2021-02-17 - That Lovin' Feeling

The sailor's at the counter, perched in that funny, hipshot posture he uses when his bad hip is giving him grief. He's hung up his greatcoat with its Little Prince pins on the lapel on a wall hook near him, and it leaves him in faded jeans and a black t-shirt. He's got an e-reader propped up before him, leaning against the napkin dispenser, and a mug of coffee at his elbow.....as well as the look of a man who intends to be there for a while.

It may be cold outside but as some half expect, Devlin seems to just not dress as warmly as some others do. He removes his leather jacket as he walks towards the counter, "Hey you old fly boy." He hmms for a moment as he sees the way Joe is standing, "Hip giving you trouble?" At the counter, he flips a coffee cup over to signal for it to be filled. "Anything I can do for you?"

Stepping into the diner with what looks like mingled awe and amusement, Perdita definitely doesn't look like the type to come here. Dressed in a black knit mock turtleneck, a long cerulean silk skirt that looks way too thin for this weather, and a pair of black high heeled boots that look way too expensive to dirty up on winter sidewalks, with a white faux fur coat over all of it. Her long hair is up in a high, sleek ponytail, and her make up is bold, heavy black liner and a daring red lip. She pauses just long enough to take in the bar with a faint sort of helpless 'this is my life now' expression that is quickly replaced by a much more pleasant smile that is totally, one hundred percent real. Hooboy. That done, she begins approaching the bar.

There's a grin for Devlin, at that. "Hey, you, Doc. How's life been treatin' you? You came outta that Dream okay, I'm glad to see. That was a weird one, wasn't it?" He nods at the counter stool by him, amiably. "I mean, yeah, in the cold the pins in there gimme some grief, but I'm okay. Makes me damn glad I can get in the pool every day." Joe's got that ridiculous drawl, those scars....a distinctive figure, even in this town.

Perdita heading for the counter has him glancing up, nodding at her in greeting. The smile's more implied by the lines around his eyes, but he seems amiable.

With Devlin's jacket off, his t-shirt shows off the following message, 68 Whiskey, We Do Precision Guess Work, Based on unreliable data provided by those of questionable knowledge on the front. He nods in reply to Joe. "I'm ok. Only had a couple moments of stupid to rescue people from. One will need an over night or two stay. Miss adventures with a motorcycle and ice." He shrugs, "And people wonder why I stuck with parachutes, combat, and jeeps for so long." When his coffee cup is filled, "Thank you."

The locals in this place are charming, not crazy, she reminds herself as she finishes her approach. How someone can move so quietly, or easily, in those shoes is anyone's guess. She smiles at Joe readily, looking like she's about to ask if she knows him before she thinks better of it, smiling at Devlin, too. She, having seen Devlin, also flips over a coffee cup. When in Rome, right? Slipping off her coat, she hops easily enough onto one of the stools, putting her purse in her lap, coat over it, looking around at the various bear décor around her. It's hard to see behind the bangs, but it looks like the center of her brows are raising slightly as she smiles.

"No stupidity like civilian stupidity," Joe agrees, still good-naturedly. "I mean, not that I haven't seen fits of crayon-eatin' idiocy in the military, too, but...." He raises one shoulder in a shrug. "But man, tryin'a ride a motorcycle in winter here." Then he's lifting one finger, as if to fend off Devlin's reply. "'fore you say it, I know, that's my bike out front." And indeed, in the parking lot, there's a big black sidecar rig, draped under a cover. "But that's a Russian bike made for riding in these conditions, and it's got two-wheel drive. I wouldn't ride anythin' but here."

He might be familiar, depending on how into space or books she is. Though the image on the old video or the book jacket is a lot more cleancut than the border-line scruffy retiree at the counter. Perdita gets a smile and a lift of his cup, but no greeting. Strange men, after all.

A nod of Devlin's head is his initial reply to Joe. He then lifts his cup in greeting to the young woman and smiles. "Service here can vary to warn you. But the waitresses do catch on to who tips well fast." He takes a sip of his coffee, "They still manage to be a step above garrison coffee, Joe. And as to military stupidity.. Eleven Bang Bangs in garrison will steal the cake if they can't just take it." He chuckles a bit, "I guess we just take our insanity where we can take it." He then smiles to Perdita, "Gray Harbor can be an interesting place."

"Waiting tables is hard work. Until they make the same minimum wage as everyone else, I don't mind if they put my food on the table and then give me the finger." Perdita smiles back to Joe again, raising her own cup of coffee once it's filled, with a smile for the waitress. Her nails are long, manicured, and the same red as her lips. "I was told that yesterday in at least three different places." She laughs, "I also got told I should get back in my car and speed back to wherever I came from for my own safety because this town has a tendency to hang on to people."

"Food's worth it. 'cept the omelettes. I dunno what the hell kinna eggs they make those from, but I swear it ain't chickens. Maybe velociraptors," Joe opines. Then he slants an amused look at Devlin. "Yeah, I hear that, though I'd argue Marines have 'em beat. Marines have a level of aggression to their stupid I ain't seen outta regular Army. And it is....and garrison coffee's better'n shipboard. Shipboard has jet fuel and bilge in it, my hand to god."

Then he turns his attention to Perdita. "I ain't gonna warn ya," he says, lazily. "Sounds like you heard it enough, and it's probably not gonna make a difference. Di'nt with me, when I showed up bit more'n a year ago. You shine, and this place keeps those who do. Lotsa good folks here, though. Makes it worth it."

