2021-03-05 - TV Dinners Are Not Proper Lunch

On the top ten list of things Ravn Abildgaard does not do well, cooking is one. It may not be the number one (Understand Women holds that position, proudly) but it's decidedly a permanent resident on the list. His idea of food creation involves a whole lot of cereal, a whole lot of take-out, and a whole lot of eating anywhere somebody else knows how to cook. The Black Bear and the Wafflehouse are regular haunts. So is, a little more surprisingly, Patisserie Vydal. Famous for its desserts and chocolates, certainly -- but not all good treats are heavy diabetes bombs and Ravn has sniffed out some of the alternatives. Besides, he can afford it -- the man is too thin, and tucking some good coffee cake away can only improve the situation.

He's prone to timing his little visits so that he might bump into the Patisserie's owner, or the Patisserie's owner's best friend, or the Pattiserie's owner's boyfriend. There's a pattern here, and he's not even very subtle about it. The Patisserie lunch hour crowd seems to sometimes collect strays. Grant Baxter. Ravn Abildgaard. If you feed them, you'll never get rid of them.

He wanders in today, a bit earlier than usual, a book tucked under one arm in case he'll be keeping his own company, and if there's anything unusual about that, it's that he walks slow and careful like a man who's either exhausted or has two sprained ankles. Might be his recent close encounter with a sniper's bullet that's still troubling him a bit. Might be something else. This is Gray Harbor; the one thing that's pretty guaranteed around here is that there's always something. Ordering that coffee cake he's so fond of, along with a cup of black coffee (halleluja! you can get that, without an argument!) he draws into a corner to slowly dissect and occasionally nibble on the excellent cake and pretend to be reading while studying the room and the people in it.

On the top ten list of things Vyvyan Vydal does do well, cooking is absolutely one. It may or may not be the number one, but certainly it's in contention. At least in his specialist area. Which is to say pātisserie, though Pātisserie Vydal could also be argued to qualify as his 'specialist area'.

Inasmuch as diabetics are urged to curb carbs, the place is indeed not ideal for them. As far as sugar per se, though, the average offering actually isn't nearly as sweet as some might guess. Excess sweetness would wash out all the carefully balanced flavours and textures the chef works to arrange -- and might encourage children to show up more often than they already do. Ugh. Even the offerings at the ridiculously rich end of the scale have a certain delicacy to them, a focus on eating as a sensory experience. But yes. If one isn't in the mood for the chocolate-cherry entremets or a profiterole, there's also the tiny savoury quiches, the croissants, and ideally for a good cuppa, the day's riff on the classic financier. Or perhaps the classic itself!

And they will absolutely sell one a cup of quite good and entirely unadulterated plain black coffee on request.

Gray Harbor's a small town, and Ravn's been here often enough that the counter-staff recognize him as a regular, and equally importantly, as One of Chef's Friends. Usually, it's difficult to tell whether this is making any particular difference to the service, as Vyv does not even slightly share Gina's general views on how customer service ought to be performed. Today there's a clearer effect: it is unlikely Carmen takes advantage of the lull between pre-lunch customers to slide quietly from behind the counter and into the kitchen to inform the chef that most customers are there.

She's only gone a moment, and Ravn has a good ten or so minutes to nibble a bit and get nowhere near as far through his book as actual reading would suggest before the kitchen door opens again, this time disgorging Vyv himself. He's in his whites, though the apron and hat have both been shed for the moment. And clearly, yes, he has these tailored too. Fair enough, perhaps, given the hours he spends in them. He doesn't bother to head for the counter, instead moving directly for the Dane's chosen corner and claiming one of the table's other chairs. "You've not got yourself shot again or any such, have you?" he inquires by way of greeting. He surely can't have seen the way Ravn was walking, can he? Maybe Carmen felt it bore mention.

"Turned to stone," Ravn replies by way of returning the greeting. It's a normal thing around here; at least he says it in that relaxed tone -- not the one that goes I am trying to be cool about this. It's the one that says it's another day that ends in -y in Gray Harbor. "Was navigating a sunken temple on the ocean floor. Good number of people you'd know there. And, uh, me in tight leather pants, tall boots, livery jacket and nothing else. Next to a kid having a very sudden case of late-onset puberty." Clearly, the petrified leg syndrome was not the most terrifying part of this experience.

