2021-01-20 - Heart to Heart (And Caffeine Galore)

So, it's a cliche, the writer tapping away in a coffee shop. Usually aspiring, usually terrible. Though this one, at least, is beyond the initial aspirations - he has been published.

Joe's got a table, though, out of the way of the door, and his laptop open before him. Glasses on, and he's grinning at the screen, despite himself. His greatcoat's draped over the chair behind him, with its pins of the Little Prince and the Rose, and he's wearing a gray fisherman's sweater, old jeans, and those battered boots. Looking like nothing so much as a professor planning next semester.

Who's a cliché? That might be the other writer wandering in at some point -- the guy in black with a laptop under one arm and a nose that's still a bit red. He has not been published and he's wearing a turtleneck so at least for him, the stereotypical Starbucks writer archetype -- there to see and get seen -- fits, with the one possible exception that Ravn Abildgaard generally prefers to not get noticed to any great extent. And ironically, with his slightly tech hipster look, he doesn't appear much at all like a professor doing educational things -- though that is in fact what he's here for; he's a university level tutor, and he's got student essays that need constructive criticism.

He breezes past the counter where the usual short argument with Della the day manager ensues; four months in town and Ravn still can't convince the woman to serve him a straight black coffee. The compromise -- as always -- is a hazelnut roast. Neither side's really sure why they argue anymore, and neither side will budge.

Spotting Joe the Dane heads over, coffee in one hand. "Howdy, neighbour. Feel like company?"

His eyes are bright, when he looks up. Expression almost impish. "Sure," he says. "Plenty'a room. And honestly, I gave up the attempt to do real work 'bout an hour ago. I thought getting out of the house'd make me more productive, but...." Joe shrugs without any real contrition. "Ah, well. Been chattin' with an old buddy in Russia, but it's time for him to go to bed anyhow. How you been keepin'?"

As if that whole thing in the police station hadn't happened....though some of the brightness in his face fades, and he adds, "Man, I gotta say, you goin' for that guy with a pair of fuckin' scissors.....I haven't seen anything that stupidly brave since I was with the Marines in Afghanistan. You gotta big brass pair, man."

Ravn looks a bit sheepish as he pulls up a chair. "The opposite, actually. I get so terrified I have to do something. That poor receptionist -- you know what they say, trap a rat in a corner and it'll fight."

He plonks the laptop down but doesn't turn it on just yet. "I went to see Mac at hospital. She has a head injury which the nurse told me she'll get over just fine, and a breakdown that might take more time. That guy who punched out on his own -- she feels she killed him. Lot of guilt in there, lot of fear of what she might accidentally do with her powers. She had the same look in her eyes as some of the Afghanistan vets I work with."

Joe shakes his head. "It's not true. Some people just freeze and die, I've seen it." The smile banished entirely. "It's not about feeling afraid or not. It's about what you do or don't."

A sigh for his account of Abitha's aftermath. "That's often the case," he says, quietly. "Especially for those who aren't....used to violent contexts. I mean, she didn't kill the guy or he'd not've punched out with his own gun. That poor motherfucker - what a place and time to go. I owe Reyes personal, he gave me a hell of a working-over this summer, but.....now, now, I honestly hope I get to be the one who punches his ticket." .....did he just admit he'd cheerfully murder this other man? Apparently so.

Ravn cants his head slightly. "Reyes? Paper said the riot gear guy I tried to stab was named Liu. I'm not at all sorry I tried. If anything, I'm sorry I didn't succeed. People who will do what he did to that receptionist for being noisy are not batting for Team Humanity. As far as I'm concerned, they're no more human than the zombies and monsters that the Veil conjures up for shit and giggles. If that makes me a cynic, then I'm really all right with that."

He's already given too much away....but then, Ravn's in it, now, isn't he?. "That guy, I'm willing to bet, was working for someone behind the scenes. The faction's led by a guy named Reyes. He....saw me as a way to exert pressure on someone else and grabbed me this summer. Put me in the hospital for a while. I....think you're right, honestly. I mean, there's enough weird and awful shit here to fight without it being human on human."

He looks down at his keyboard for a long moment, swallowing hard. "It was bad," he says, simply. Presumably he means the incident in the summer.

Ravn doesn't look all that surprised, no. "I kind of picked up on how there's something going on. I sort of make a point out of not asking too many questions because for me, at least, this town is all about us versus the other side. I honestly don't care much who's sitting on the local pot trade or escort girl racket. But that's easy for me to say since I'm also not a threat to anyone, and I'm not close enough to anyone in a key position to be a useful tool."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what key figure Joe might be close enough to, to be useful blackmail, after all.

"I'm... done with illegal stuff," the Dane murmurs. "But I do hang out with some people in that camp, and I do keep my eyes open. It's about to get worse, isn't it? Buildings blowing up, shoot-outs at the precinct -- this is a level of turf warfare that goes way beyond cops coming down a little hard on the local dealers, or the local dealers trying to run a fast one past a few dirty cops."

He lifts long hands, exposing the calluses on fingers and palm. "I....don't have much interest in it, myself. But...." They both know who they're not mentioning. "Yes, it will. This has to be....it has to be concluded. The pressure on both sides...." Joe shakes his head, and the blue eyes are grim. "God willing, this is the endgame. I hope it doesn't end up being something where the Veil responds. I don't know what the threshold is, if there is one at all."

"Yeah. People shooting people is bad enough, we don't need Cthulhu stomping down Main Street on top." Ravn shakes his head. "I'm not -- I've never served and I don't really have any fighting experience. But here, you have to pick up some. I've been sort of taking basic self defence lessons from Monaghan and Kelly. Was Monaghan's advice I followed back there -- knees, groin, eyes. Guy had riot armour on to protect two of those, I went for the third. I don't want to hurt anyone, but I can't just stand there and watch people drop either. I wouldn't blame anyone for freezing but I'm the other way when I panic -- I do something, anything. Not sure that that makes me very reliable, though."

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Hardly a master of hand to hand myself," Joe
says. "But instincts were good, that's clear." The flash of a grin. "That's smart. Being able to defend yourself....it's enough to kind of wake up that part of your brain, in a lot of ways. When you start thinking of violence as a real possibility that you need to respond to, that you can prepare for....it alters things. Still, though - a man in riot armor with a rifle, I salute you."