Devlin says, "So far the omlette's to my knowledge have caused only three EMT calls in the last two months to my knowledge." He chuckles some, hard to tell if he's being serious there. "But Joe's right, if you have the shine.. your choice, good, bad, or indifferent in how you use it." He then orders biscuits n gravy with extra sausage. "Oh.. and if your not a fan of the Twilight Zone, I suggest changing your mind. It will help.""

The bell above the door jingles and Itzhak comes schlepping in, his tall frame almost liquescent, dark circles around his eyes. He heads straight for the counter, as if sleepwalking, and saddles up next to Joe. Devlin, as he notices him belatedly, gets a grunt and a hitch of an upnod. Even Itzhak's learned you respect your combat medics. Then Perdita, apparition in a hell of an outfit, draws his attention and he looks at her sideways, eyes narrowed. He elbows Joe. "She real?" he mutters to him, kinda failing to keep it low.

"Does everyone here?" Perdita asks, and now her eyebrows have definitely gone up. "Shine, I mean. Obviously not everyone eats the omelettes if they're that objectionable." She laughs again, tilting her head to one side, which causes her ponytail to swing slightly. "I preferred the Outer Limits. My mamá and I used to watch old reruns of it together when I couldn't sleep, because nothing's better for getting a small, anxious child to fall asleep than scaring the shit out of them right before bed, eh?" she orders a chop steak and eggs, with a side of bacon.

As Itzhak asks the question, there's the faintest flash of fear in Perdita's eyes, though her pleasant expression doesn't really change, freezing... until she relaxes and smiles at him, "Last I checked, I was... Unless you count the resin nails and the veneers." she waits a beat, "And the extensions."

"Hey there, Itzil," Joe says, warmly, as the taller man settles down at his side. Two of a kind, this pair, in a way that goes beyond just the knuckle tattoos. "Yeah, but she new. Gloss hasn't worn off, yet," he says. "That's all."

To Perdita herself, he says, simply, "Not at all. But plenty do, and this place is kinna a fount of it. You'll see a lot more'n you're used to, and be involved in it." The waitress finally deigns to pour him more coffee, and he starts doctoring it by the expedient of a few pours of sugar from the dispenser. "I'm Joe, this is Devlin," Indicating the medic with a nod, before jerking his thumb at Itzhak, "And this tall drink of water here is Itzhak."

One of the Waitresses calls out after the phone rings, "Hey Devlin, your getting a to go order. Bob called, Frank's kid is doing the pea soup spinning head bit." With that Devlin groans, "So much for having the day off," he nods and replies, "Box it up for and let Bob know I'm headed over. Thank you." He sighs as he slams down the last of that coffee in his cup. "Take care Joe, Itzhak. And you Miss, have a great time." With that he heads out once he has his to go meal in hand.

Itzhak considers this answer from both Joe and Perdita. "Hokay. New in town, huh?" He convinces a waitress to give him coffee. Speaking of shine, his is strong; a vast and seething ocean of it, a shine that can't be ignored nor denied, power glowing out of his soul. Makes him stand out as if he's limned by a searchlight. "No rest for the wicked, huh," Itzhak says to Devlin, sympathetically quirking an eyebrow at him as the EMT heads off. "Ya doin' the Lord's work, pal." He thwaps Devlin on the back as he goes by. Then smirks tired and crooked as Joe introduces him. "Yeah, hey, nice to meet ya and all that jazz."

"Pea soup head spi- oh. Oh. Good luck with that." Perdita tells Devlin, smiling at him as he heads out, before returning her attention to the others, "I'm Perdita. Nice to meet you." For her part, Perdita's... definitely not as powerful. But not everyone can be a heavy hitter, right? "Fresh from Seattle, wanted a change of scenery. I was only planning to stay a few days, see the coast, then head south, but... there's just something about your little town." she smiles, expression ever so slightly dreamy. "Just tell me now if there's like, a gang of Proud Boys or something I need to watch out for."

"People say that a lot. Only meanin' to stay a few days." Joe's tone isn't foreboding, though. Still good-natured. Now he's dumping cream into his coffee - he's Ravn's nightmare when it comes to Americans who treat coffee as liquid dessert. "Glad to meetcha, Perdita." But the request for a warning has him glancing at Itzhak, brow furrowing. "What's a Proud Boy?" he wonders, with the rueful look of someone who's aware he's just flashed his ignorance in public.

Itzhak tips his head, his eyebrows, and one shoulder all in the same direction. "Oughta keep going. Don't even stay a day if you can help it." Thus making him yet another person who's told Perdita to keep going, but he sounds resigned about it. Like he knows it won't matter. Not unhappy about it, though. Here's one who the town has clearly netted and wound up tight. He pours cream into his coffee, and glances at Joe, tiredly amused. He's doing everything tiredly today, something essential worn thin in him. "Dumbass goyische fascists. Nah, we don't got none of them."

"Good. This is an expensive manicure." she murmurs, raising her cup of coffee to Itzhak. To Joe, "They're pathetic little manbabies who shit their pants the first time they see a Queer person or a woman of color come near them with a counter-protest sign, and unfortunately they've claimed the PNW as their base of operations. They can't even take a punch... Not that I would ever throw one, of course." her delicate jaw is set in a slightly stubborn, barely repressed anger sort of way. She takes a sip of coffee and visibly forces herself to relax. She certainly doesn't look like she knows how to throw a punch... or do anything except spend Daddy's money, for that matter. "This isn't bad. As for staying here a day, it's too late. I've officially stayed here two nights. I got in Tuesday, settled into a motel room and decided to see the sights and fell in love with the fog."

The waitress comes by with an order of raisin toast and sausage, which she sets down before Joe. He's apparently satisfied with the state of his coffee, as he sips from it, glancing between them. "I see," he says. "Made me think of 'rude boys' for a second, but that's a whole 'nother thing. And if they are in this part of the world, nah, they ain't here in this town. Be in for a rude fuckin' shock if they were, the queers in Gray Harbor'd chew 'em up and spit 'em out." He elbows the musician, gently.