He smiles slightly. "Rosencrantz was there. Dressed as a fantasy bard. Seducing the ocean as a Rosencrantz will. And still this kid was staring at me. To make it even worse, de la Vega had to drag me around by the belt when my legs were petrified. Not that I don't appreciate it -- I sure as hell appreciate him not just leaving me there -- but, you know. Glad he remembered the whole touch thing, truly am, but the sight of me getting hauled around by my very tight leather leggings probably didn't help that poor kid, either."

Vyv arches a brow at the explanation of the gait, and it finds a good couple fractions further to arch at the outfit (yes, there's a flicker of an up and down glance as though putting that outfit together and on Ravn in his mind's eye for proper assessment), the kid, and the whole dragging around. That's a fairly subtle upward twitch to the corner of his mouth, but it's definitely there as the description goes on. "So, not the only victim of unexpected petrification, mm?"

He leans back a touch in the chair, crossing his legs and settling into a fairly elegant lounge. And continuing to look quietly amused. "Saltwater and being used as a sort of sling can't have done that leather any favours. Regardless of any it might've been doing you. And the kid. How late of an onset are we talking about, here?"

Carmen sweeps by the table to set down a cup, a small pot of tea, a fork, and a plate bearing one of the individual quiches, prettily arranged with a bit of winter-greens-and-citrus salad and a light balsamic drizzle. Part of today's afternoon tea menu, most likely. She gets a quiet 'ta' in return, and Vyv pours himself some of the tea. "...in any case, I hate to be the one to break it to you, darling, but you're quite attractive." He says it as though giving an unfortunate but far-from-terminal diagnosis; matter-of-fact with just a soupēon of sympathy. "Some people are always going to be more struck by that than even the most accomplished ocean-seduction. Assuming they aren't themselves oceans, I suppose."

Ravn gets another appraising look, this one slightly different. "But everything is properly depetrified and your legs have learnt never to look a gorgon in the face?" There's a question in the second half of that, and it's not the one the words are exactly asking. "Sorted enough to run if the kid shows up with a massive butterfly net?"

"Kid's twenty-one. Also spent some time telling me the other day about the guy he has an actual crush on, so I don't think I need to start laying out landmines and tripwire in the yard just yet. Got to give you points for that being the most dignified dick joke I've heard to date, however." Ravn nibbles at his coffee cake with a small, wry smile. "I'm fine. No small thanks to everyone involved, whether it was de la Vega hauling me to safety, Turner restoring my legs, or everyone else distracting and or fighting off the fish people." He smiles and fails to comment on the appraisal of attraction or lack of it; Ravn has never taken much interest in his own looks that way and he has no intention of starting now.

That poor cake is getting more dissected than eaten as always. It's nothing personal. If Ravn hates what he's eating he'll scarf down whatever bites he deems absolutely necessary for survival quickly and get it over with. If he likes it, he'll pick at it for an hour and still leave most of it uneaten but at least he enjoyed picking at it. No wonder he stays thin.

"I was hoping to talk to you about the community centre project that de Santos and I are developing," he says instead. "A sort of help people to help themselves deal. One of the things we want is to offer people a chance to pad their resumes -- demonstrating that they are willing to work even if they're down on their luck or have special needs. And of course, any kind of support from the local shop owners is invaluable but I am specifically considering whether you might be able to take on somebody to clean floors and tables, or run deliveries. Assuming, of course, that we get the project off the ground."

Twenty-one. One whole year younger than Bax... now. Wasn't it just before the skater's last birthday Ravn met them? If Vyv experiences any fleeting defensiveness on the 'kid' front, he does a pretty decent job of concealing it, but hey, he's had a year to get used to the idea, right? "Quite a late onset. Where did they stash him, a monastery?" The Dane gets a somewhat sidelong look with just enough appraisal to suggest he's giving the described outfit and situation a moment of consideration before amending, "Or nunnery, I suppose. Lower likelihood of lay brothers. And thank you for the points. Am I winning yet?"

He sips his tea, and as usual, gives Ravn's gradual but thorough desecration of his art a decidedly judgemental and otherwise flat look. He has not yet refused to serve him, though. Presumably that's positive. When the tea returns to the table, he picks up his knife and fork and neatly cuts a bite of the tiny quiche, then eats it. You see? That's how it's done.

