2020-12-14 - Brownie Delivery Services

Some days you have all the time in the world; other days, you bag up a pile of blood-soaked clothes for disposal after hosing yourself down for half an hour to get all the blood and grime out of your hair, and only then do you remember that your buddy said he'd come over with his boyfriend later that day, and now is probably a really great time to be grateful that you somehow managed to squeeze all of that into one day plan. Thanks, Gray Harbor -- never time to just be bored around here. He'll need to decide on what to do with the bag of bloody clothes later -- drive it to the city dump, maybe, or just bury it somewhere. City garbage services might ask funny questions. Then again, this being Gray Harbor, they might not. Ravn doesn't want to find out.

What he does want is a nice, peaceful evening. The Airstream isn't exactly luxurious but it's comfy in its own way; nest-like. He still doesn't plan to live here on a more permanent basis, but it's definitely far preferable to renting a room for the winter at the murder motel. It's clean, it meets his needs for a place to sleep and make coffee, and very importantly to a guy like Ravn at least, it labels him no one worth looking twice at. He puts on coffee and settles with a few of the papers and records borrowed from Alexander Clayton; notes on lumber mill workers turning homicidal forty years ago, and a case of a housewife murdering her husband with a frozen turkey. Gray Harbor, never boring.

It's about half eight by the time the crackle of gravel's heard under a vehicle's tires, signaling someone's approach up the little slice of drive that cuts past Ravn's recently acquired Airstream. The engine rumbles along for a few moments, then cuts out entirely, followed by a jangle of keys and crunch of boots. Probably said buddy and his snarly Mexican fighting bull of a boyfriend.

Truck door slammed shut, boots hit gravel and then grass and then front steps, thump, thump, thump as they climb on up without pause. Then a few quick raps on the door with the side of a fist, police style.

It's the kind of neighbourhood where a lot of residents probably were out of sight before de la Vega even exited his cruiser. Everything is kind of loud here -- from the kid down the street practising on his electric guitar and dreaming that he's the next Kurt Cobain, to the couple three trailers down that argue all the time in shrill, high-pitched Polish. Tonight, though, it's quiet -- not the ominous, imposing quiet that comes before the storm. Just, the kid went to talk to a friend about a distortion pedal, and the Polish couple are visiting their son in Hoquiam. If either of them had been around though, that sort of door knock is the kind that would make things disappear off tables and in under beds in record time. Poor people always have something to hide -- if nothing else, then their very poverty.

Ravn gets up and opens the door -- even he is not oblivious enough to just leave his trailer door open, not even when he's at home, this is Huckleberry. His eyebrows shoot up at seeing only one man, even as he steps aside to let that man in. "Everything all right?" This is Gray Harbor; by now he probably wouldn't even be surprised to hear that Rosencrantz got busy lacquering the toe nails of Puff the Magic Dragon so he'll be by later.

Truth be told, de la Vega's spent plenty of time in this neighbourhood, in uniform and out. Shit that's run the gamut; domestic disputes, unregistered firearms, confiscated pharmaceuticals and stowaway criminals from other jurisdictions and runaway teenagers and single mothers inviting him in for a cup of coffee and ugly sobbing over the kitchen sink while he sifts through dog eared pictures. Sometimes, just wellness checks when he's on his way home from the precinct. And a guy like him, it doesn't take much to look at him and know. And know that he's been deep in the guts of poverty. Scratched and clawed his way out of it, and maybe it's what helps these people trust him. He's no glossy politician like the last Chief was.

His dark eyes tick up when the door swings open, and find the taller Dane's easily enough. Something of an odd wariness in him, when the question's asked, and he doesn't step inside immediately. A glance over his shoulder toward his vehicle (he brought the truck, not the cruiser), then back to Ravn. "Uh.. Rosencrantz couldn't make it." A beat, and then a tupperware container is shoved at the younger man, like that's the sum total of his social skills in this particular situation.

Ravn finds himself in possession of a tupperware box and an acting chief of police who briefly looks like he shares Ravn's general sentiment: There exists a manual to successful social interactions somewhere, but for some reason, it often gets shipped without chapters four and twenty-three. And in his personal case, chapter nine as well -- the one that details how to blend in in a neighbourhood like this. He's got unquestionable social chameleon talent, but he still gets the subtler bits wrong sometimes. Take that early 20th century French cabaret poster, for example -- Le Chat Noir belongs on the walls of some 1980s boheme in the artsy part of a larger European city that inevitably gets known as the Latin Quarter, not in an American trailer park in 2020.