"A man in riot armour with a rifle who looked at me like I'd be next," Ravn points out with a trace of wryness. "I felt you doing -- something to that rifle of his, too. I'm not good enough with the shine to try. I can open a lock or a window latch real quiet with it, but I need to concentrate and take my time -- I'd never dare pull something like that right there, on the scene, the way you were doing. Wouldn't be able to do it quiet enough."

He sips his coffee at last (bloody hazelnuts!). "But yeah. That dream about the Aztec goddess, on the beach... With the zombie hordes and the reanimated murder victims -- that one made me realise that I needed to learn at least the basics. I can't rely on everyone else to save my bacon -- not that I don't think most people wouldn't try, but the last thing anyone needs in that kind of situation is a guy like me running around like a headless chicken. That's why I started hanging around the gym."

"My old job," And if Itzhak were here, he'd no doubt fling up his hands in theatrical despair, that Joe won't just say it, like NASA's the Mafia and not to be named directly.. "Preparation is nearly all what we do. We rehearse, we imagine every possible contingency that we can come up with, and we train. There are still fuck-ups and disasters, but at it's best, that's the culture. It's an antidote to fear in the best way. Knowing that you can deal with anything that's likely to pop up. When I got here, I wanted to....try and codify things like that. To learn, to research, and in time, to teach. But with things being as protean as they are, you kind of can't, beyond a certain point."

He doesn't seem dismayed when he admits this. "But knowing yourself and what you're capable of....that's never going to be anything but good. Yeah, I turned the safety on and then I broke it in that position. Simplest thing I could think of to make it harder for him to fire it. Might be worth practicing more with the power, but....that's its own risk..."

"Yeah. A sudden zombie invasion wouldn't have made things easier for us back there." Ravn shakes his head, expression clearly reading that he thought things were bad enough without the Veil needing to get its say in. "I'm not a scrapper -- I mean, nevermind that I'm a pretty scrawny guy even if I'm tall. More the neuropathy thing -- I have one chance to get a hit in, because when they hit me back, I'm down and out for the count. Slap me in the face and I'll be on the floor for an hour. Monaghan keeps drilling me on making that one hit count."

"Bluntly, if you can't take hits....learn to do damage from a distance." Joe's grin is rueful. "I know it's an absolute cliche all over the world that Americans want to solve every problem with a bullet, but if you haven't trained with a gun, think about it. Alternately, pick one aspect of the power and work on it. Work on it hard. The masters here are deadly at a distance without having to move at all. I wouldn't ever want to get into a fight with de la Vega or Rosencrantz that way, they'd clean the floor with me."

"Yeah. I can shoot a rifle -- deer and pheasant hunting is sort of a social function thing where I'm from. Rich guys getting together to wear silly clothes, drink a lot, and maybe take a buck home. I'm not entirely new to the idea, and I'm trying to pick up the basics for pistols. Just -- I don't sleep with one. If there's anything I've learned here so far, it's that half the dreams pull you out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of sweat pants. So priority one is learning how to deal with nothing, I guess." Ravn makes a small face, remembering a few times where people turned up in some crazy nocturnal scenario wearing nothing but their birthday suits. "I'm not at the level of paranoia yet where I sleep with a gun strapped to one leg and a set of lock picks strapped to the other. Maybe I should be."

That has Joe laughing aloud, an unashamed guffaw. "Right?" he says. "I'm about there....and I used to swear I'd never be the guy who went to sleep with a pistol under his pillow, but now I am." He sighs.

"Yeah, I haven't had one of those myself, but it's inevitable, I guess. For me, it's been daytime, generally. That's the thing about the shine - it can't be taken from you, it doesn't run out of ammo, and it works on things and in ways the guns don't...."

"Yeah. It's just for me, my ability with it is... I had an argument with a guy a while back about it. He basically told me that I'm so weak that I might as well not bother, because with power like mine, the only thing I'm good for is being thrown under the bus so others can escape." Ravn shrugs lightly. "He was an idiot and an asshole, of course. But he was right about relying on the sparkle not working for me. So I'm trying to use the things I am good at. I was in a dream a while back with Clayton and Monaghan, for instance, where we were locked up in a cell. Picking locks -- that's something I do pretty well, and I don't use the shine for it."

The sailor bares his teeth. "That was an idiotic thing to say. That's not how it works. Even the smallest sparks can make a bigger difference than you'd think....who was that?" But the comment about lock-picking makes him cock his head. "Why.....why can you do that? Or is that something widely taught in Denmark?" Oh, yes, he's teasing.

The Dane laughs. "Well, no, I don't think so. I used to -- when I was a kid, I used to run away from home a lot. Later on, spent a lot of time -- it sounds like a joke but it's not, travelling with a circus. Small carnie operations. Boardwalk scams, confidence work. It was fun, and no one asked who I was or where I came from. Ended up hitch-hiking my way through Europe, travelling a bit with one carnie group there, shaking up with a gang of Romas there, -- you pick things up. I've always been good at things like picking locks or lifting wallets. I'd probably have ended up doing time on a few occasions if not for daddy's lawyers."

This revelation is greeted with increasing amusement, the blue eyes brighter and brighter. "You really ran away to the circus. That was my dream when I was a kid. I was gonna be a lion tamer," he says. "Well, 'til I found a book in my dad's study that changed my life, set me on the different path. That's funny to know, that you lived that dream. I bet it was wild...I've always liked wandering. The year or more it took me to get from Savannah to here was wonderful."

Ravn can't help laugh a little as well. "Well, my father did keep threatening to sell me to a circus so I decided to save him the effort. I got handed over to social services by the carnies a couple of times as a kid. When I got older, though -- what group of carnies and grifters can't use a young guy with good hands and a clean record? It's not a bad life, but it did put me in a couple of tight spots. I'd probably not be able to hand over a clean record to the immigration authorities here today, if not for the family lawyer." He looks a little sheepish about that; it's hardly a secret that almost no matter where you are, laws don't apply to wealthy people the same way they apply to the working class.

Finally he gently folds down the laptop, pushes it aside more firmly, as if it were an importunate kitten.....and picks up his drink. Alas for Ravn, he's firmly in the 'coffee as dessert' camp - it's some awful cinnamon and caramel concoction. "I hear ya," he says, amused. "How'd you end up in the US specifically, if I c'n ask?" Content to be distracted from his work, such as it is.