The mention of the project, however, gets lifted brows, and a small head-tilt as he listens. "Mm. Well, it sounds a worthy project." The floors and tables are currently spotless, but all the same... "We've never done deliveries. Might be interesting. But as with counterhelp, which is a possibility also, they do need to be able to present well for that. I am aware many can, mind, just noting it's particular requirement. There are times we could use another pair of hands chopping and the like, though not everyone has the temperament for the kitchen." How do they feel about tiny dictatorships and being ruled with an iron ladle? "Janitorial could be possible. Yes, we could likely arrange something, I expect."

"If we do get the project off the ground I'll be building -- I'll pay somebody to build -- a database. Pictures, CVs, skill listings, hours available -- some of these people may not be able to work full time either. Some of them will not want to or be able to clean up enough to work customer service anywhere, ever. Some of them will have very questionable social skills. I appreciate it, Vydal. It's going to be a lot of work, and no -- I don't expect companies and employers to create jobs that don't exist, or go out of their way to over-protect these people. They need real work and real opportunities -- but not to be told that they're somehow weak or broken, and can't stand on their own legs. Most of them, I hope, just need a chance to get off their knees. And some of them will fail." Ravn toys with his fork, blissfully unaware of how frustrating it is to watch. "I'll get you the details when we hit the ground running. Thank you for being open to the idea, though."

He leans back in his chair. "Weaponised altruism. Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? And yet we're deadly serious. Kindness and compassion are anathema to at least the beings that Clayton refer to as the dolorphages. We're fighting back. Just, the de Santos way. Which is basically teletubbies and care bears, but bloody hell if it doesn't work for him."

The specification of 'pay somebody to build' gets a hint of a smile out of the chef, who nods to the things that would be included. Yes, good. Being addressed by his surname elicits a tiny arch of a brow, though no interruption. Slight nods to the expectations, and-- is that a tiny brightening when those beings get mentioned? Yes, it just might be. Generally one might worry about that, but it gets an explanation quickly enough: "Thank you, I have been trying to spread that name for them for-- mn, well, since not long after I moved here. He ought to name more things. ...which I believe is what I told him at the time, but as yet no other entries. Or not that he's told me, at any rate." Not that they talk particularly often, granted.

"Well, in any case. I've never been a particular fan of teletubbies or care bears, and if things get that twee the dolorphages will get to nosh on my unspeakable suffering, but yes, I do see the logic. Even if we could fight them in standard ways, suffering would be a byproduct. Who's to say it couldn't sustain them even if it were their own? Though that would be rather nice. Send them off to practice autodolorphagia and bother us no more. Bit more of a longshot, granted."

He cuts another bite of the quiche, adding, "I've never been much of a coddler, either. I won't hire someone who can't do what I require of them, and I won't keep them long if they don't. You needn't worry about that... Abildgaard." He says it exactly right (thank you, mental glimmer!), though the tone and eyebrow are both arch. "But I see no reason not to give someone a chance if they can and will. So yes. Let me know when things are more fleshed out."

Ravn chuckles. "Sorry. I can't figure it out. Social conventions around names in this country. There is no inherent logic to my ear for when Americans use first names or last names, or call each other son or sir. I think I picked up the habit of just using last names from Rosencrantz. It saves me trying to sort it out and accidentally ticking somebody off. At least the British have naming conventions that are more similar to what we use back home -- Vyv."

Then he shakes his head. "If this was just a matter of throwing money at problems until they go away, we wouldn't have a problem -- the Addingtons would have sorted their own mess out generations ago. And the same applies somewhat to the many unfortunate people that the Veil sucks in -- if we could just hand each one a care package and send them on their way, then somebody would have done so. We can only take them out of circulation as dolorphage fodder by taking away the suffering. Since hand me downs and learned helplessness does in fact not make anyone less miserable, we need to either take them out back and shoot them or help them help themselves. The former is obviously not a solution," he adds with a wry smile. Ravn is not the sort of man who'd reach that level of cynicism; but he is the kind of man who knows stories well enough to understand that to change one, you have to change its key component or remove it.

He takes a bite (!) of the cake. "I can just throw money at things. So can de Santos for that matter. But that wouldn't achieve anything as far as the Veil is concerned. We need to build this place. Match the narrative. Go through the motions. There's never to date been a literary classic in which it says 'and then Mr Darcy wrote Elizabeth a very big check' on page three, the end.'"