"Betcher sweet ass we would," Itzhak murmurs into the coffee, another unpleasant smirk twisting his mouth. "They oughta know better." He looks and moves like trouble stacked over six feet high, this guy--though tired at the moment, there's every sense that if such a problem would come along, he'd shed the exhaustion like a cloak and come out swinging. The menace that woke in him sinks away again and he sighs. "What, they don't got fog in Seattle?" He's well aware they do.

"I'd help." Perdita says softly, drumming her nails on her coffee cup a few times. "They do, but there's also an ex boyfriend in Seattle I'd rather forget, and this seems like a good place for a fresh start. At least for a little while." her chop steak and eggs arrive, and for a second it looks like the waitress might actually flip her off, as Perdita said she could, before the woman winks and refills Perdita's coffee. There's a laugh from the petite girl, startled out of her, and she covers her mouth apologetically at the volume of it. "Definitely a good tip." her smile is suddenly bright and worry free again, and she favors both men with it. "I don't suppose there's much call for personal shoppers around here, is there?"

The sailor finishes crunching through a bite of toast. "Maybe they do," he says, mildly, after a hasty swallow. "But yeah, we would." A lazy nod of his head. "This is a good place for forgetting things like that....but nah, this town is kinna too blue collar for that to be a widespread thing, I'd think. Not enough folks with that kinna money to hand."

Itzhak squints over at Perdita. "Look, we're a poor town. There's a few rich folks at the top and then there's the rest of us." He so, so very deliberately does not look at Joe, with a deliberateness that's totally obvious. "Are there a few? Sure. Maybe you can get in good with them. We ain't exactly running over with tech moguls. You oughta think about that before you decide to stay. I'm a mechanic." Which he stresses, so she knows it's in contrast with that ocean of glimmer he's toting around.

Speaking of blue collar towns, the pair that make their way into the diner have that look to them. One's a cop, no question about it. Big black guy with Sergeant's pins on the collar of his uniform, he's running at the mouth to the older Hispanic fellow who ambles in alongside him. Dark tee shirt and snug, faded jeans with a battered leather jacket thrown over top, and a ballcap that's definitely seen better days. Both are clearly armed, and the badge that's briefly visible when the Latino goes for his wallet suggests that he's probably plainclothes.

"Cavanaugh, hey, how's it going, man?" Moretti wants to know, reaching forward to clap Joe on the shoulder. Itzhak gets a glance, too, and an upnod as he goes to place an order for coffee and an order of waffles. "Yo, Rosie," he calls out, nudging de la Vega as if to let him know whom he's spotted. Perdita, meanwhile, as someone he doesn't recognise, gets a long looking over. And an observation of, "You're fucking staring," from Ruiz.

There's a little shrug from Perdita, as if to say she wasn't surprised by it, but figured it was worth a shot. "Well, there go my dreams of finding a sugar daddy and living it up on a yacht in the bay all summer." she snaps her fingers, clearly trying to make a joke of it... but to look at her, that may well be what she's done in the past. She has that sort of 'pampered princess' Daddy's girl sort of look to her. Moretti giving her a look over gets a raised eyebrow and a smile, as if to say she doesn't mind the attention, and then she smiles to Ruiz, as well, before turning back to her meal and cutting a small bite of her chopped steak, taking a bite and chewing... then putting salt on it. And not just a light sprinkle, either. She's clearly not worried about her sodium or her blood pressure.

Joe can apparently hear what Itzhak is thinking....or cues in from the avoidance of that look. It makes him grin, and it's not as sweet as his previous smiles. But he hides it behind the cracked china of his coffee mug. "Jus' a few," he affirms.

He brightens, however, when the cops appear. Face lighting up. "I'm a'right, how 'bout you, Moretti?" Then a flickered glance between Moretti and Perdita, "I know, man, you ain't seen a girl that pretty before. But de la Vega's right, you starin'."

Her reaction makes him glance back. "If you're serious about that, that's a lot more feasible, honestly." No judgement in his tone. "This place fuckin' fills up with rich assholes on yachts in the summer time." .....does he count himself among that number? "And you're close enough to Seattle to hook up with someone there, quite likely, 'pendin' on where they live."

"Yo, Moretti!" Itzhak swivels on the bar stool to exchange a knuckle bump with the big cop. "You from New York with a name like that, Moretti?" Ribbing the big guy, like he never loses out on a chance to do. Ruiz gets a quirk of his ever-so-expressive eyebrows, a one-sided sly curl of a smile. "Hey and ya brought de la Vega too."

He stays like that, turned around on the stool, not like he's got food to attend to. Only coffee, which is in his hand. "Buddy a mine did a lot of that when he lived in Seattle," he asides to Perdita.

Moretti grunts as he's called out about his staring, and slides Itzhak a dirty look for his ribbing. Because everyone knows he's a native Bostonian, and them's fuckin' fightin' words. "Yeah, gotta make him do some actual work once in a while, before he starts thinking he can get away with living the easy life, huh?"

Ruiz simply adjusts the brim of his cap, and keeps right on scrolling through his Friendzone feed with a slight smirk. "Which part you think doesn't apply to you, Cavanaugh?" he murmurs. "The rich asshole part, or the one where you've got a fucking yacht?" Perdita gets a once-over, too, after he's shoved his phone away. A taut "Hola," in greeting, but one couldn't really call that a smile. The guy sure looks like he's trying, though.