"I ran out of Europe. Once you hit Malta, you can't get further without hitting Africa." Ravn still hasn't turned his laptop on -- it may just not be a good day for actually getting anything done. "Much as I was tempted, hitch-hiking my way down through Africa without anyone knowing where I was and no connections, not speaking any of the languages, seemed risky. None of the northern countries have English as a main language -- you need French, or at the very least a bit of Italian. Further down it's German and French -- need to be about halfway to Capetown before English starts being a thing again. So I decided that I'd get on a plane to New York instead, and then head across to the west coast, and then south until I hit Tierra del Fuego. Got stuck here after getting kicked off a ride, though -- which is probably for the best, since I don't speak Spanish, either."

He looks at the other man over the rim of his cup. "What about you? I mean, why here?"

The humor fades, turns to something wistful. One of the few expressions that makes his real age clear. He looks down into the murky depths of whatever it is, takes a sip while he gathers his thoughts. "I .....I needed to get away from the life I'd lived. From my family, from the loss of my career. I owned a house in Houston, but it ended up sold - Houston wasn't somewhere I wanted to live if I wasn't working there. Took some of that money and bought my boat. And once I had her fitted out and ready, I just left. I had no real destination in mind, but I did have a kind of pull, here."

He taps his chest, right about the solar plexus. "Like a compass needle. I was...pretty leisurely. Sailed around Florida, followed the Gulf of Mexico....just harbor hopping, really, not a lot of blue-water sailing. It never let up. Got through the Canal, came up the west coast of Mexico and California. And then when I got here, it finally stopped." Joe finally glances up again. "I found Javier again, and I'd been looking for him for a long time. That was it. If he goes, I'll follow. But as long as he's here, so am I."

"I could imagine worse reasons to go somewhere," the other man murmurs with a half-smile. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not a little envious, either. Feeling like that about somebody must be -- fulfilling? Happy endings aren't all that common in my experience. Wouldn't mind finding myself in a relationship like that some day, but of course there's a certain requirement as to somebody else wanting to be part of the equation."

Joe's smile is very rueful. "It....was hard earned. There was...there's a lot of history there. It's not easy even now. He has a lot of demands on his time, and he loves Itzhak, too. We mostly manage to make it balance and work, and it gets more stable as it goes, I think." A cock of his brows for that. "Fulfilling is definitely a word for it, though. To win out, after all these years. Find him alive and well....I never thought I would. We each of us thought the other was dead, for a long time."

"Not going to pretend I understand how that works," Ravn agrees, still half-smiling. "But I lean towards anything that works for everyone involved can't be a bad thing. Still laughing a bit about that 'straight boyfriends' joke that de la Vega started, about Rosencrantz and me, too. I actually had to set a few people straight about that. But that was what working at the Twofer was like, though -- you don't ask who someone's involved with unless you have a lot of time to spend hearing the answer."

There's another wheezing laugh for that. "Right?" he allows, cheerfully. "It does work, I think, from where I sit. It's good that you're friends with Rosencrantz. He really is good people - you won't find a better friend in this town, I think." But there's another of those cocks of the head. "....was like? You quit?" But then, Joe hadn't been around there in a while.

"Yeah. There were a couple of things... It wasn't just one thing that made me decide to pack up." The Dane swirls his cup a little, watching the liquid slosh about; things are complicated, sometimes. "There was the whole -- the rumour mill had this idea that Bennie Oakes and I were somehow involved, or that I was trying to get involved with her. You know, hit on the widow on the rebound -- and then the all but on paper husband comes back, and who doesn't love a juicy triangla drama to gossip about? I found myself complaining about it to a couple of friends and one of them asked me -- well, is this really what you want to be doing ten years from now? She didn't judge -- if I wanted to be a barback, then be a damn good barback. But it did get me thinking. And no, I don't see myself cleaning tables and rest rooms ten years from now. I never intended to stick around town for long, it was just meant to be a way to raise a bit of travelling funds."

"Small town gossip," he sighs, softly. "I've never lived in a real small town, but I served on aircraft carriers, and those are small towns, in their way. Thousands of sailors on the big ones. That's right, though. It's easy to let habit carry you away, to drift on goin' the way you been goin', and then you turn around and ten years are gone..." Joe picks up the mug, turns it lazily. "Do you know what you wanna do? This place has a way of keeping those who come, but you can get out. It does happen."

"I am applying for permanent residence, actually. Trading in my tourist visa and all that." Ravn grins slightly. "I don't want to get out. I like it here -- crazy as this place is, it feels more like home than anywhere else I've stayed. Probably because on some level, we're all in this shit together and we kind of have to have each other's backs. I'm used to being on my own pretty much all the time so it's a nice change of pace."

He glances at his pocket and then notes the absence of ash trays; welcome to the 21st century, Ravn. "I picked up more tutoring. It's something I can do across time zones, and while it won't buy me a Maserati, it pays my rent. I don't have a whole lot of expenses in the first place -- single bloke, don't need much space, no really expensive habits."

"There is somethin' about it. Bein' among those who do see. I mean, Jesus, I had a few years sure I was goin' crazy from brain damage," Joe allows. "It got real bad. That's when I got those scars on my arms." As if attempted suicide were just an accident. "At least here there are those who know it's all real, who can help." The long face is somber. "Yeah, I hear that. Much as the joke goes that a boat is a hole in the water you throw your money in....havin' her is cheaper'n a house an' a mortgage. Though I've thought about buyin' a house here...."

"I'm thinking of renting a place, shacking up with this other guy I hang out with a fair bit -- Aidan Kinney, don't know if you know him, he does the healing thing." Ravn cracks a small, lopsided smile. "Offered me a place on his couch when I first came into town, decent bloke. He's not single, but his girlfriend lives in the UK so -- as far as living space needs go, he's as much alone as I am. With me living on the boat most of the year anyway they can have the place to themselves when she does visit -- but it'd get me somewhere to put my books and any other things I might not want to leave around on the Vagabond for any random tourist to make off with."

He bobs his head. "Sounds wise. I like my own space too much to go for a room-mate I'm not involved with. Happily, the place in Bayside's within my means....and it is nice to have somewhere for my books. Only so much space aboard," he agrees, with a sigh. "I don't know that I do know a Kinney." Another glance down into his cup, as if he might divine something in the dregs of the coffee. "The camaraderie here is appealing. As someone who's been to war, I can confirm it's one of the few compensations of that state..."

"Kinney's a street magician -- couple of years younger than me, does busking and sleight of hand tricks so we've got a couple of hobbies in common. Add to that, he's pretty laid back and quiet of nature, so we get along pretty good." Ravn pauses a moment as if he remembered something a little belatedly. Then, with a small laugh, he adds, "And when I say I am thinking of shacking up with Kinney, I mean becoming roomies. I keep forgetting that apparently shacking up means something more than just living at the same address, at least to some people."