"Rosencrantz being busy is a bit like saying water is wet," Ravn murmurs. "Man never sits still. I put coffee on -- do you take yours black like me, or full of everything in the kitchen cabinet like the Americans?"

He moves with a slight hesitation that might look like wariness at first; then it becomes evident that he's protecting his left arm. The first aid kit on the kitchen counter is still open. The Dane glances towards it as he realises that this is in fact probably very high on the list of things someone employed in law enforcement would notice upon entering a place. "Bad dream," he murmurs. It's a valid explanation around here.

The poster gains a look from the captain. But unlike Itzhak, he's not at all inclined to strike up a conversation about it, unless he absolutely has to. Just that look, and then a sharp sniff as he eases out of the entryway and nudges the door shut after him. Like he'll concede to coming in, no matter how out of place the big cop looks in his battered ball cap, and jeans and tee shirt - soy milk, reads one of the cartoon milk cartons, while a couple of others regard it with some confusion - and air of subdued violence. Could be the nasty looking Sig he's got holstered at his hip. Probably loaded. Or it could just be the man himself.

"Black," comes his slightly distracted murmur, a full twelve seconds after the question's been asked. Because he's been watching Ravn, noting the guardedness. And the first aid kit. And remembering a few things he spotted outside. And probably putting two and two together. "Mm," is his helpful rejoinder, when Ravn mentions having had a bad dream. He approaches no closer than the kitchen table, assuming there is one, and hitches his chin at the kit. "Need a hand?"

"I think I'm good -- turns out Seth Monaghan can heal. I got stabbed -- I'm mostly just reeling a little because that's a first for me." Ravn makes a little face. "I knew my lucky streak would end sometime. Four months here, it had to happen some day." He pauses. "But, yeah, if you want to check that I did this right, I'm not going to say no. I didn't want to go to the ER -- imagine they might ask all kinds of questions."

He doesn't seem to think this enough of a medical emergency that it can't wait until coffee has been poured into mugs, though. Ravn's mug of choice is black and reads, Wears Black, Loves Coffee, Avoids People. The other one is just black. He places the tupperware box on the kitchen table too, and makes a gesture towards the chairs. The trailer is not spacious; but it's serviceable. "That was one fucked up dream, I'll admit. Came out of it looking like an extra from the Texas Chain Saw Massacre. But no one got seriously hurt, so all's well that ends well?"

It speaks, perhaps, to the depths of the twisted shit this town puts them through, that de la Vega doesn't even bat an eye at news of Ravn being stabbed. Then again, he's also in law enforcement, and this sort of thing is a regular fact of life for him even in his mundane job. He huffs a chuckle, and starts shrugging out of his jacket when Ravn agrees to let him have a look.

"No, no. There's a few doctors there who have the, uh." He waggles his fingers by his head, as if it explains anything. Maybe the other man will pick up on his meaning. The jacket's tossed across the back of a chair, and he reaches for the mug that's handed over. Blow and slurp, steam tumbling from the surface and sifting through his beard briefly. "Mm. Not bad." He lingers a moment before setting the mug down, and going to wash his hands in the sink. "Wound up in a dream with Seth Monaghan, huh? He all right, too?"

Ravn rolls up his sleeve to reveal a jagged slash across his lower arm; the sort that a very big knife might make, with the kind of not very neat exit lines that someone else might then make when pulling it back out. The injury looks a couple of days old and oddly, has sealed itself apparently without the need for stitches. It's going to leave a scar, no question about that, but as knife wounds that haven't seen actual medical assistance go, it's looking pretty good. He's cleaned it up and added a bit of iodine to make certain no infection sneaks in anyhow, leaving a faint yellow tinge to the skin.

"Yeah, he's fine. Ended up in there with him and Clayton -- Clayton is a mess, currently, but that wasn't the dream, he was like that when he got there. The only one who got hurt in there was me. Unless you count a substantial number of nightmare human/animal hybrids and a serial killer in the making who was creating them, in some kind of fucked up flesh factory. But I guess that's just Gray Harbor doing its thing." Ravn shudders at the memory. "Monaghan saved our tails in there. We'd have been screwed sideways into Sunday without someone who carried a firearm and knew how to use it."

