries. "No one ever teach you to duck, kid?" he asks the PI, with a quirk of one corner of his mouth. "Hope the other guy looks worse. Good to see you again, though." He slides in beside the man and gives Ravn a nod. "Nice to meet you."

Vic slides in across from them.

Ravn hesitates for just a fragment of a second and then murmurs, "Well, I was. I, er, kind of handed in my key. Last week got me thinking about a lot of things. Such as, what do I actually want to be doing ten years from now."

He looks a little sheepish about it. And maybe a little like he regrets at least part of the decision -- bartending lessons with Vic Grey were nothing if not entertaining.

"I'm fine. Mr. Grey. It's nice to see you again," Alexander murmurs, then can't help but let out a rusty chuckle at the commentary. "I'm not always very good at it. Ducking." He just gives a rueful shake of his head at rather the 'other guy' looks worse. "Happy Thanksgiving," he adds, and that seems to encompass both of them. His eyes flicker to Ravn when he makes that confession to Vic, then back. "How are the two of you? Was the trip up here okay?"

"Ghost turkeys," the pair of Grey's say simultaneously in response to Alexander's question about how they are. It's so deadpanned, it can almost come across as joking, if it wasn't Gray Harbor.

"Same to you," Vic exchanges, and then adds, "We're going to have dinner at Sitka tonight at the casino, you're both invited. Seth will be there too. My kitchen is ripped out at the moment so I can't cook for the holiday, and we didn't really get to enjoy dinner at the Twofer so..." she trails off as Ravn admits to having quit. "Wait, what? Really?" She looks so disappointed, but her father elbows her and she sighs. "Yeah, I guess at some point we all have to decide what we really want to do for a living."

"The trip up was fine," Walt tells Alexander. "It's always a nice drive in the PNW in fall. And it's great to be able to come and see Vickie."

Another hesitation, for just a breath. "Sitka?" Ravn recovers quickly at least and murmurs, "Does that mean I have to wear a tie?"

He looks at Vic and at least has the decency to sound apologetic. "Last week forced me to think a lot of things through. One of them being, I never thought I'd stick around in town for more than a few weeks. And here I am, four months later, and I'm not going anywhere. I need to -- decide what I actually want to be doing here, if I'm staying. The bar was great fun but I have to agree with Hyacinth Addington -- I can't quite see myself cleaning urinals still, ten years from now."

Manners finally catch up with the man and he offers a polite smile to Mr Grey. "Hello. Ravn Abildgaard. Your daughter's apprentice until as of very lately. Maybe still a few private lessons in the making if I ask very nicely."

Alexander's dark eyes dance with sudden amusement. To Walt, he says solemnly, "Welcome to Gray Harbor. I heard about the turkeys. Hope it wasn't too...uh. Too much." He blinks, genuinely taken back by the invitation. "I, um." He ducks his head and eats some of his pancakes to think about it, then ends up shaking his head. "I can't, tonight. But thank you for the invitation." He winces at Vickie, but actually manages not to 'correct' the father about what he calls his own daughter. His mouth opens, like he's going to, but his good hand is smarter, and stuffs some more breakfast into it, instead.

Vic grimaces, but she nods to Ravn. "I get it, believe me, I get it." She has plenty of other things she'd rather be doing than bartending in this town and breaking kneecaps for a mafia boss, but life has handed her lemons and forgot to hand over the sugar to make lemonade out of it. She'd need a miracle to ever be able to be a cop again. "You'll come to dinner though, right?" she asks the Dane, hopefully. Since Alexander has bowed out, it's the only way to have a 'this is not my boyfriend' buffer with just Seth there. "I tried to call Javier to come and bring his guys, but I couldn't get a hold of him."

Walt arches a brow at Alexander. "I've seen worse things in my time than angry incorporeal dinner, but it was definitely something. Maybe you and I can grab coffee before I head home?" he offers the PI.

Ravn makes a little face of amused self-deprecation. "I'd tell you I haven't got anything to wear that would fit into the Casino but you wouldn't believe me anyway." He shakes his head. "I'd be delighted. And I'll whine about the tie. Are there any American customs I need to know about? Anything I am expected to say, do, or bring?"