He nods somewhat enthusiastically at that last statement, though. "It is. It really is. It's why I decided to stay. I absolutely get that now -- as a historian, sometimes you wonder why soldiers would stay with the sinking ship. Why did German soldiers not desert en masse during the end days of World War II on the European continent? So many captured soldiers said, because I couldn't leave my buddies to fend for themselves. It's something that makes a lot more sense to me now."

"Humans are pack animals. Much of military training is just....reshaping what your brain considers part of the pack. That's why symbolism is such a thing, there. A way of redirecting our allegiances," Joe says, quietly. "It's enormously potent. Men will die rather than leave their comrades. Take insane risks....."

A chuckle for that. "I figured. You'd told me you were straight a while back, as I recall. Sounds like he'd be a good room-mate, both of you quiet souls...." He makes a funny, self-deprecating little gesture. "Hell, if I hadn't found Javier here, I don't know that I'd be with anyone in this town..."

The Dane hitches a shoulder. "It's not such a big deal. Finding someone at all costs, I mean. I've spent most of my life single, and last I checked, I'm still alive. Rather be single than end up with the wrong person at least -- I tried that once, and guess who turned up a month ago to try to kill me and several others here, in spite of being five years dead. I'm just not... very romantic, I think. Tend to not even notice if someone's interested in me, or get the hell out of there if they are because I've done my time as some woman's arm candy and errand boy, really. You guys have a good thing going on. But not all things of that kind are good things."

The sailor's lip curls, a little. "I sure've made my share of bad decisions on that front. Hell, I made your share, too, most likely. That's wise, though. I mean, 'fore I got here, I was by myself for seven years. Good that you've got enough sense - I've seen so many end up with just the worst people 'cause they couldn't stand the thought of sleepin' alone."

"I've got a cat who wakes me up at 3am because she's feeling emotional, demands I buy her things, and leaves her belongings everywhere in the form of half-eaten sparrows. I don't need a girlfriend." Ravn winks and sips his coffee. "And while people often seem to think I wear these gloves in order to advertise for some really exciting sexual preferences, they are in fact to protect me against unexpected touch experiences. Neuropathy tends to make something having the wrong texture feel like sticking my hands in an electrical socket or into fire."

"I've got some in the foot of my bad leg, it's no joke," Joe agrees. Snickering at the idea of the cat as a substitute for a girlfriend. "Nah, I guess you don't. I sometimes miss women, but....I'm happy where I am. Unexpected touch experiences....'s a hell of a way to put it."

"You can't be single for years and not miss -- well, whatever your preference is -- entirely," the other man cedes. "I mean, when you get down to it, sex is fun. But the complications and the headaches? Not again, not unless I meet that one right person who's willing to put in the effort. Someone who's gunning to be my friend first, and then we can negotiate the rest later on, as it happens. It's fortunately not something that tends to come up a lot for me except --"

He can't help laugh softly. "Well, except in this town. For a while there, the whole Revisionist thing having me pegged as a celebrity became a bit of an issue. But after that died down and I am not at the Twofer any more, people seem to have found other things to speculate about. And thank God for that."

Joe rolls his lip under, as if stifling a smile....or trying to. He mostly doesn't succeed. "I wish I could say I'd done it that way. But gen'rally, no. I'd be better off if I had, I'm sure. Yeah, the sexual politics of small towns can be real virulent. Happily, most folks kind of....don't seem to really notice that I'm Javier's spare boyfriend. Itzhak is way more of a presence on that front than I am. Been a while since I had anyone hissin' at me for bein' a Russian spy, either."

"Bet you don't miss it. The spy thing, I mean." Ravn picks a sugar packet off the centrepiece on the table and sets it dancing across his knuckles almost absentmindedly, in the way that someone who smokes will find something else to do with their hands if they're sitting in a non-smoking place when the urge hits. "As for Rosencrantz? He's about as subtle as three pink elephants covered in bells and whistles driving down Main Street on monocycles while whistling the national anthem of Mocambique. It's part of his charm. Not going to pretend I don't find it admirable -- I am utter shit with crowds and I hate people looking at me. I admire the man for being all right, even enjoying all the attention he gets. Takes a lot of confidence in who he is -- something which I sometimes find myself sadly lacking. Does it bother you, though? The -- well, I won't say third wheel because it's not my impression that you're actually being treated like a spare."

He's watching the sugar packet with evident delight and clearly about to comment on it when that assessment of Itzhak makes him choke on his mouthful of coffee. His reflexes are good enough that he doesn't simply spit it back into Ravn's face like a cobra, but it does send him into a coughing fit that has him turning red and pounding his chest with a balled fist.

When he can speak again, albeit wheezily, he wipes his eyes with a napkin, and says, "I do find it admirable, too. He's fearless in ways I will never likely to be, but I can aspire to follow his example. I'm used to having to hide that aspect of myself, and only slowly shedding the fear." A shake of his head. "No, I'm not treated like a spare. It's more a matter of who's in the eye of the public as de la Vega's boyfriend. It's honestly kind of good, because....Itz handles it better. Itz is braver and unafraid....and I feel like Javier needs the reflected light."

"The captain is a very private man," Ravn reflects. "I can't really quite make out whether he wants that light. And of course everything is complicated by the whole -- public figure thing. It'd be easier for you blokes if no one gave a fig. It's a little hard for me to understand, I admit -- I come from a country where a foreign minister happening to be married to another bloke only was a problem insofar that it forced the queen's master of ceremonies to evaluate the seating plans for the annual New Years' gala a little."

"I don't know that he does want it....but it's good for him," Joe says, with a last cough into his napkin. "Rosencrantz and de la Vega and I have all come through some of the most brutally homophobic cultures in North America. I got off the lightest, mine was just military service, I admit.....but it's never easy to shed the impulse to camouflage, even when it is nominally safe. And the police are another of those subcultures, though he's got a lot of experience and presence that weigh against it."

"Where I'm from it's something that's either absurdly in the closet and under wraps -- or very flamboyantly in the open. I'm from a very conservative background -- not so much religious as just highly traditional and proper." Ravn adds another sugar packet absentmindedly. "Then I took off and ended up living on the streets for some time, and the culture I fell in with there is -- highly macho, highly homophobic, and pretty misogynistic to boot. All while living in Denmark which prides itself in being very open-minded. So I guess on some level I see both sides while personally I tend to think that whatever works for people is good as long as everyone involved is on board with what's happening. Rosencrantz did give me the 'please don't out the police captain' speech and I get why it's necessary, but it's also a freaking shame."