The amusement remains at the apology, and Vyv inclines his head slightly to acknowledge it. "The logic's convoluted and varies by group and place and time, and even those who've never known anything else often seem uncertain," he allows. The expression goes a bit thoughtful. "In my experience, most of the people who've addressed me by only surname have not been ones I particularly got on with. Tend toward the rather self-consciously butch. Referring to people who aren't there by only surname doesn't seem to have the same associations. Mn." The thought's filed away, perhaps for later contemplation, as he takes another sip of the tea.

The assertion that mercy-killing is off the table gets a sharp little exhalation through the nose, like the homeopathic distillation of a laugh. "Oh, yes, just rule the simplest solution right out. We've a positive surfeit of guns around here, and just imagine the joy it would bring to some of their owners, having such a noble excuse to use them. End suffering, create elation -- really it's quite a win/win." Vyv is probably not genuinely that cynical either, but he can give a decently Swiftian imitation. "If we're throwing things, I was thinking more grenades than money as far as standard ways of fighting, but yes, teach a man to fish and all that. Granted it helps if he's got a rod and hook handy. Or whatever it is one actually fishes with if one isn't a children's book illustration. If one of the architecture shows Bax and I watched can be trusted, entire workshops may be involved."

A proper bite! This is progress. Of a sort. The chef has a bite of his own meal, nodding once to the note about literary classics. "No, I'm fairly sure it would need to be at least page ninety-two. Two-hundred twelve if we're being all Regency." Another bite before he goes on, "...'match the narrative'. Mm. You're thinking we can somehow manipulate the Veil via storytelling, are you? Recruit Propp and Campbell to our cause?"

"I suppose we could try grenade lobbing as a fund raiser. Or go directly for the extreme jet set segment and offer the last true prey for a hunt." Ravn too can pull Swift with a smirk. "Or we could take it one step further yet and offer to arrange those hunts but for the dolorphages. Save them all the trouble, throw them a weekly millionaire. Hashtag eat the rich and whatnot."

The folklorist sips his coffee and nods. "Propp and Campbell. Tvtropes dot org for the younger generation. Same difference. Everything I have seen since I got here in August tells me that the Veil -- or at least creatures in the Veil -- lift their imagery right out of our heads. Some do it to torture us, like the dolorphages. Others -- we don't know, they might be trying to communicate, they might just be poking us with a figurative stick to see what we will do. They do, though, and that means we can communicate with the Veil too. At least it's worth making the attempt. For all we know, stories can be impressed on it, and that's how things went bad here originally -- the first story was one of betrayal and murder, and Gray Harbor has played it ever since."

Ravn shakes his head lightly. "I'm not sure I believe it one hundred percent -- that trying to impose our story on the Veil's flow will actually work. But I believe it enough to think it's worth a try. More so because if it doesn't work, the price we'll have paid is that we've maybe helped some people find their feet in life again, and that at least is a price I'm willing to pay. I am even more willing to pay it when you consider that I am one of those people myself, at least according to Baba Yaga -- somebody who needs to find out who he is and what he wants to be doing. This is it -- I want to make a stand here."

"'The most dangerous game'. ...works as a descriptor for either of the first two options. Third might be tricky, they've failed to leave a contact address and currently the buffet is virtually all-you-can-eat. Anyway, I object, regardless of how delicious we may be." Vyv will stick to the quiche, himself, and does not look like he's eyeing Ravn up for potential tastiness even a little.

He gives a slight wince, probably for effect. "Are you suggesting we're the older generation? Look, just because we've read things where none of the examples are animated..." The overall idea is intriguing, regardless. "Out of our heads... hm. Are we talking mainly about the Dreams, more than the... immediate Veil? Or does the fact that the nearest bits seem to mirror this reality qualify as another instance? It's not a story, per se. But it does touch on how parallel universes tend to be imagined -- similar enough to be recognizable, but not the same. I'd say it's certainly worth a try. It might be worth seeing whether we can shift the apparent story within a Dream, as well. If one finds oneself in one that strongly fits a known pattern, can one act to push it toward another one? Could one consciously invoke subversions or deconstructions to control the version of 'through' taken to 'out'?"

He tilts his head, playing with the thought as he lifts the cup for another sip of the tea. "...in any case. Yes, it seems worth a good try, particularly when the worst likely case is not much change anywhere and it's at least likely to help someone here." 'According to Baba Yaga' gets an arched brow, but no immediate direct query: "I thought we'd established that quite a few lunches ago," he replies lightly. "Seems a good choice, though. Perhaps we'll be lucky and you won't need to be doing it ten years from now."