"I'm mostly joking. Though... I do admit I'd love to spend some time on a yacht this summer." there's a slight shrug from the young woman, and she doesn't seem even slightly concerned with the casual f-bombs dropped around her. Perdita's smile warms to Ruiz, "¿Qué pasa? Vas a decir que debería salir corriendo también?" You gonna say I should run, too? there's just the slightest head tilt, and she laughs, shaking her head slightly at the group of them, tucking in to her deliciously sodium rich chopped steak now. Her English is flat, almost purposefully without accent, but her Spanish sounds distinctly Americanized, and maybe a little rusty, like she hasn't had much occasion to use it of late.

Itz's comment about his buddy earns him a bemused look. Like he's not sure he parsed that right....or doesn't know who Itz means.

Joe shoots Moretti a look, and says, "Man, you a refugee from the Hub? I didn't know that. I went to school there, I fuckin' miss it. My first duty station was Ironsides." He rolls up his left t-shirt sleeve, displays the tattoo of the USS Constitution inked there. Javier's comment, however, has him giving the cop a deadpan look from under his brows, as he rolls down the sleeve. Expression flat, before it becomes clear that he's suppressing a grin. "I s'pose it all does," he finally concedes, with no real heat. He doesn't look like the kind of rich asshole who'd have a yacht, but appearances can be deceiving.

But he's smiling, as he picks up his coffee cup again, and then takes another bite of toast.

"Ya such a fuckin' showoff, Cavanaugh." Like Itzhak is one to talk, wreathed in ink and attitude like he is. Elbow on the counter, he slouches back damn near bonelessly, long legs crossed at the booted ankle. Perdita speaking Spanish to Ruiz and smiling at the older cop like that makes him look narrowly at her, a sudden flare of--well, something--in his eyes. Like for the first time he's noticing her fancy outfit and her nails and extensions.

Javier's got his coffee, by now, and pulls it closer to blow on the surface. Ink, and plenty of it, marched up his forearm and wrist, all the way to his first knuckle on each finger. Nothing that's particularly easy on the eyes, either. What the hell kind of cop has tattoos like a gang lifer, anyway?

"No, no te voy a decir que corras. Tengo la sensación de que no escucharías." He flits dark eyes to Perdita, and chuckles as he studies her a moment, digging into her food. Then his coffee's tipped back for a sip, and he brushes his jacket aside to reach for, and turn down his radio when it pipes up with something from dispatch. Yep. Definitely armed. There's a big ol' Sig locked into a shoulder holster under there, too.

"Ironsides?" Moretti repeats, a grin spreading across his face as he watches Joe. "The Constitution? Shit, you old dog." Javier's too busy drinking his coffee, and smiling for no apparent reason at all, when Itzhak gets that look on his face, to comment.

There's a loud snort of laughter from Perdita to Ruiz, but she definitely catches that look from Itzhak, though she's pretending she didn't see it. "Si, si... Además, creo que tu novio está celoooso. Muéstrale un poco de amor extra." she takes a long drink of coffee... and doesn't even leave a smudge of lipstick on the rim of the glass, somehow. "Sorry, I don't get to speak much Spanish these days."

Joe, for his part, has gone utterly pokerfaced. But there's a gleam in his eyes - the look of a fox that has pulled up the henhouse doormat and found that the key is still underneath. He's watching Itzhak watch Javier and Perdita. He finally gives Moretti a little smile. "Yeah, man. Soon as I could move off campus, I did. I lived in Somerville for four years. I had a great time. There's no place like it. I was lucky. That's when I got that ink."

The question of whether Itzhak understands that much Spanish is answered by him immediately turning beet red. "Gimme a fuckin' break," he growls, dramatically spinning around again and dramatically clunking his mug down on the counter and dramatically reaching over to snag a menu. The waitress gives him a dirty look for intruding into her territory and slaps his hand. "Ow! For fuck's sake!"

He looks amused, de la Vega, until he doesn't. Until Perdita busts out that word in front of another cop, and all the good humour simply washes out of his face. Moretti pretends not to have understood what she said, but it's perfectly clear that he did, given the sidelong glance he sends his boss. And the captain's jaw is tight as he fidgets with the handle of his coffee cup. Awkwardness, thy name is Javier.

Itzhak's little freakout, though, has him pushing his mug away and locking eyes with the mechanic doing his best impression of a tomato. "Settle the fuck down," he growls in return. At which point, Rosencrantz gets to decide if he's going to argue with an ex-Marine who happens to have perfected his one more word out of you and I'mma shove my boot up your ass so far you'll be spitting shoelaces for a week face. To the waitress, a mumbled apology. Which appears to extend to Perdita, as well.

Still sure about sticking around this lovely little town?

Shit. It's written all over Perdita's face. She did not just... ugh. "Me disculpo, no pensé." She turns away from the whole group of them for a second, clearly trying to collect her thoughts, muttering to herself in a language that is decidedly not Spanish, and sounds more Slavic than anything. She absently touches at her throat, before her brows furrow ever so slightly as if missing something not there. "So. Um."

Joe manages not to grin at Itzhak's little display, but mostly by dint of focusing hard on his meal...and hiding behind his coffee cup a lot. And when he does emerge, his lips are pressed together hard. Javier's reaction has him momentarily grave.....until that flicker of mischief appears again. His gaze darts to the mechanic, like this has become a tennis match. There might be anticipation there. Just a little. Then back to his food, as if to grant her privacy.

Itzhak locks gazes with Ruiz for a long count of two. Then, well, he may rib Moretti, but he's not, apparently, about to disobey that tone and that look Ruiz gives him. So he visibly submits, ducking his head a little and turning back to the stern little waitress. "Would you just gimme the goddamn menu, please," he says to her.