"Except that they go out, in public. I don't know about dates per se, that's not Javier's thing, but.....no one who sees them is fooled," Joe's voice is matter of fact. "He's outing himself, even if he's not flamboyant about it. Being quiet about it isn't the same as hiding. When I was first involved with de la Vega, if we'd been outed....I'd've gone to jail. What culture is that, the Roma?"

"Not just the Roma, and not all of the Roma, either. But yeah -- carnie culture, street culture, is pretty brutal on some things. It's a man's world, bros before hos and all that -- and very much an us against the rest of the world culture. Insinuate that some bloke likes guys, you can be fairly sure he's going to be in your face with a knife about you suggesting he might be less of a man than you." Ravn nods. "As for the rest? Conservative European gentry, we're as bad as the British -- just less formal."

Another shake of that grizzled head. "I bet. And the British are plenty bad. Carnie culture, eh? I have trouble seeing you with that. But this was only in Europe, right? Not over here? I don't know much of anythin' about the American version, at least in the modern day...." Joe sighs, settles back in his chair, stretches his legs out before him.

"Nah, I did some busking and boardwalk style confidence work on my way across the US too," Ravn murmurs. "It's easier when you're not stayng somewhere. I can put on an act and be someone I'm not really -- and no one will ever know because tomorrow I'm on a greyhound. Here, where I live? It's a lot harder for me to pretend to be someone I'm not. There are consequences in form of people remembering what I said and did last week. That said -- it's not a very healthy culture. There's a reason most people get out before they're forty, or, well, not. You start out just doing small-time petty theft and scams, and at some point you find yourself running cocaine or in a money laundering racket for some East European gang. I decided to get out while I could -- because I could. Realised that with daddy's lawyers keeping me out of trouble, maybe I should stay out of trouble -- I had some options and opportunities after all, that most of those kids didn't have, being just a spoiled, bored brat looking to make friends anywhere."

Joe chuckles, low in his throat. "Living a sustained lie is hard as hell. I know, I've done it. But yeah - that idea that outsiders are disposable, are prey....." He lets out a slow breath. "At least you did realize it in time. And ended up here, drawn in, the way this place pulls in so many...."

"Yeah. Gray Harbor does that. From what I've seen -- it's having the shine, some kind of creative expression, and some kind of darkness in you that does it. Hit all three, and you've got a ticket for this place." Ravn chuckles too. "Darkness can be a lot of things, of course. Sometimes it's an ability to hurt others, sometimes it's that you have been hurt. But none of us seem to be -- just regular blokes. There's always something terrible that happened to us, or we did to someone else -- some level of PTSD, to be blunt. Have you noticed?"

By his expression, no, he hadn't. Joe pauses at that, in the midst of pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. "No," he says. "I figured the shine was enough. I'd say more....all three're what make you stay and let you survive. Like, Itz used'a have this girlfriend, Isolde. She managed to take off, though she's back. He had another I only met the once, Becky, I think, and she went and stayed gone. Because I feel like those with enough goddamned sense do bug out. Those used to carrying horror around with them all the time aren't surprised to meet it here." Then he's starting to fold the bit of paper, turning it and shaping it. Origami.

"Yeah. That makes sense. And of course, getting out is the smart thing to do -- and most of us are apparently not that smart because we're going nowhere." Ravn watches with interest; origami is one of those little handsy things he himself has never picked up on. "I think I've met Isolde a few times -- freckled girl, works as a bartender at the Poorhouse now? Bit surprised at the idea of her being Rosencrantz' ex when he said, she doesn't strike me as his type. But then, a woman will show you another side of herself if she's interested in you, I suppose. And I suppose there's a reason they're exes. I am pretty certain about my theory, though -- I even went and looked into murder rates among the homeless with Clayton to confirm it. The Veil uses people who match all three like fuel. It's just that high-resource people like us form this little community where we notice if people disappear -- and we still talk about how inevitably, we'll get lost too."

"People warned me," he says, as he flips the bit of paper, runs a thumbnail along the crease. Creates a haunch, a pair of little legs. "Told me it'd kill me slow. But I'm here. And they're here. Survival is the victory, joy is defiance." He clicks his tongue. "She wasn't," he says, and his voice is a little dry. "I feel like there are people who feel like they can handle Rosencrantz from a distance but get burnt when they get up close." Another flip, another fold, and a pair of forelegs, delicate as thorns. "Mmyeah, it takes eventually." Joe sounds sanguine about it. "But I'm five years past my sell-by, so who's counting?"

"Idea doesn't bother me much either," Ravn admits. "Might not be a bad way to go -- exploring entirely other worlds. Don't much care for the idea of ending up in some capacity like the Exorcist or whatever they're called over there, but odds are you just -- vanish? Go somewhere else. And even if it does kill you, something will eventually kill you. Could get run over in Main Street tomorrow, but I still go grocery shopping too. Sometimes, we're horrified because something is not the usual way to go, I think. Getting squashed by a drunk driver is normal, so we don't worry about it."

And then he grins slightly. "Rosencrantz is a lot to handle. It's part of why we get along. He doesn't challenge me, he bloody well twists my elbow until I do whatever it is I should be doing. And on some level, I think it's very healthy for me that he does."

He pauses, the little figure - some sort of quadruped - pinched between thumb and forefinger. All the better to point the other (the D in HOLD) at Ravn. "Exactly," Joe snorts. "Man, that makes a point, actually. That's one way I almost died 'fore I even got here. Guess that's part of why it doesn't daunt me much."

Then he grins again. "Exactly. He don't just lead by example, does he?"

"Constructive bullying." Ravn nods solemnly before smiling. "It's good. And I get it -- the straight boyfriends joke that de la Vega started, I definitely get it. In some way, I'm the kid brother who clings to the man's leg. Or the girlfriend who follows in his wake with big eyes. But like I said -- it's probably very healthy for me. I do tend to be too reclusive, convince myself that I don't need anybody."

He eyes Joe speculatively a moment. "Got to ask -- you've been to space. You've literally rode a big-ass fiery explosion to get out there. Knowing what happened to the Challenger and others like it. I have a hard time picturing you worrying about some Sunday driver in Main Street, or some mugger with a knife. It's like -- the universe already had its chance, plenty of them, to punch your ticket if it wanted to. You're not immortal, obviously, but I think that on some level I'd find it difficult to fret the small things."