"You and Hyacinth are terrible influences," Ravn returns with a small grin. "First you get me to reconsider bartending and now I'm making existential life choices. That said -- I couldn't see myself cleaning restrooms ten years from now, but I don't find myself balking quite so hard at the idea that I find myself undertaking some humanitarian effort or other, however low key. At least I'd be doing something that wasn't just about myself and my own issues. Something that makes a difference, however small."

He toys with his cake fork. "I honestly don't know if we can, Vyv -- if we have the power to change the story here. But I want to give it my damned best. I think that Gray Harbor has attracted the attention of the dolorphages because of that story, and they are treating us as you say -- an all-you-can-eat buffet. But there's far more out there, and most of it probably doesn't care about us at all. If we poison the dish of one kind of predator a little, we might see it wander off. We might also attract a new one -- but I for one would rather be the prey of something that eats, say, contentment? Wouldn't that be a terrible fate, the town turning into some sleepy, content suburbia?"

A beat. "Granted, an enforced happiness life Brave New World style would also be a problem. If made to choose between two evils, though, I'd rather be eaten while happy than eaten while miserable."

"Mn, the worst," Vyv murmurs, with a just slightly too-serious little nod. It's only as the tea approaches his lips again that one side of them twitches upward. The potential ten-years-from-now gets another tiny nod, this one more genuinely serious, and he listens to the rest, with only a couple little glances toward the neglected cake. At least it's not being shredded just now.

"If you're miserable when eaten I'm reasonably confident they're doing it wrong," is another murmur, and easing on into more standard volume, "But yes, given the option, I'd prefer to be farmed in a way that maximizes my pleasure rather than my pain. So long as it weren't being harvested by being removed, at any rate, and we're sticking with the sort of... vicarious intake the dolorphages appear to do. More marinating in it than directly devouring it, I suppose. Exchanging them for some other predator could be an interesting twist, arguably. If you're right about the stories, I wonder if that risks making it more likely?"

He, on the other hand, is sticking to devouring the little quiche and salad, and doing a much better job of it than Ravn is with that cake, though nothing like as effective as Bax would probably have managed by now. "I don't think most things in the Veil care much more about us than we do about them, broadly. A bit more dangerous for being unknown to us, but not... actively malicious overall. I do wonder what other options the dolorphages have for feeding. If there aren't many, it may be harder to dissuade them."

Vyv's little quip about misery prompts a lopsided smirk. Yes, Ravn caught that one. "I can't say that being eaten is something I have a lot of experience with," he replies nonchalantly and picks at the poor cake. "The only thing we know about these Dark Men or dolorphages for certain, though -- is that we don't really know anything. They're attracted to suffering and to the use of the shine. We theorise that they feed on it and that they farm us, but we don't know anything. We don't even know if there was actually a literal devil -- some entity or other -- for the Addingtons of old to strike a bargain with, or they simply managed to imprint their story much like pouring an existing amount of clay into a mould."

He nibbles at the cake bite on his fork. "I think most of the Veil creatures don't care one bit about us. But they're dangerous in the same way that a hostile environment is dangerous -- in the way that an English settler throwing a small-pox infected blanket to a cold Native American might go on record as just trying to be neighbourly but he is still the cause of mass death."

Then the Dane hitches a shoulder. "We'll do what we can. We'll find out if it works. We've certainly got very little to lose and everything to gain. So, I hear you're looking to buy a house?"

The best way to get an honest reaction out of a creature as guarded and composed as a genuine upper class Brit is to blindside him.

"Ah, yes, the old 'the only thing we know is that we know nothing'," Vyv agrees, the touch of amusement in the tone belying the frustration that comes from the fact that, while not 100% accurate, it's still far too near the truth. A vague little gesture of his fork regarding the Veil creatures. "It's a massive, largely unexplored place," he notes, which may also be general agreement, though perhaps not complete. "Things like the libraries -- they're definitely dangerous, but the denizens of those do seem broadly inclined to see us safe, in the way they would for any patron. Even as encountered in Dreams, thus far. Unlike many others in those." This is an interesting area, the question of where things might overlap, but for now he sticks somewhat to the point, and nods as the Dane goes on; might as well try, that's how they'll learn, yes, all good--

And then suddenly Ravn throws the conversation a curveball, and for all that Vyv is usually adept enough with those, an astute and prepared observer like the sometime-grifter would likely catch some of the little tells that, at present, aren't being quashed as swiftly and completely as the chef might prefer. There's that blink, first off, the flash of startlement in his eyes, the barely-perceptible upward shift in the corners of them and in his cheeks, and the fractional hesitation before he replies in counter-question, "Bax or Hya?"