"No, you have to make it up to me now." She's scented blood in the water. "Sing something and then you can order."

"What?!" Itzhak protests that this is cruel and unusual punishment. One might get the sense he's drawing attention away from Ruiz's awkwardness, as well as Perdita's. But of course, he gives in with a bone-weary Yiddish sigh, pulls in a breath, and snaps out a beat. "You never close your eyes anymore - when I kiss your liiiips..."

The obedience dissipates some of the tension in the older cop's shoulders. He holds Itzhak's gaze a beat longer, just to make it perfectly clear he's not shitting him with that request, and then turns away to finish off his coffee. Not a word as the waitress makes her own little request, and Moretti leans in to murmur something about needing to take a piss, before easing off the counter to go do exactly that. Javier's probably got a good deal more he could say, but he's on duty, and nominally required to behave himself. Just a look slid to Joe, before he digs some cash out of his wallet to pay for he and his buddy's orders.

The young woman at the counter looks like she might want to crawl under it and die, at the moment. At least she isn't the type to flail. Because she'd be flailing. Instead, she is studying her chopped steak with keen interest, looking for all the world younger than her twenty three years might imply... at least until Itzhak starts singing, and then she does look up, cautiously, curiously.

Joe was doing so well, too. So well. Then Itz busts out with that, of all choices, and the sailor promptly chokes on his coffee. Oh, he manages not to make a mess, but he's left coughing into a napkin and pounding his chest with a balled first. Clearly, it went down the wrong pipe. It becomes clear, after a moment, that he's sputtering with laughter, even as he wipes his eyes. Javier gets a wink, there and gone again.

And then he's chiming in with Itzhak. Of course he knows this one by heart. He even puts out a hand to the mechanic's shoulder, as he does. Joe's voice is raw, untrained, but he can carry a tune.

"You're trying hard not to show it - But baby, baby I knooowww iiiit - You've lost that LOVIN' FEELING - whooooa that lovin' feeling -" Itzhak almost loses his rhythm when Joe joins in, trying not to laugh. But he's a professional and he gets through the chorus, snapping in time ostentatiously. The waitress herself is blushing by that time. Itzhak, much more in control, flashes her a winning smirk and holds out a hand for his prize. She hands over the menu and then escapes to the kitchen. "Tough crowd," Itzhak says, bouyant now.

There's a sardonic if amused slow clap from the direction of the door. Guess who wandered in real quiet, unnoticed as he often does? It's Gray Harbor's designated teacher ninja in black, Ravn Abildgaard -- who happens to take most of his meals here. The staff certainly pays him little mind these days, he's learned not to order the omelette, and the only one who can be bothered to hazzle him is Gina Castro. As usual, he's low key eccentric in appearance -- black all the way.

"Evening, y'all." He strolls to the counter where he requests a sandwich -- chef's surprise -- and scampers onto a bar stool, content to take a look around, maybe, determine to what extent the constellations of people are having private conversations or free-for-alls.

Itzhak and Joe are serenading the waitress, Perdita looks like she's willing a hole to open up in the floor and swallow her up, and Javier? He's just glad things are relatively back to normal around here. As in, he can stop by the Black Bear Diner and grab a cup of coffee, and there's no funny business like finding out it's lukewarm. Or has been dosed with a tablespoon of sugar. So he orders another, and tries not to smile as these men who he's totally not dating make fools of themselves.

"Evening, Ravn," over his shoulder to the arriving Dane. He's not even going to attempt his last name. It's bad enough that he tries to roll the 'r' on his given.

If Perdita could burrow through the floor, she definitely would. Or just will herself out of existence. Though around here, who knows. Very softly, while Joe and Itzhak are singing, she looks up at Ruiz and says, "I am so sorry. I'll flirt with him as a distraction, you knock him out and then we'll leave him in a hotel room surrounded by empty liquor bottles, an empty bottle of pain pills and a Real Doll convincingly made up to look like a murdered sex worker." she's clearly joking. One hopes. Dear gods, one hopes. "That was a joke, by the way." she clarifies, sketching a wave to Ravn. She's not blushing, but she does look distinctly like she just kicked someone's puppy.

"She should be tippin' you," Joe says, with evident satisfaction. Still a smug bastard, yes, he is. Satisfied, he chuckles, finishes off the rest of his toast, and looks around in hopes of a refill. Then he glances up to see Ravn arrive, lifts an inked hand to wave at him. "Hey there," he says. "How's it goin'?" Not glowing as brightly as Itz is, but it's there.

Itzhak takes a bow in Ravn's direction, grinning in full asshole mode, and claps Joe on the shoulder. He glances at Javier under his black lashes, as quick as Joe's wink. Yeah, the bastard knows he commands the room when he feels like doing it. Perdita gets a glance too, not nearly as laden with meaning but just checking up on her. Wait, she's still talking to Javier. Itzhak just caused a bunch of trouble by reacting to that and now he's considering causing a whole bunch more.

"What's happenin', Abildgaard." He can pronounce Ravn's last name except he turns the 'aa' into a blat. "You met Perdita? This is Perdita. She likes the fog."

"Sounds like a pretty good morning for Gray Harbor," the Dane notes drily. "Although I don't get to complain -- for some reason I usually get off pretty easy compared to some people who always happen to throw themselves in front of me when Cthulhu wants breakfast." Is he glancing at Itzhak? He is glancing at Itzhak. Somebody has designated themselves the official tank in the nightly dream raids and it's not Ravn.

He nods back at the other men. "Hola, howdy, shalom. Sorry, haven't identified yet which of the indo-European languages it is that you speak, Perdita."