A last few deft motions of his hand, and the delicate little thing is freed to stand teetering on its pinpoint hooves, raise its needle horn: a unicorn, precisely as Deckard finds it. Only then does he look up with a smile, and there's a hint of Joe's old arrogance there.

"Precisely," he says. "I did dangerous jobs for years, did the hardest things there have ever been or ever will be to do in my chosen fields. I nearly died in my last landing, but I'd nearly died even before that. Hell, one of the first things I did after joining the astronaut corps was be part of the aftermath of Columbia. I've used up my nine lives, all this...." A wave of a hand takes in the town beyond the walls, "Is bonus time, y'know?"

The other man gives a low, impressed whistle; he can do things with his hands too, but something like that? Definitely not. Then he nods. "Yeah. Bonus time. I've never been in any serious accidents or have anything dramatic like that happen to me. But I've felt like that a lot so I think I do know where you're coming from. Until I got here I used to feel that I was more or less just accidentally drifting along with reality, and at some point I'd run out of reality, and it wouldn't really matter. Now? I feel like I've been given some time that does matter and I intend to make the most of it. But also that on some level, it's all bonus so I'm not going to waste it worrying about whether I should be doing something else instead. Gray Harbor is a pretty Lovecraftian nightmare but at the same time, it gives you a second chance."

Which insight is greeted with an approving look. "That's another way in which it's like war - you live all the way up, you don't take time or people for granted. That glimpse of just how fragile reality is, is enough to kind of add that edge. And explain some of the more unwise hookups," he adds, a bit dryly. "In a warzone, there's the temptation to give the opinions of the glands more weight than they'd carry in normal life."

"Hell yes." Ravn grins slightly into his coffee cup. "Hell, Dante Taylor told me that the week I got here. People cope by drinking and having lots of random sex. It's obviously not true for everyone but I do see his point. It's a way to move past the horror, and some of the things that happen here are horrible. Hell, I had a guy try to chop my arm off with a meat cleaver because it gave him a hard-on, that's pretty horrible."

"Taylor's right," Joe says, eyes a little heavy-lidded. "God knows I drink. Not much random sex, though. Yeah, I've seen some nightmare shit on both sides of the Veil...." He snorts a laugh to himself, as if at some private joke.

"Coping mechanisms. Me, I walk and I read and I probably drink too much, too. But whatever works for people, I figure. If bartending taught me anything it's that picking up strangers in bars is not my scene." Ravn laughs softly. "Not only do I not notice if someone tries to pick me up, but it also got exceedingly boring after a while -- watching people do the whole negotiations, are you interested, am I interested, are you alone, what do you expect, how do I get you alone, and so on. It's all very predictable and honestly, from the other side of the bar, very repetitive."

The sailor's chuckle is rusty. "Yeah. I used to be a past master of a certain kind of bar pick-up, when I was a younger man. But I had specific advantages and a specific situation, and I grew out of it once I got out of my twenties and out of the Navy per se....and it was a game. Or a dance with familiar steps. So I feel you there. Now it's a different thing, being both taken and past mark of mouth."

"I've never learned that dance." Ravn laughs softly; at least he's not particularly embarrassed about his own failure to meet certain social expectations. "But I think that's largely due to disinterest. I have this tendency -- I tried to explain it to Rosencrantz a few times, too. I view people as people, and that's fine. I'm happy to know people. But then sometimes, people decide to become women, and it all gets complicated from there. The whole rule set changes, and suddenly there's all sorts of social obligations and demands, and you can't just have a row and move on like you would a bloke. It's a failure in me, obviously -- I don't know how to handle it, and I'm not interested enough to figure it out."

Joe spreads his hands, palms up. "It was the reverse, for me. When all I was looking for was women in the abstract. A one night stand, a hookup, whatever term you wanna use. I knew how to get it, and I got it. But the minute one stands out from the crowd, demands to be treated as someone different....that does change it. I mean, I've genuinely loved women in my day, even nearly got married a couple of times....but yeah, it's more complex. It's a different negotiation, and even being a queer man is vastly easier, in some ways."

"Yeah, same thing, different angle." Ravn adds a third sugar packet to his little dance. It doesn't seem to be a matter of showing off -- more just a habit to keep his hands busy. "Hooking up is not really an option for me unless I want to sit that woman down and give her a medical lecture first on how to handle my disability. That's -- generally not how it works if you bump into someone at a party and they give you a wink and a nudge and do you feel like slipping upstairs for a few, you know? I burned my hands, quite literally, a few times on that one when I was younger. I fall in love easy enough -- I just tend to, well, ignore it until it goes away."

Which has Joe finally reaching out with a hand - slowly, telegraphing it, and stilling those busy fingers with the lightest touch of his own. As if Ravn were a soap bubble he didn't want to break. "Hell of a way to put it," he says, and his voice is rueful.

Ravn does watch those fingers like they have the potential to burn. He doesn't pull away, though -- albeit he does look a little surprised. "It's not so bad if I see what people are doing. Unexpected ticklers though -- I could murder them, when I'm done screaming. The drunken limbs-everywhere mess that hookups tend to be, though -- that doesn't work for me. But I suspect that's a story you'd get from anyone in a wheelchair or other serious disability too -- if it takes effort, then it also takes more commitment than hey, we're both drunk and lonely, let's go do the thing in the men's room."

He withdraws, just as deliberately. "Yeah. I was....my wreck took a long time to recover from. There was a very real possibility I'd never walk without aid again, so I kind of....caught a glimpse of what it'd be like to have to deal with that as a permanent thing."

"I'm not in a wheelchair and I am not in constant pain like some people who struggle with neuropathy, either." Ravn tosses all three sugar packets back in the basket. "I do feel like punching people with a lead pipe when they think it's funny to sneak up and jab my ribs for shit and giggles, but fortunately, most people are a good about it. It's really kind of funny -- most of the time, I have to deal more with the fact that people think I wear the gloves to signal some kind of BDSM thing."

He looks back at the other man curiously. "You've mentioned a wreck a few times. What happened? It comes across as if it was a pretty serious thing -- and maybe not with a car?"

Now he looks almost sheepish. "I....my last landing was almost a crash. The only way down from the Station until we got manned launch capability from the US again was a Russian spacecraft called a Soyuz. When a Soyuz leaves the station, it has three parts. Only one of those carries people, so before we leave orbit, the parts separate and two of them burn up in atmosphere. Only....when I came down, they didn't separate properly when they were supposed to. This made our landing a lot harder than it should've been. To make matters worse, it made us land far from our expected landing zone....in a field of what was basically straw. It was on fire by the time the rescue crew showed up. I got both broken bones and bad burns. You just can't see the scars when I have street clothes on, and I healed enough I don't need to walk with aid, generally."