"Bax," Ravn returns with quiet but certainly visible amusement; oh yes -- he caught those little slips and it pleases him on a professional level: One does enjoy confirming that one has not entirely lost one's touch. "He was quite enthusiastic about it a few days ago. Came down to the HOPE centre -- by which I mean the run-down butcher shop we're renovating -- with your care package and started talking about it with that absolutely adorable glow the kid's got. He's very excited about it. Sounds like a good plan to me, too -- it's not as if you're planning to pack your suitcases and move back to the UK next month."

Says the transient who lives in a trailer park until he can get his boat back in the water. But Ravn has been talking about perhaps renting a place with his magician friend; baby steps. Maybe some day he'll be moving on up to one of the dilapidated, barred-up houses on Elm Street. If it's not too posh for his somewhat bizarre standards.

"Got your eye on any particular property or neighbourhood yet?" Ravn sips his coffee; that, at least, he gives proper treatment to. One could get the impression at times that his diet consists largely of coffee and junk food, and the reason he stays thin is that he walks a lot and leaves most of it picked to shreds on his plate anyhow.

Nope, touch not lost -- Ravn probably catches the hint of pleasure in the slight shift of the curve of Vyv's lips at the answer, even if it's not until the bit about the adorable glow that a corner twitches upward far enough that less alert people might start to notice. It's half-masked by a sip of tea, as well. Neither excitement nor absolutely adorable glows (which is of course an objectively true assessment) are immediately addressed, however. "You know," he remarks instead as though it were 100% a casual tangent, "the age difference between him and us isn't that different to the one between us and Hyacinth." Fun facts! That may or may not have any relevance to roses behind ears and information Hya likewise may or may not be keeping secret better than Ravn has been.

This noted, he settles slightly more into his seat, and nods. "Bayside, still, but no particular property as yet. Hya's set me up with her agent, we'll see what we turn up. I've been toying with the idea of a house for a while, now, but I don't know if we'll find something suitable or have to build it." A tiny pause, equally tiny curve of the lips, "And of course I'm only really interested in trading in my view for one of equal or greater value. But yes. It's-- got things to recommend it." Not so much a glow; maybe a (small-g) glimmer. And 'adorable' isn't really the sort of adjective that tends to stick to him. Still, even if it takes a rather more practiced eye to spot, he's happy about this plan as well.

He lifts the cup again, though he doesn't immediately drink; instead, a sidelong and somewhat appraising look toward Ravn turns into a glance toward the ceiling in the opposite direction, head tilting along with it just a touch. "I may not have specifically mentioned the Bax portion of the plan to Hya, as yet," he notes, gaze sliding back Dane-ward but retaining its sideways character. Then another sip.

"I'd be quite surprised if Hyacinth turned out to disapprove of your plans," Ravn observes, toying with his spoon. "While it's not a subject we have discussed extensively, I have the impression she rather approves of your choices in general. I am tempted to ask why you would not have mentioned it to her -- do you genuinely worry that she might not approve? I may call Bax 'kid' since he still runs around in cargo shorts with a skateboard under one arm but he is not a child, and not just in the legal sense, either. A couple of years' worth of age difference surely doesn't matter that much."

He caught that look; 100% casual is about 2% too casual for a confidence artist to be convinced. The Dane hesitates a little and then says, "Rosencrantz is quite -- he wants me to make a good impression on her. A little too hasty, perhaps? We have discussed the idea of going out sometime, have seafood. And that's -- all it is. We have yet to even set a date. Hyacinth is a busy woman, and I have my own hands full with the community centre too. I don't want her to feel pressured, and I don't want this to be some kind of entertainment for the people who want to see if any sucker is brave enough to approach the lumber baroness of Gray Harbor, the Corporate Conquistadora, she of the razor tongue, and so on. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, then -- well, then it wasn't meant to, and our lunches here continue just like always as far as I am concerned."

He must have spent some time thinking about it.