Once he's finished scrubbing, the faucet's switched off, and the cop briefly hunts for a towel to dry his hands. Then the knife wound snags his attention quite singularly, and his movements slow to a distracted swipe of still-damp palms along his jeans as he approaches.

At mention of Alexander's name, though, a sliver of tension runs through him. The slightest bristling in his power, perhaps the softest huff of breath from his nose like an agitated animal. "He the one who's been teaching you to use one?" he wonders, reaching for the arm without quite touching it. Waiting, it seems, for permission to do so. "A firearm, I mean."

Ravn shakes his head. "I went shooting with him and a couple others once, during that bloody weed haze. What little firearms knowledge I have, though, I learned from my father and my uncle. Deer and pheasant hunting are a big social affair back home. Pretty much an excuse to go out in the woods, put on some silly clothes, and drink too much. Clayton doesn't like guns, I think?"

The injury is healing well enough. It probably hurt a fair bit going in, but then, what blade doesn't? "I don't think I'll get in the habit of carrying a firearm around myself," the Dane murmurs and nods, holding his arm out for inspection; a slight tensing of muscles preparing to cope in case his nerve system decides that the other man's fingers are made of ice or fire. "Our gun laws are quite restrictive back home -- I'm not used to the idea of civilians carrying them. Moreover, half the dreams seem to pull you in wearing nothing but a duvet anyhow, and I sure as hell don't intend to sleep with a firearm."

"Seth," clarifies the cop in a bit of a deadpan, as if it should have been obvious to whom he was referring. Everyone knows Alexander and guns don't mix. He waits a beat, two. And then there's a little brush of power felt at the very periphery of Ravn's mind, perhaps, if he's paying attention. Subtle, at first, until it's not. Until he might start to feel a sense of utter calm begin to wash through him, quieting his thought processes, slowing everything down. No ice or fire in the touch that lands; Javier's hand is warm, palm heavily callused, and for a man who seems so prone to violence.. well, that calm seems to radiate from him. As if, somehow, it were the truth behind the savagery.

"Hold still," he murmurs before checking over the injury, turning the arm over in his hands. Not roughly, but not treating it particularly gingerly either. The kit is reached for after a moment, and the wound's given a perfunctory swipe of disinfectant before he leaves off his examination. "You ought to've gone to the hospital for this," he reminds him gruffly. "And nothing wrong with sleeping with a gun." Says the man who probably does.

Ravn looks a little blank-eyed at first; then he focuses long enough to look at de la Vega questioningly. Upon realising that this strange silence in his head seems to radiate from the other man -- who knows that he suffers from a neuropathic disorder -- he makes a conscious choice not to resist it, though he does look a little disoriented. "It was a bloody meat cleaver," he murmurs. "I'm grateful I still have a hand."

He shakes his head, collecting his thoughts; this is a strange sensation for a man who usually lives in a permanent balancing act on the precipice of panic. A memory surfaces, of Maggi Gyre doing something similar, and the Dane finds himself wryly thinking that if this power could be bottled, there'd be a substantial market to tap into. "We only did go shooting once. I might go again for shit and giggles, but I don't see myself as the gun-toting type. Besides, if I'd had a gun within reach that night Vic Grey forgot where she lived and let herself in here in the middle of the night, you'd probably have had to arrest me for attempted manslaughter."

He rolls his sleeve back down and looks at the other man. "I'm never going to be the kind of man who can kill another and walk away. I'm far too squeamish."

"Mmhm," seems to be about the sum total of Javier's inclination to weigh in on the topic of meat cleavers and hands, while he washes up again, back turned to the other man. He's not unaware of the brief disorientation, of course. Maybe he's just giving Ravn a minute to himself.

Drying his hands off once more, he eventually turns to glance at the Dane over his shoulder. "Didn't enjoy it?" A brief, dimpled grin. "Maybe you need a new gun buddy." His brows furrow slightly as he eases away from the sink and ambles in a bit closer. "Or a better gun. What'd he give you to try, anyway?" Ravn may, or he may not have noticed some healing marks on the older man; what looks like rope burns, of all things, on his wrists. A few cuts and fading bruises on his arms and neck, too, though those are harder to spot.