"Holy shit." Ravn looks at the other man a moment as if doing the mental calculations of spacecraft plus fire plus straw plus possibly not so fantastic Russian responder services equals good lord you're lucky to be alive. "Yeah, that's... Wow. I mean, they make movies about stuff like that. Imagine you spent quite some time recovering and getting everything back into working order."

The smile's dimmed, more than a little. "Yeah," he says. "We were the worst disaster since Columbia....no one died, but all three passengers got real messed up. The Russians were pretty upset, they hadn't lost anyone since the 70s. I was in the hospital or rehab for more'n a year. To make matters worse, the wreck is what brought out my shine. I didn't have it until then. Not as as a conscious thing."

"But you made it back. Literally, and figuratively." Ravn nods at the other man with respect. "And you dealt with suddenly having -- abilities -- on top. From what I hear around here, coming into one's power as adult is hard, in part because you need to unlearn a lot of things and rewire your whole perception of what's possible. Heaven knows I'm a soft ping compared to most, but I am grateful that I always had it. I didn't have to go through the whole mental trauma of realising that reality as I knew it is in fact a bloody fluid thing, didn't have to find my limits."

There's a quizzical little quirk of his brows at that. "I did. Just barely, but I did. I didn't deal well, to be honest. I thought I was losing my mind 'cause of brain damage. I got worse an' worse, with Them working on me. Got out of rehab, but it wasn't for long. Ended up with a suicide attempt, back in the hospital, then the Asylum. I 'magine it is easier if you have it from childhood. On the other hand, that situation fucked up Clayton right and proper."

"Well, Clayton's toys tried to eat him. That's fairly drastic. For me, I just saw people other people don't see, and stole things without touching them. More Sixth Sense, less It." Ravn nods. "But when you say Asylum I feel like I should ask -- do you mean a mental ward, or the... other place? The one inside the Veil? I have heard tiny bits and pieces about it from Grant Baxter but he's... not really eager to talk about his time there. And I don't want to push him because frankly, it sounds like Hell on Earth."

Now there's something strange in the blue eyes, leaving them clouded, oracular....distant from the bustle of the coffee shop, the rich, pleasant scent of beans being roasted. Joe's nominally looking at the little paper unicorn, but it doesn't connect. "The one beyond the Veil," he says, softly. "It was a kind of Hell, in a strange way. Healing by day, torment by night. But....it was also somewhere I fit, strange as it sounds. I almost miss it."

Ravn steeples his gloved fingers under his chin at that. "If you feel like talking about it some day... I wouldn't mind hearing about it. No pressure, though. I've done time in a regular mental ward myself -- also after a suicide attempt. Nothing supernatural about that, though -- just a bloody amount of boredom and frustration, and therapy that I honestly am not certain did me all that much good. I left home after that -- because I realised that I was not crazy, and that there was nothing medication or therapy could do for me. My dead fiancee's ghost was very much real, and pretty damned pissed off, too."

Color's started to creep onto his cheeks again, but he looks up. "What would you like to know? It....there was one of those things that lives in the Veil, in league with a human doctor. I'd go to actual therapy during the day, but at night, there were Dreams. Like something out of a Victorian asylum, and the treatments were torment." His brow furrows. "I was older'n the vast majority of patients. Generally they were teens and young adults..."

"Why would you stay? And why, indeed, would a human doctor endorse the nightly half of this treatment?" Ravn looks puzzled. He trails the rim of his coffee cup with a fingertip; the Dane is clearly one of those people who end up smokers because holding a cigarette is something their hands can do in order to distract themselves when their owner is a little agitated or disturbed. "Why would any rational medical practitioner from this side of the Veil agree to such a treatment for their patients? The therapy you received in the day hours would have to be -- quite out of the extraordinary, to make torture worthwhile."

It takes him a little to form a reply. Lips paused on the words. "Because he was in league with Them. They don't manifest directly in this world, but humans can work with them...and there were human practitioners there. Maybe not all patients were tormented and they thought it was worth it...."

Joe glances down, and the color in his face intensifies. "I....pain and I....pain is something I kind of enjoy." Bland, bland words for that terrible ecstasy, light-years beyond merely sensual satisfaction.

The other man raises his eyebrows at that. "I'd imagine there's a difference between masochism and torture," he murmurs. "But I'm certainly no expert in the field. I don't imagine that Veil creatures are big on safewords, though."

He shakes his head lightly. "Of course that'd explain it -- a human, working for Cthulhu. I've met a few. People like that lieutenant, Liu -- having the shine, and getting away with abusing it because there are things on the other side that will absolutely both shelter and encourage someone like that. And why not? The suffering someone like that inflicts is a free lunch to the creatures that Clayton calls dolorphages, pain eaters. How did you -- get out?"

"There is," Joe's voice is still slow, careful. "But...I kind of don't have words to explain it. It wasn't a good place, that's for sure, but...it wasn't as bad for me as it mighta been. Maybe I distracted Them from some of the younger ones. I can hope so."

"Exactly," he says, clinking a nail against his cup. "They eventually just let me go. People did get released. I think things've changed there now, and it's barred to this world. I hope so."

"From the sounds of it, we can hope so. Even if it wasn't as terrible for you as it could have been -- I know Bax is not very willing to talk about it, and I strongly suspect that he did not find anything redeeming about the experience at all." Ravn taps his lower lip, thinking for a moment, then shaking his head. "I'm not going to pretend that I understand. Enjoying pain, I mean. But then, we all have our little -- issues, I guess. I struggle with identity issues to the point where I sometimes switch between personas like other people switch shirts. I even have names for them -- coming to Gray Harbor and taking off my masks has honestly been one of the greatest challenges of my life. Rosencrantz yells at me about it sometimes -- tells me that omitting facts is still lying, after a fashion."

The older man's smile is rueful. "I drove Itzhak crazy for a long time 'cause I didn't make a habit of sayin' what I used to do. Not really. I'd just say I was retired Navy, which is the truth. I went into NASA via the military route, so I was technically a sailor for twenty five years. I think.....I think I can sympathize with that, some. I had a lot of personas I had to wear because of my job, and I've slowly been shedding them since." He reaches up to touch his hair. "Never wore my hair this long since I was a child." And then he flashes the knuckle tattoos. "And when I was in the Navy, hand ink was not allowed."