"She approves of most of my choices," Vyv says dryly, "With one notable exception. Partly on the basis of cargo shorts, which," a finger comes up, "he doesn't actually wear anymore. They all burnt up in the fire." Many of the other things lost that day he can regret. Not those. And indeed, since the loss of those (and the baggy t-shirts and the ancient over-sized coats and...) the skater's look has definitely become more... streamlined. Skinny jeans sometimes with zippered pockets (fewer and in the proper positions) to replace the cargos, shirts with actual buttons or t-shirts with his own graphics on them, non-massive hoodies or sleek racer jackets and the like... decent quality, and most importantly, things that fit. If Vyv hasn't wholly had his way with Grant's wardrobe, he's definitely had at least a strong influence.

"We'd just had the tarot readings and I wasn't particularly in the mood for suggested interpretations of 'reconsidering my decisions' or 'not leaping to impulsiveness simply because it's there'. It wouldn't fit in with the rest in any case." And if it did it could probably still fuck right off, really. "Plus, I hadn't actually asked him yet. Anyway, it will come up at some point." The ghost of a shrug, as he cuts another bit of quiche. "...bit surprised you hadn't noticed." It does somewhat explain how rarely his arguably two favourite people both show up to lunch on the same day. And maybe that 'little friend' remark at her birthday, plus perhaps a few others in passing.

The rest, though? He listens to that with that faint amusement again as he eats the bite of quiche, and then another as well. "Presumably you've already made a good impression, or the idea wouldn't have lasted long enough to be discussed," he notes, once Ravn's done. "But being busy is all the more reason to set a date. Pick a couple and poke at her PA. She'll get it sorted." A small pause. "'Corporate Conquistadora' is quite good. Keep that one."

"Hmm. I hadn't, no." Ravn ponders. Perhaps it bugs him that he, the self proclaimed people watcher, has in fact missed a somewhat major conflict cue. He cants his head in one of his own little give-aways; I am thinking. "Might it be that Grant comes across very youthful if you don't pay attention to what he's actually saying? I know that's why I tend to think of him as the kid in spite of being full well aware that he is no child. There is an air to him -- not immaturity as much as innocence. He sees the world in a way that is not so much childish as it is child-like, and honestly quite admirable."

A small smile. "I don't make personal appointments with P.A.s. Consider that a hangup of mine if you will -- possibly a leftover from having parents who very much expected me to request an appointment from their P.A. if necessary. I am of the firm conviction that if somebody considers my time worth theirs, they will speak to me in person."

The smile elicited by the remark about how Grant sees the world is no bigger than Vyv's standard repertoire, but it is somehow a bit softer. "Mm. I've thought now and then that I see what the world should be, and he sees what it could be." A tiny pause. "Then I get hold of myself and stop being trite. But it's not entirely inaccurate. Wonder and possibility most of us don't easily see. But no, it wasn't an opinion that required meeting him. Too young, too improperly employed, too poorly dressed." There is another tiny quirk of a smile with that, even smaller and without any of the softness. A touch sharp, in fact. "I'm not certain she doesn't still think it's some sort of midlife crisis, though I'm still at least a decade too young for that, thank you." Another pause, this one a touch longer, and a slight shrug. "Still. Had you described things to me a year and a half ago, I wouldn't have approved much either. I knew she wouldn't. She'll come around sooner or later. Or she won't, I suppose. But I'm keeping him." And despite how it might look to some, he probably doesn't mean in the sense of 'in the style to which one might like to become accustomed.'

And speaking of becoming accustomed to style, there's the matter of Hyacinth. And the date. "Mn. My mistake, I thought she'd already spoken to you about this being a plan and it was now simply a matter of matching up schedules." He sips his tea again, this time lingering over it a little longer.

Ravn sips his coffee with a hint of amusement. "If Grant is too young, too improperly employed, and too poorly dressed -- then what I am I, I wonder." Same age difference, tutoring freelance, and not famous for dressing to the nines, either. "The word 'date' did come up. I'm just -- apprehensive of rushing to conclusions. What happens, happens. If nothing happens, then no one's ego was bruised and life goes on. Rush into putting labels on things and making grand declarations -- then what do you do if it turns out that this was not a good idea? I do like Hyacinth. I'd like to keep her as a friend even if this turns out to in fact not be a thing."

A smirk. "If it does turn out to be a thing I suppose you get to rib her a little about acquiring younger arm candy. I for one shall keep a straight face if you do."