And that of course answers Itzhak's question. The Dane nods anyhow. "We ran into each other at Sweet Retreats this morning. Kailey's been having screwed up dreams lately -- something about the café shooting, something about eyeball eating ravens, and of course, the whole domestic abuse kitten affair." From his tone, business as usual. They're all crazy around here.

He sure as hell does. Has people eating out of his hand, when he switches on the charm like that. Javier's briefly caught up in that glance he gets, and it's returned with a little twitch of his upper lip that doesn't quite bare his canines. Like, come get some, baby, if you can handle this.

The cop's coffee refill is set down in front of him, as well as his partner's waffles, in a to go box. Moretti presently swoops past to collect it, informs his boss he'll be waiting for him in the cruiser, and bids everyone else farewell as he shoulders his way out.

"You do realise I'm a police officer, yeah?" he explains patiently to Perdita, scritch-scratching a thumb through his beard as he watches her. Yeah, maybe making jokes about murdered sex workers to the acting Chief of Police isn't the best idea. Has nobody pointed out to her that he's the Chief? Someone probably will, at some point.

"Yeaaaah, see... when I start putting my foot in my mouth I apparently just go ahead and swallow the entire leg while trying to save myself with humor. It never works, don't know why I try." she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Anyway, I'm sorry. Genuinely. I'm... gonna get a to go box and salvage what's left of my dignity while I still have some, I think." she waves, catching the eye of the waitress, and makes the gesture for 'box' and 'check' and begins rummaging in her purse for her wallet. "I should get going, anyway, I... need to go apartment hunting."

Not Joe. He has enough mercy in him, just enough, to refrain from that. But there's that glitter of amusement in the blue eyes as he watches all three of them. Sufficiently detached to enjoy the drama, as he slowly stirs sugar into his refilled coffee. Though there's curiosity again as he turns his gaze on Ravn, brows up, prompting. Usually caffeine makes the sailor garrulous, but not today, it seems.

He glances wordlessly to Itzhak, one corner of his mouth curling up, before he simply says, "Good luck with that. Rental market ain't too bad here."

Itzhak's eyebrows tip up and his smirk turns downright nasty for a second there, at that little lip-curl from Javier. Then--conscious of Moretti hanging around--he very politely looks at his hard-won menu. Joe has mercy enough, but Itzhak is sadistic enough to not tell Perdita who she's making jokes to about murders. Someone sooner or later will call Ruiz that dread title Chief and all will be made clear. "Yeah, well, be careful out there," he says to her, "stay on the right side of the border, huh?" Whatever that means. He has enough grace to look slightly abashed when Ravn gives him a look, too. "What?" he snips, like he doesn't know what.

Ravn chuckles and orders coffee to go with his sandwich-to-be. Here, at least, he gets actual black coffee, just coffee. Apparently, Della the day manager at Espresso Yourself has not managed to recruit Gina's staff for her crusade. "What? You still have scars on your abdomen from the last woman who tried to kill me -- and everyone else, right freaking here." He nods at the walls and floor and windows -- all of which are mercifully no longer covered in Danish ex-girlfriend.

He glances at Perdita. "Trailer park's got free properties but, speaking as somebody who lives there -- they're free for a reason. Cheap, sure, neighbours aren't as bad as you'd think, but they flood easy and the power goes out a lot. If you're a bit of a fix-it, there's a lot of cheap properties for rent in the Elm Street area, and I can introduce you to some pretty solid neighbours there."

Well, that's about de la Vega's cue to get the fuck out, his own self. He's squared up with the waitress already, and flips his wallet closed so he can shove it into the back pocket of his jeans while pushing to his feet. His radio's switched back on, a quick murmur into it of being back in service. "I'll see you boys later," he tells Itzhak and Joe, sotto voce. And the way he looks at them both.. one would have to be completely insensate not to pick up on the undercurrent there. He says see, but he means a whole hell of a lot more than that.

Then he pushes off and heads for the door with a rustle and thump of gear. Ballcap adjusted on his head, another crackle of his radio going off, two fingers tipped off his forehead in farewell to both Ravn and Perdita as he shoulders his way out.

As the box and check arrives, Perdita hands off well more than enough to cover her bill. The food is placed into the box, and said box is sealed as she moves to swiftly and efficiently slip on her coat.

At the comment about borders, all the color seems to drain from Perdita's face, and her jaw sets, as she clearly takes it the worst possible way, hurt and anger warring. Anger wins out. Purse in hand, she turns and moves for the door at a pace that belies the high, thin heel of her shoes. The door opens with tightly controlled force before she's even close enough to touch it, her left overs still on the counter, and then she's out into the afternoon fog. Ahh, for the energy and quick temper of youth.

There's a beat of something in Joe's face. Almost understanding, maybe. His lips part, as if he'd say something to Itzhak, but he leaves it there and just shakes his head. "I'll see you later, de la Vega," he says, more deliberately. "I should be gettin' on. Errands to do." Which is when he plants a hand on the counter, levers himself over so he can get down with something like grace. His tip is as generous as usual - he does like the food there, after all.

Itzhak, completely unaware of what everybody else thought he said, watches Perdita storm out with an expression that's kinda puzzled. "See ya," he says to Joe, and just happens to wait there, not because Joe might need a hand or anything, just, you know, because. Then he finally orders something; he'd been entirely too distracted to do it before. "C'mon, don't talk about murder and stuff in front of de la Vega when he's on duty, Abildgaard," he complains at Ravn. "He's gotta take it serious if you do."