"He was furious with me for not telling him that I come from a fairly privileged background, yeah. I of course remain adamant that I never told him I didn't. That's ninety percent of confidence work right there -- you let people draw their own conclusions and simply don't correct them when they draw the wrong ones. I never meant to deceive him, either. Just, after a while, it felt -- like our friendship might change. And I didn't want that. I like it just the way it is. And to be honest, I don't feel much connection to that background in the first place -- it's certainly not something I wear on my sleeve."

"It's a luxury we have that most don't, is all. I know....I know it's a thing with Javier and with Itzhak, who didn't. Much as we love each other, much as we care, it's there. I see the look they give each other when we're all three together, when I've just said something that kind of.....made 'em think of it." He sounds rueful, but his expression is enormously fond.

"It is a thing. I don't know de la Vega very well at all, but I'm pretty good at reading people -- used to do it for a living, after all. He absolutely bloody resents that part of what makes me, well, me. And I respect that -- life isn't fair. I've absolutely skated right across ponds that he had to wade. Money doesn't buy you happiness, it's true -- but it sure as hell does save you a lot of headaches. I wouldn't have been able to show a clean record to the immigration authorities here without daddy's lawyers, that's for sure. And I can afford to live in a trailer park and look like a hobo but not actually worry, because I know that if push comes to shove, I can eat my pride and dip into my funds. I'm not ever going to truly understand what it's like, having nothing. Would be hypocrisy of the first degree to pretend otherwise." Ravn sips the last of his by now quite cold coffee after making that little soliloquy, looking a little sheepish. He does talk a lot and fast, sometimes.

Joe tips his head again. "Exactly. Even though I bought Surprise with my own money and I live off my Navy pension and my book income....there is that. I've got that backstop behind me, and you're exactly right, it saves a huge amount of stress. I've never tried to pretend otherwise, it would be insulting and silly of me. I've never had to worry the same way."

"I think that's what Rosencrantz was upset about, yes. That, and that he felt I'd lied to him, by not telling him much about myself. I don't talk much about myself and my past in general." Ravn hitches a shoulder slightly. "I don't find myself to be all that interesting that I need to give a speech about me in the first place, and I honest to God don't feel comfortable being called out. It's not who I am, not here. I won't lie about it, but I would be far happiest for all of that to stay on the other side of the Atlantic where it belongs. This town's already got the Addingtons, Thorne, Taylor, Vydal -- it doesn't need more eccentrics in fancy clothes. I like Vydal and Hyacinth Addington, I consider them friends -- but they became my friends before they knew me as anything but a penniless drifter. Maybe that's why they are friends."

He can't help it - Joe's grinning at Ravn, the one broad enough to make the smile lines at his eyes deepen. "Like a prince in a fairy tale, wandering the land incognito," he teases. "Right? I didn't want to wander on in and slap my dick on the bar, metaphorically speakin', by showin' up and braggin' about what I used to do. It changes people's reactions real fast."

"With the exception, maybe, that your incognito fairy tale prince usually has some agenda in mind whereas I just bailed because I had had it with dead women and social expectations." Ravn is literal minded enough to laugh quietly at the mental image that the sailor conjures; or maybe he's just worked long enough at the Twofer where -- and let's be honest here -- there are absolutely patrons (and owners) who might make such a suggestion and bloody well mean it. "But yeah, I get that. Your C. V. is pretty impressive. Suspect you might have had the experience a few times, too, that introducing yourself with the full deck of calling cards, so to speak, gets you resentment and accusations of thinking that you're somehow superior."

"Or....people kind of see the .....I won't say facade, because it isn't fake. But they get hung up on that one layer. Even now, there's kind of an aura to that job, even if it wasn't like the start of the space age when it was like being a rock star." He snorts., "I'm not immune to it, either. I got to meet a lot of the guys from the golden age and I damn near squealed like a piglet when I heard I was gonna meet Michael Collins, who was pilot on Apollo 11. I'm not even kidding, I was like a teenage girl....and I'd already had one launch."

"I bet." Ravn smiles lightly. "Over here in particular, Americans obsess about old world gentry. I'm not an escapee from a H. C. Andersen fairy tale. I've got an acquaintance who teaches at Harvard these days -- but he kind of neglects to mention, too, that technically he's a baron, or well, his father is. Once something like that slips -- people see nothing else, particularly not in a country that has no equivalent. Back home it's honestly not that big a deal. Denmark did away with the whole thing in 1849, unless you count the royal family. Gentry got to keep the titles, but all other privileges were lost."

That has him laughing. "Yeah. Americans get real damn hung up on titles, don't we, even if we've never officially had any. I knew a guy who worked for ESA who was a Baron in Germany. He was very matter of fact about it. He'd say," And here he drops into English with a distinct primly Prussian accent, "'Yes, yes, the title is all very nice but I still had to get up and slop the pigs every morning if I wished to eat the bacon,'." More of that faintly wheezing laughter. "I guess we can blame Downton Abbey," he adds. "Or that contributed to it, at least."

Ravn laughs too; the German accent is distinct, and having grown up one hour from the German border, he's quite familiar with it. "Bloke's not wrong either. A lot of noble houses have nothing but a shield to print on their stationery nowadays, there's no guarantee of anything wealth or prestige just because someone's named von Darüber or di Somewhere. I think -- it's still a pretty big deal in the anglophonic countries to be honest. Canada and Australia? Still big on the British monarchy even if they're definitely not part of the United Kingdom anymore. Great Britain itself? Good lord. I'm not a monarchist, let me be up and frank about that. We don't pick our parents, getting born is not an achievement."

He's nodding....and then his phone goes off. Joe looks almost startled, for a moment, and then he's noting, "I should be on my way. Got some errands to do, and then I promised to meet Rosencrantz. He and I play games, sometimes. Board and card stuff. I should make it more of a thing, really. Invite others, y'know." Then he pats the table and rises. "But it was good to talk to you, Abildgaard."

"Well, if you do, I'm told I have a decent poker face." Ravn winks; a confidence man bloody well better. "Give my regards to him and de la Vega both? I look forward to getting back to the marina again."

He watches the other man go, smiling. It's not often that the Dane finds himself discussing personal matters, and with someone he barely knows at that. Oddly enough, it feels good -- once again confirming to at least him that he made the right decision in putting down roots here, in spite of all the warnings to get on up and away before it's too late. It's too late. He likes it.