The Dane finally spears that last bit of cake, and puts an end to its suffering. "There is somebody else I am thinking of dragging over here, though. A young lady, freshly arrived in town. She is quite -- let me be blunt. She's a grifter with a sharp tongue, and she came here to get away from somebody, taking advantage of Gray Harbor's somewhat unique approach to communicating with the outside world. She's intelligent and she has style. If the two of you turned out to get along, she might be worth considering for a PA or similar position. Name's Perdita Leontes -- and to the best of my knowledge she is not involved in anything criminal."

"Thirtyish, wearing good-quality things that fit, and as I recall she already had a word about the work situation," Vyv answers, though the amusement is lurking around his lips as well. "In any case, I suspect teaching counts as acceptable and I'm quite sure active philanthropy and town improvement does." In fact, when he puts it that way, it might be hard to beat. "Regardless. It certainly won't be anything if you don't go do it. I guarantee you setting a date does not qualify as a grand declaration. Unless it's for a wedding."

The amusement goes nowhere at that smirking permission, a faint smirk mirroring it and a brow quirking; one could easily suspect he entirely planned to do this, with or without an okay. "I do appreciate that. ...even if you would be displacing me for specific limb-confectionery occasions." It's a rather mild 'complaint'; he'll certainly live. He might even start dragging Bax to said occasions. For all that both Ravn and Bax might prefer at least some of those retained the status quo attendance arrangement.

It's pleasing to see the cake actually eaten, even if the poor thing's been tortured nigh to death in the interim. Lingeringly. The information that follows isn't precisely pleasing itself, but it's interesting, at the least. "Anymore? Or does she stick to the strictly legal grifts? If so I believe they prefer to be called 'investment advisors'." One fingertip idly taps the side of his cup. "Intelligent and has style are important, yes. Detail-oriented? And what leads you to believe it would be worth the risk to trust her?"

"You're assuming that anyone will succeed in dragging me to specific limb-confectionery occasions." Ravn smirks again. "Hello, this is me. Ravn Christian Abildgaard, a man who hates crowds of more than three and will only wear a tie if forced to at gun point. I have yet to attend more than one supposedly 'formal' affair in this town, and I only attended that because no one told me it was supposed to be a formal affair -- if I had known it'd be millionaires in tuxedos with evening gown ladies attached, I'd have been in Seattle, washing my hair instead. Trust me, I will not be infringing on your arm candy rights unless you and Hyacinth intend to start spending Friday nights swigging whiskey at the Poorhouse with the rest of us riff-raff."

It's not entirely a joke. Vyv at least might; he did turn up for karaoke night with the rest of the riff-raff, didn't he?

The Dane takes a sip of his coffee and is perhaps not entirely unhappy to discuss the other woman instead. " If Leontes is half the grifter she claims she used to be, she would never have mentioned it if she intended to continue to ply her trade; heaven knows half the reason I make no secret of my past in that area is that it keeps me from temptation. Trustworthy? Maybe. You're as good a judge of character as I am, you'll make that judgement for yourself. I think she wants to be able to trust the rest of the team. To do that, she needs to make sure we can trust her. I think that for now we can trust her as much as she needs us. If she makes friends here and settles in? Probably more."

"Mn," Vyv replies, with a faint lift of the brows as he takes that next sip; it's impressive how one little noise can sound quite so unconvinced by so many more words. Whether he's genuinely as dubious as it implies or it's just his way of teasing the Dane would likely take a highly experienced Vyv-watcher to ascertain for sure. As for the Pouorhouse, "A gentleman doesn't swig, he sips. Or occasionally gulps, as circumstances and inebriation demand. Also I'm fairly sure their carpeting is made of some kind of well-trodden antique sticky pudding." And yet this does not strictly speaking qualify as 'no'. Though 'don't save me a seat' is probably fair.

"Wasn't there some line about telling people you intend to rob them just getting you a reputation as a trustworthy man?" the chef muses, "But, yes, that's likely true. And with genuine connections, at any rate." He sets the tea down, looking thoughtful. "Well. Rebecca won't be returning any time soon, and the current one spends half the time looking two steps from a nervous breakdown." Has he even bothered remembering 'the current one's' name? ...well, yes, probably, given his usual attention to detail, but it's clearly not rated important enough to include. "And even if she's unsuitable or uninterested, she sounds interesting. Yes, all right. Bring her by some time. We'll see what sort of story that wants to be." But for now, there's quiche.