Ravn watches the younger woman depart and glances to the box of food she abandoned on the counter. He decides to not comment. Instead, he upnods to Joe as the older man gets up as well. "Not long until we get to be neighbours again, sailor. Looking forward to it. Maybe a little less to the lobster league re-opening -- but at least some of those blokes are pretty cool to hang around. Jake and Mac bring this foul moonshine every time, you should try it -- on condition of not mentioning them to the Chief, at least not in an official capacity."

He shakes his head at Itzhak. "There's no murder for him to take seriously. This place never got trashed, no accusations were ever made, there was never a body. Can't 'take things seriously' as a police officer when the crime was committed in imagine-land."

"Yeah, we all know that, but it's in the rules you gotta do when you're a cop. Like you can't make no bomb jokes to the TSA." Itzhak's still in a pretty good mood, though, no doubt owing to the little game he and that very Chief of Police were playing. "That girl, she got the Song, we were talkin' about it. Place keeps pullin' us in."

"Yes, she does. Her and Kailey had a little -- show-off about it. It's good -- saves her from a really rude awakening one of these days, at least she knows there's more going on than the eye can see. Unlike me, thinking I was the only person on the planet who could do things like that. And ironically, being the guy around here with the least talent." The latter doesn't seem to bother Ravn much; it's just a fact of life. Some people have a lot of shine, whatever you want to call it. Most have none. Ravn has a little.

His sandwich finally arrives. It's a complicated affair involving proscuttio, melted brie, and inexplicably, slices of pear. He seems quite pleased to discover this; the chef apparently remembers that he praised the recipe when Gina introduced him to it. Or maybe chef's just in a good mood today. Or out of velociraptor eggs. "So how's things, in general? Everything's been quiet on my end since the shooting -- not complaining, just that weird feeling of 'now what'."

"Awww. Me and Roen had a show off about it too when we first met." Itzhak is charmed, smiling over the memory. "I punched his plant. We were so young then." Okay that part's a little facetious, but not that much. It seems like forever ago he and August were circling each other with their hackles up. "I knew there was a couple other people in New York with it, but it's an easy town to get lost in, you know? And it's weird, but it didn't occur to me to think about it much. So I just, I dunno, I just didn't, once I was outta prison."

He's ordered a half chicken, because he's always freaking starving, where does he put it all? He just burns through calories like a high-performance car. "Lotta Dreams," he answers, rueful, and glances at Ravn. "Hell of a thing when a guy can't sleep because he's busy fighting monsters."

"Or re-homing extra-planar cats." Ravn nods and picks at his sandwich. He, on the other hand, is likely as thin as he is because he eats so very little. "Not arguing. Have given serious thought to figuring out some way to strap a kit of lock picks to one leg and the 9mm Seth gave me to the other, just in case. Might be funny, anyhow, turning up in some dream wearing nothing but. Give a whole new meaning to checking out my hardware, you know?"

"I mean, I've heard worse ideas, but not many." Itzhak laughs over his own dumb joke. "Why not just pack a go bag and strap it to ya chest? They'd find a way to fuck with that too." Not like he's ever tried it, but he's certainly Dreamed enough at this point. They can fuck with anything.

"Had one where, well, we sacrificed some of the Song." He rubs at his collarbone, as if that's where he feels his Song lives, at the base of his throat. "To a book. A book and it was a person too. And it was the reader Song. I don't got much, but de la Vega gave everything of his." His voice drops to a hush out of respect for that feat.

Ravn studies the other man's face a moment. "I'm not sure what that means. Are you saying de la Vega gave up his shine?"

"Yeah. That's what I'm sayin'. Me too. And Bax and Vyv and Cavanaugh. Except we all got another Song, too, and Javier don't. But...she said it'd grow back." Itzhak glances at Ravn, eyebrows worried. "So it's kinda messed up but it'll grow back. I guess like your liver? It was just one of the Songs, though, just the reader. She said the mover and the shaper are real pissed off."

Sometimes Itzhak's explanations don't actually help.

Ravn nibbles on a bit of pear. "How bad is he taking it? Even for me -- with what little I've got -- I think that'd be like losing a part of my mind. Might not do much with it, but I still know things. Spatial awareness. Like someone told me once, never not knowing where your keys are, never being unaware where somebody else is in a room. I can't imagine what it'd be like to lose that."

He cants his head thoughtfully. "Now tell me about... reader, mover, and shaper. Are we talking some kind of manifestations of the power itself here? Because it certainly sounds that way."

"Yeah, that. Manifestations. They're books. This one, it was named Air and Darkness." Plenty of cozy insanity to go around, Itzhak and Ravn sitting in a diner discussing something that sounds like it's out of the year's hottest fantasy series. "I saw the mover one before. That was during a Dream where my stuff just wasn't working at all. Man, if I fucked up that bad on the reg, I'd never a made it out of prison." Itzhak hitches his eyebrows in a shrug. "He was pretty beat up," he says, about de la Vega. "I feel messed up too but not near as bad as him. I didn't have so much to lose. Anyway we kinda destroyed the mover one. So it might be kinda pissed off."

"Can't have destroyed moving itself, then, because I've still got it." Ravn nods and, as if to underline his point, picks up a bit of brie with his mind rather than his fingers. It tastes the same. "Glad to hear he'll recover. Coming out of dreams messed up... I don't know. I was starting to think I had it made, compartmentalising in my mind, but then Benedikte happened and now I'm just -- fine, bring on the PTSD, then, we'll all be twitchy wrecks. I really felt it this morning when I ran into Perdita -- realized how crazy we sound to an outsider. Would have kept my mouth shut except I know how terrible it'd have been if no one had given me the speech before I found myself running from the Headless Horseman."