Alexander's eyes stutter away from the rest at the table when Ruiz is mentioned, but he doesn't look too obviously guilty. He reaches for his coffee with his good hand and takes a hurried sip. He clears his throat as he puts it down, and offers a wan sort of smile to Walt. "'Something' sums it up pretty well. Be careful, while you're here. Yeah?" A glance at Vic, clearly meaning it as much for her as for Walt. There's another of those startled blinks at the offer, but then a smile that's outright shy in its pleasure. "Um. Yeah. If you want. I'd like that."

He gives Ravn a sidelong look. "Why do you hate dressing up so much? You're good at it. Not just having the clothes. You walk well in them. Like you belong in them." Tact clearly hasn't been helped by Alexander's time as a stoner.

"I don't think a tie is required," Vic muses. "But I'll be wearing a dress and heels so we can both grumble about being uncomfortable." Speaking of uncomfortable, she notices Alexander's discomfort but, to her credit, doesn't ask about it. Maybe later, in texts, but not with her father here. She plucks up a menu and prepares to order something that is NOT an omelet. As the waitress drifts near, she orders black cofffee for her and her father.

Walt chuckles at Ravn. "Just bring yourself. Just a nice dinner on me for Vickie and her friends. Consider it a thank you for being there for my little girl." He grins at Alexander and nods. "Good, I'd like to catch up."

"Knowing how to wear a suit doesn't mean you want to spend a lot of time in the kind of places that require you to wear one," Ravn murmurs and picks out another piece of bacon with his fork. "I don't much like -- well, posh people. Most of them have very high opinions about themselves without ever actually having done much useful for anyone, and some rather atrocious views of other people."

If he notices Alexander's expression at all, he doesn't comment on it. Maybe he's been in Gray Harbor just long enough to realise that sometimes, it's better to wait for people to volunteer information -- if they think you should have it at all. The face he makes at hearing Vic being called a little girl is evocative, though; he shoots Mr Grey a highly amused look and says, "Your daughter has taught me all I never might want to know about how to stare inflated yachter egos into wishing themselves out of existence, sir. For that alone, I'd put on a tie -- mostly to see if she'll do it to anyone there, too."

"Ties aren't bad," Alexander says. Not that he looks like a man who has ever worn one, in the scruffy homeless chic that passes as his usual wardrobe. "Never tried heels," he admits, with a slight smile at Vic. There's a flicker of apprehension, almost paranoia, that crosses his features when Walt says he'd like to catch up, but Alexander nods. "Then we'll do it, sir. Shouldn't be very busy over the next couple of days. I do have a bit of a backlog on cases. I haven't...focused as well. As I should. For a while." It's paired with a sheepish glance towards Vic and Ravn; he's clearly not going to try and explain Weed Harbor to Walt.

He snickers at 'little girl', unable to help himself, but Ravn's answer is considered more seriously. "Mm. That sounds like a lot of people, to me. But I haven't spent much time with posh people, I admit."

Walt chuckles at Ravn's comment, and thanks the waitress for the coffee she deposits in front of him. His voice is gruff, but he is soft-spoken for all that. One can only imagine the authority he'd command if he wanted to, and raised that voice. He was an Army Sergeant doing something for them he hasn't even told his daughter. "Yeah, she gets that from me. My bar is very blue collar, lot of veterans drink there. None of them have much use for useless people," he admits with a faint grin. He sips his coffee and orders fried eggs, with bacon and hashbrowns. He winks at Alexander, which may settle his nerves, or make them worse. "Well I imagine that broken nose came with one hell of a headache so focus would be tough."

Vic dittos his order. "Yeah, we had some hipsters come in one night and I swear Dad looked at them so hard when they came up to the bar, they opened their mouths to order, and nothing came out. They just blinked, turned around, and left." She chuckles. "It was epic." Alexander gets a LOOK at his snicker.

Ravn nods to Mr Grey, understanding what he means when he talks about his bar. "That's... pretty much what I mean, yes. I don't think I get to call myself blue collar but I definitely prefer keeping down where I can still see the ground. I'm an academic, admittedly -- or was, before I became a tourist."