"Small pieces. I'd tell you which except that at the time, I was so high on that bloody weed residue that the only thing I really cared about was getting the shooting over with so we could get started on the cupcakes. Most of that week is a little unclear for me -- I spent most of it arguing with people, saying things I shouldn't have, and arguing with people I did not want to argue with." Ravn actually looks embarrassed at that admission. "Seth is convinced I'm made of glass, though, so if you can picture anything he might own that he'd trust to a fragile little girl -- that was probably it."

He does glance briefly at the other man's injuries; and anywhere else on the planet, he'd probably have asked, too. But this is Gray Harbor, and the Dane just nods slightly at the sight of the rope burns before reaching for his coffee cup. "Bad dream as well?"

"Probably a Glock or two, maybe a Beretta," proffers the cop, with a scritch-scratch of fingertips through beardscruff. "And if he figures you for a.." He pauses for the effect of adding quotes around his next words, "Fragile little girl. Then I think he's clocked you all wrong." A beat, though no smile. "Let me guess, those are your words, not his." As to his injuries, "No." Not a bad dream. There's that brittleness in his shoulders again, and a swallow that makes his adam's apple jump.

Then abruptly, a nod toward the tupperware container he brought. "You, uh. Want to try one? Rosencrantz taste tested them before he left." His gaze slides away toward the little window that looks out onto the gravel lot. Then back to the other man expectantly.

"My words," Ravn cedes and decides to not press the point of the police captain's injuries; remaining ironically unaware of the link to Clayton's injuries which he also refrained from asking about. The connection is probably not obvious; more likely, the Dane has lived here long enough to have realised that there are a lot of things happening in this town that will not improve by some nosy foreigner poking hornet's nests for the sake of being curious. It's the same sense of discretion that leads him to leave out Joey Kelly's name altogether -- because while the Dane has no knowledge of Kelly's underworld affiliations, he was not blind to the fact that the gym owner requested for people to turn the GPS in their cell phones off on that outing, nor that some of the weapons passed around suspiciously lacked serial numbers. Cold reading is a fundamental skill for a confidence man; it doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to piece together that something was going on that day in the woods that probably shouldn't have been. If he'd not been high as a kite, he might even have asked Kelly himself about it. Or have made another conscious choice to leave that hornet's nest in peace, too.

Instead, he reaches, with a bit of relief, for the change of subject. "Yes. Yes, I do. I got distracted -- I have the attention span on a greased squirrel. Let's get back to what really matters here -- people tell me you're the best damn brownie maker in Gray Harbor, captain. Don't mind if I make myself the judge of that." Ravn opens the box and pauses a moment to decide which, out of all the good looking brownies, is the best looking brownie. He probably wasn't kidding about firing a couple of shots in order to get to the cupcake eating part of the outing.

That one. That is the best one, and now it is his.

The best damn brownie maker? Well, he certainly was not expecting that. The cop barks a laugh; warmth floods his features, creases the corners of his dark eyes. "The fuck anyone told you that," he murmurs, trying to shove his hands into his jacket pockets, but he isn't wearing his jacket today, and the movement's awkward. He winds up leaving them at his hips, instead. And watching, of course, to see what Ravn thinks of that brownie. The man is, in turns, a hunting cat who looks like he might rip your face off, and a kitten tripping over its own paws.

Ravn in turn doesn't say anything for a bit. This is probably because while he more or less has convinced himself he's just some travelling grifter, he was nonetheless raised somewhere you don't talk with your mouth full. This brownie is not escaping unharmed. In fact, there is no more dangerous animal than a wounded brownie, and thus, he better make sure to put it out of its agony. When he does speak, it's with a wide grin. "I think Rosencrantz was first to say it but I'm pretty sure at least two other people did as well. And they weren't wrong, either. Bloody hell, store bought cake just doesn't compare to the real thing."

Half-eaten brownie in one hand the Dane makes to get up. "Why don't I put on some water, make us a cup of coffee, and then we stuff our faces in a most embarrassing fashion? I don't cook at all -- or bake. Home cooked food is like Christmas, only with less embarrassing family members."