"It's fucked up, right?" Itzhak doesn't exactly watch Ravn lift the bit of cheese, but there's a sudden feeling like a whale shark swam overhead--his Song reacting, leaning in. God, he's got a lot of it. No wonder he brawled his way through a gunfight. There's something different, though, like he'd said. Part of him just feels....withered. "Do you tell someone it's gonna be bad and look like a moron, or do you not tell them and be a real asshole? Drive you fucking crazy either way."

The name of Benedikte makes him go quiet for a moment. So he uses that moment to eat and think about it. Then, "They always get to you. They always find you wherever you're hiding out. That Dream..." he stops, going still in the way he does. "Said some stuff to me," he mutters, and seems to have lost his appetite.

"If you need to talk about it, you know where I live. I got nothing I'm doing, now or later, and all the time to listen." Ravn nods. "And, yeah. It got to me too. I figured I could just be an observer. The books smarts guy. Taking notes, slipping in some helpful data here and there. Of course it got to me. I knew that it would already before I came back from Denmark, before her. I'm just trying to go with the flow. Much as the sane thing to do would be going home, we both knew I won't, we both knew I would come back when I did. I just had to do it, go there and ask myself -- where is home, now. Home is here."

"It'd be sane to move to fuckin' Florida," Itzhak mutters wryly, making an attempt at a rally. "I told Izeleh...Isolde, I mean, I told her that. But she came back here anyway. You came back. I ain't goin' anywhere except I wanna take de la Vega to New York. Home is here, and there ain't no observers." He looks at Ravn, gray-green hazel eyes hooded. "Ain't nothin' special," he murmurs, "just the same shit." But something in his face makes a liar out of him.

"Not going to push you to talk about things you don't want to talk about," Ravn observes drily. "Just going to remind you that you're talking to a guy who literally made a living from cold reading for a while. You're hurting."

"You don't gotta be a cold reader to figure that out. You sure you're doing it right?" Itzhak grins at Ravn, teasing him, shoving away the distress. "I dunno, I want my money back, I think maybe you're a fraud!"

"Doing it well enough to read you loud and clear on I hear you, I'm not ready to talk about this, I'll get back to you on the offer if I need someone to listen later." Ravn grins back. "Like I said, you know where I live. Also, you know the rules, baby -- want a show, gotta pay up first. Haven't given me any money I can give you back yet."

He picks up his sandwich -- in the usual way -- and chuckles before acknowledging the need for a change of topic. Picking the easiest topic available to man, he glances at the door. "So whatcha think? Perdita. I'm thinking handful of issues, lots of talent and history, definitely not going to end up lonely with looks like that in a town full of lumber mill workers."

"What, now I gotta give you money to get my money back? Where does your villainy end?" Itzhak, swallowing a bite, follows Ravn's glance to the door. (He's making short work of that half chicken.) "Expensive piece of ass. Be surprised if any mill workers could afford her, except maybe Hya. Was real interested in de la Vega, but shit, who isn't? Was not real interested in me or Cavanaugh, but that just shows her good taste."

Ravn laughs softly. "You think she's for rent? Didn't strike me as a sex worker. Or maybe I'm just used to the kind of streetwalker who'd be sleeping next to me in a bus shelter. Not enough white to be a high class gold digger -- one of those would do anything to scrub anything not anglosaxon from their looks. I don't know, she didn't read like that to me. I didn't talk to her for long but at a guess? On the run from something like most of us. Sharp. Expects to get hit with the latinas are cheap angle. Isn't actually latina. She speaks some Slavic language or other so probably one of the central European ethnic minorities."

Itzhak lifts one shoulder. "Doesn't strike me as not a sex worker, lemme put it that way. She said somethin' about wanting to spend summer on a rich guy's yacht. She's gorgeous, she could have her pick." Except for de la Vega goes unsaid but there's a glint in Itzhak's eye that says it for him. "Someone with her looks and style don't come to this dump unless they're running from something or pulled in. Or born here, that's the secret third option. Slavic, huh?" That's news that interests him, a little, anyway. "Her Spanish is pretty damn good but I been listening to de la Vega for this long, and she doesn't speak it like he does. Hey, you keep gossiping like this you're gonna be an honorary gay guy."

"There are worse fates." Ravn laughs and finishes his sandwich before leaning back on his barstool with this coffee. "I hang around you guys a lot, might as well be considered part of the team. Spending summer on some rich guy's yacht, huh... Pity that the Vagabond isn't yacht class, there's me out." He grins slightly in that Ravn way; not particularly disappointed to find himself not registering on anyone's available bachelor radar.

"We have a large Hungarian minority in Denmark," he says, noting Itzhak's interest. "Came up during the 1950s and the revolution there. In more recent decades, we get a lot of Polish and Romanian labourers. The war in the Balkans sent a lot of people running too, we've got Croats and Serbs and various smaller groups from that area. A lot of these people are the ones you'll meet in university circles -- it's not the penniless day labourers who can afford to get out of a war zone."

"That's because we're the best company in town." Itzhak would elbow anybody else when he said that, but it's Ravn, and he and Alexander are elbow-exempt. So Ravn merely gets a saucy hike of Itzhak's eyebrows as he tips his coffee mug to drink. "If you wanted to pick up sugar babies, you bought the wrong boat. You just get a bunch of rowdy queers instead." Quieting, he listens, then grunts. "Well, if she came from a war zone, she'll feel right at home."

He's thoughtful, almost about to say more, when his phone text alerts with a sound that's a classical guitar chord. Itzhak goes after it with such alacrity there can be no doubt of who it is, and from the smirk he gets, what it says. "That's my cue. See you later, yeah?"

"Hit me up tomorrow if you can walk." Saucy joke, from Ravn? Apparently. He settles in with his coffee to just enjoy the day.