"She has a good stare," Alexander agrees. And then he actually turns a little red when Walt mentions the nose. His good hand goes up to touch the bruises, and he clears his throat. "It's fine. I have a very hard head. Everyone tells me so." He just smiles at the Look, and he repeats, "Very good stare." Then he raises an eyebrow at Ravn. "Don't think you're quite a tourist. Wanderer? Vagabond? Pilgrim, maybe, although maybe one for whom the pilgrimage is the sacrament, and not the destination."

Walt nods to Ravn. "Academics are useful people. They know things, which means they can teach you things. That's pretty much the definition of useful." He sips more of his coffee, neither he nor Vic adding anything to theirs. Army man, and former cop, they like their jet fuel unadulterated.

"Nomad, he's more of a nomad I think," Vic muses, grinning now that she's cowed Alexander with that look.

Ravn smiles that lopsided little smile of his. "Well, I seem to have become a resident. At least I'm still here, and four months is longer than I've stayed anywhere for a very long time. Usually a couple of weeks at most. So I figure I am in for the long haul here -- Gray Harbor doesn't want to let me go, and I don't want to be going."

He glances at Mr Grey and for some reason seems to feel the need to add, "I used to travel and make my way as a boardwalk hustler. Not in the way that gets you arrested, but sometimes in the way that gets you run out of town for loitering."

"Nomad is a good word," Alexander agrees. Although when Ravn continues, he muses, "Maybe shyster? Huckster? Scalliwag?" The look towards the Dane is fond, despite the words used. He's about to say more, when his phone goes off. He reaches for it by reflex with his bad hand, hisses and curses under his breath before switching hands. "Alexander Clayton." A long pause. "I think it's unlikely someone's hiding in your walls." Another pause. "No. Not impossible. Just. Unlikely?" Another pause. "How much? Uh, yeah. I can check. Now? Okay. I'll be there in about half an hour." He hangs up, aims an apologetic grimace at the table. "Sorry. Need to handle this. It was nice to see you all. Don't die." And then he's fishing out enough cash for check and tip, and walking away without another word.

Walt arches his brow at Ravn now, for his confession of being mostly useless for a while. "I'd suggest if you're sticking around here, you don't do that, then. Sounds like it would be contrary to what you want to be doing." He quirks a little smile at that as food is set in front of him and Vic. Both put ketchup on their hash browns.

Vic smiles at her apprentice. "You could always teach at the community college, couldn't you? If that's something that still holds your interest." She watches Alexander on his call and chuckles a little at his words. "Good luck on that, hopefully they will pay you with actual money this time, instead of cornstarch," she adds with a wink.

"I'll be in touch about that coffee," Walt adds.

"I tried a stint of teaching. Turns out it doesn't work very well when you can't stand the idea of thirty people in an auditorium paying close attention to you." Ravn's smile doesn't falter, though for a moment he looks a little strained at the memory. "I do online tutoring, though. Mostly a couple of veterans getting a degree after Afghanistan, and a couple of kids who are genuinely interested in my field. I can expand that, and I am thinking I should perhaps sit my backside down at long last and try to write some of those non-fiction books I've fantasized about writing for about fifteen years. I might do what Ignacio de Santos has done, set up a more or less office away from home in Eleanor Røn's coffee shop. Should keep me in touch with people and I'd still get work done."

Walt ponders as he listens. "Hm, you know the real money is in textbooks for education purposes at the college level. You might look into writing one of those. I remember how much Vickie's books cost when she was in school and Jesus, what a racket."

Vic snorts at that. "Yeah, and that was community college. Imagine what they cost at university level," she notes. She is scarfing her food at the pace of someone who grew up with a military dad who ate like an alarm could steal him away from his meal at any time.

"I live on a boat, I don't need to rake it in," Ravn points out, amused. "As long as I can keep my cat steadily supplied with tuna, I'm good. Not that I'd argue against university textbooks being ridiculously expensive -- they most certainly are. Back home, at least, they tend to get sold and resold until the point you realise that somebody's taking a note from a book that still talks about the Berlin Wall. Anyhow -- Sitka. When?"

"Tonight, around seven? I think most of the diners will have moved on to Eighty-Eight or the slots by then, so it should be quieter," Vic notes with a grin. "And skip lunch, save room for the good food tonight," she advises.

Walt chuckles at the cat comment. "All right then, living simply is never a bad thing."