By the time Ravn's mouth is unoccupied enough to make words, Javier's backside has migrated to the edge of the kitchen counter, and his arms are folded across his midsection. Somewhere beneath the habitual cop face he's got going on, a twinge of anticipation that's fulfilled when Ravn confides that store bought cake just doesn't compare. Chuckling, he glances away, thumbs through a scruffily bearded cheek, then turns back to the younger man. "I don't know, I'm sure I could embarrass you plenty." Which isn't an answer, of course. So he follows up a couple of beats later with a gruff, "Okay."

Ravn's mouth twitches into a lopsided smile at that. "I have no doubt whatsoever that you could, captain. Much as I fancy myself having street smarts, I grew up pretty sheltered. A lot of things here still floor me. I just try to pretend otherwise."

He leans against the counter, waiting for the water kettle to boil for a coffee refill and studies the other man before adding, "And sometimes, stay very pointedly oblivious because some of the things people get up to here -- some of those things stop mattering when you've faced off with an Aztec goddess or the Headless Horseman. I can't begin to imagine what police work here is like."

A huff from the captain, dark eyes tracking Ravn as he goes about putting the kettle on to boil. "I don't think this town gives a fuck how you grew up, or where you came from. Te morderá y te escupirá." He scratches at a gouge in the formica with his thumbnail, and glances back at the other man with a twinge of something that isn't anywhere near a smile.

"Most of the time? It's about keeping our heads above water. It's not for everyone." A glance back to the kettle, still simmering away. "Arguably, my job's a little easier now, with one less person breathing down my neck about missing reports, but uh.." Scratch, scratch at that gouge. It probably doesn't change the fact that the murder rate here, alone, vastly outpaces any other city in the county, and how in the hell have they managed to keep the FBI off their backs about that?

"The town doesn't care much, and the Veil certainly doesn't give a fig besides whether it can use you for a chew toy. But I've got no illusions that I know what life on the street is really like. I've grifted and bummed my way for a couple of years, but I've never been a single mum with three kids, wondering how to pay rent or feed them. There's choosing to live rough, and there's having to live rough." He shakes his head lightly and pours the water as it boils. Yay for instant coffee? At least it's a decent brand.

"I don't know," the Dane murmurs. "I have this idea that there are things here that I don't want to know about. And things I want to know everything about because maybe they'll help me figure out what went wrong here, a long time ago. I'm probably going to end up like Clayton, making police officers groan when they see him."

"Mmhm," is the cop's barely heard rejoinder, dark eyes once again fixed on the fairer-haired European across from him, decanting water into cups. Tepid silence, and the scent of the instant coffee; and he sniffs once or twice. Allergies? Probably not. Not at this time of year.

"Why'd you do it, then?" He pushes off the counter, and goes to grab one of the cups. Bruised up knuckles, and those odd marks around his wrist that he won't comment upon. He fetches a spoon from the drawer and gives the cup a stir, tosses it in the sink and takes a noisy sip. "The, uh, grifting and bumming, I mean. I'm just curious. It's obvious you've come from money and influence, I mean." There's a filament-fine thread of something in his voice when he says that, no matter his attempts to smother it. Resentment, hot and brittle.

Ravn straightens slightly; a very small hint of defensiveness that no doubt reads like an open book to someone used to reading suspects. He stirs his coffee for a second and then says, "No influence. Lots of -- expectations. Money that isn't mine -- I didn't get my hands dirty making it. And a very pissed off fiancee who blames me for getting herself killed drunk driving. I had a breakdown. Ended up having to commit myself after a suicide attempt. When I got out I just... walked away. And didn't stop walking until I got here, three years later. What happened on the other side of the Atlantic can stay over there as far as I'm concerned."

Javier looks over when the fiancee is mentioned. Cup poised at his mouth, then eventually completing the trip to take a sip, inked knuckles swiping at his beard after to catch a trickle that tried to escape. "You didn't love her." He licks the dribble of coffee off his thumb, watches Ravn for a beat or two, then sips again from his cup. "I was married, uh. Ten years. There was this.. relief when she died. Horror, and relief. I battled it for a number of years." Which may be the most consecutive words he's said on the subject to anyone in this town. Congratulations, Ravn.

"Not... in the end, no." Ravn looks at his gloved hands. "I was blindly in love with her at first, but it didn't work between us. That's what caused the accident, and why she blames me for it -- I was breaking up with her."

He looks back at the older man and winces very slightly. "I'm sorry. I get that. My therapist in hospital called it survivor's guilt. It's not a very good feeling."

Chuckling softly, the cop gestures a little with his cup. "Diviértete," he corrects, switching seamlessly to Spanish. "It sounds to me like you were in lust. I'm told it's a different thing. Lust is a thing you feel. Love.. is a thing you do." He drinks again, steam curling around that scruffy, weathered face. "I said that you didn't love her. I didn't love my wife, either. Not at the end." He drops his gaze a fraction, then raises it again. "So you're here, now." He pushes forward, reaches for a brownie.

"You're probably right, captain. I was pretty reclusive when I was younger, and she was the first woman to give me the time of day. I fell head over heels." Ravn's little grimace conveys the number of years it has been and how time has allowed him to come to terms to some extent; but also suggests that doing so might have taken some effort. And maybe that there isn't really a lot one can say about introvert young men making bad decisions.

He settles back down on his chair, curling long fingers around his cup. "So. Yeah. Here I am. Didn't think I'd stay in town for long, but I don't seem to be going anywhere. Going to apply for a permanent visa -- instead of a tourist one. Maybe find out what I want to be doing in the long term, but for now, tutoring online will get me by."

It should prompt some sort of pleasantry, mention of the permanent visa. The implication that Ravn plans on staying a while. It should be cause for congratulations, or that's great to hear, but instead, the cop's brows furrow and his expression hardens. A glance out the little window confirms that it's raining still, and only coming down harder; his hair's still damp with it.

Never one for tact or diplomacy, his next words are predictably obtuse: "You should leave this shithole while you can. Head to Seattle or Portland, I've got some buddies on the force out that way that could help you get set up." Then he takes a big bite of brownie, and mumbles his appreciation for it.

"Yeah. I should. Everyone keeps telling me that, and have since I got here, five months ago. But I'm not going anywhere." Ravn pauses a moment, looking for the right way to express his sentiments on the matter; he is pretty fluent barring the occasional mistake (so apparently hustler has come to mean something else in modern American slang, whodathunk), but sometimes, he still needs to think about what he wants to say.

"It's not a shithole to me," the Dane says at length. "I'm not saying that Gray Harbor is a good place. The Veil is bloody real, and what it does is as evil as anything can be. But that's what makes it a good place for me. Here, the enemy isn't other people. I used to never stay anywhere for very long. I didn't ask names, didn't get numbers or addresses. I was alone, and I was all right with that because I didn't like people. It's different here. It's hell but it's also a place where somehow, I can function. As crazy as that sounds."

It's entirely possible that it's not a shithole to de la Vega, either. The fact that he's still here; the fact that he's bought a house, and dating not one, but two men. The fact that he's not followed his own damned advice and gotten the fuck out of dodge by now. There must be something here for him, too. Maybe, like the island of misfit toys, it's the only place that'll have them.

He finishes off his brownie, licks some chocolate off his thumb, and pushes back to his feet. "I should, uh. Get the fuck out of your hair. I'll tell Rosencrantz you said hello, yeah?"

Ravn gets up as well. "Yeah. I didn't actually expect you to turn up just because I apparently texted everyone and their grandmother in my weed haze. I appreciate it. Appreciate the health check too, first bloody time in my life someone's come at me with a meat cleaver. Appreciate meeting someone with a badge who seems like a decent bloke too."

The Dane may have some very personal ideas of what being a decent bloke entails exactly. He very likely has no idea about a great deal of things that go on in Gray Harbor, either -- one little gang war between criminal syndicates included. He seems sincere enough, though. "Maybe we'll bump into each other at the gym sometime? I was high as a kite when I apparently managed to get myself adopted as the unofficial gym mascot but I'm pretty serious about it."

"De nada," replies the cop with a rusty chuckle. And Ravn may, indeed, have some strange ideas of what constitutes decent blokes, if they include loitering about abandoned houses at three in the morning with half disassembled sniper rifles. But hey, each to their own.

And, "Sure we'll run into one another. I'm there at least three times a week." He almost seems to have more to say on the subject, but opts against it at the last second. Instead, a faltering smile is offered that's rather more like a flash of canines, a quick adjustment of the brim of his ballcap, and he turns and prowls on out without further ado.