2021-11-23 - That Voodoo That You Do

It would be a reach to say that Ravn Abildgaard is on close personal terms with Javier de la Vega. The two men know each other largely through Itzhak Rosencrantz and through getting involved in the same messes (see Shootout, Garden Expo, or Goddess, Aztec, or -- ther are a couple of incidents. Including the Prom, Kissing one). Ravn kind of likes the grumpy Chief of Police; he certainly sympathises with the living hell that the man's job must be -- not only trying to keep this town from going up in flames, but also having to somehow translate the very real absurdities the Veil creates into something suitable for police reports. It's not a job he would care to have. He would not be surprised to find out that a lot of incidents in Gray Harbor end up not going on record at all.

After all, if things actually went on record, the Veil would retcon them to be a string of terrible shaving accidents, aggressive colds, and unfortunate traffic accidents. He is reminded of that old Blackadder line: He died from cutting himself while shaving, sir. Twenty-three times. Nothing to see here.

It doesn't matter. What does matter is that some people will have your back in a Dream, no matter how grumpy they might be about it. At least Ravn is telling himself as much as he knocks on the door to the Chief's A-frame. He's not very good with intimidating people. Javier de la Vega is very capable of being intimidating. And, well, there is probably not an ex-grifter, ex-thief who can completely rid himself of the feeling that the police is the Other Team, even when he wants to.

He's got a bottle of Jose Cuervo Reserva De La Familia tucked away in a tote bag, at least. Not that he knows a whole lot about tequila, but the bloke who claimed that he did said it was a good brand. Have to trust people to get anywhere in this world. Right?

There's a series of thumps and scrapes, followed by a distinct pause. Then the sound of someone in bare feet moseying on over to the door, popping the deadlock, and tugging it open. On the bright side, de la Vega's not armed. But then, he also knew he was getting a visitor this evening, which significantly reduces his tendency toward violence.

The tote bag gets a glance, with a stitch of his brows like he can't figure out why Ravn even bothered. And then he crinkles a brief smile -- or what passes for one, on his face -- and murmurs, "Come on in, freezing my ass off with you standing there like that." He's in a tee shirt and sweat pants and bare feet, and a hell of a lot of ink, of course, all the way up and down both arms. The tee shirt asks cómo se llama? on it, with a picture of a llama looking confused.

Ravn does not know a lot of Spanish. Famously, he is the man who trekked through the Basque Country into Catalonia and onward on a boat to Ibiza, and never quite figured out how every time he tried to order a couple beers, people either stared at him blankly or brought him tequila. As it turns out, the word for beer is not cuervo.

It's a pity, because that t-shirt would have cracked him up, if only he understood the joke.

He steps inside though; it's cold this time of year, just like it would have been at home, and his ass definitely agrees that it too belongs inside, where it's warm. That's the thing about this biome -- it's not cold in the way a Canadian or Norwegian would consider cold, burying the land under a blanket of frost and snow. It's just a damp, never-ending cold wetness that gets in everywhere. Gray, damp, blech.

"I brought tequila bribes as I promised," he offers for a greeting. "Don't have to drink it now, of course -- might be a little early in the day. And if it's horse piss I apologise and will murder the clerk on my way back."

The suggestion that it might be too early in the day for tequila gets a chuckle out of the cop, and a wordless offer to relieve Ravn of his little tote bag; courtesy of an outstretched palm. "You going to tell me what it is, exactly, that you're bribing me for?" he murmurs, once he's hauled the door shut and locked it. Paranoia that, given the events of the past year or so, is perhaps warranted to some degree. He lives alone with his partner out on the edge of civilisation, where the town meets the Firefly forest; a heavy dose of caution cannot possibly go amiss.

Ravn is certainly not going to lecture anyone on paranoia; one year in this town and he's been shot, stabbed, shot again, stabbed again, repeat a few more times, and several of those incidents did not involve anyone or anything supernatural. Gray Harbor, all of it, is a mine field. He's not going to tell anyone otherwise.

"I want to ask you about the thing you can do," the Dane says and hands the tote bag over. "You've done it to me a few times -- put my anxiety and my neuropathy to sleep for a bit. Maggi Gyre and Hyacinth Addington can do the same thing. I want to find out if there is any way I can learn to do this to myself. It'd work wonders for anxiety and frankly, it wouldn't hurt my options on the dating scene, either."

The thing he can do. That's rather a funny way to put it, given there are many things de la Vega can do. He studies the other man thoughtfully for a few moments, with a keenness in his dark eyes that's reminiscent of an old wolf trying to suss something out about a younger, more able animal it might want to allow into its home. Onto its land, into its confidence. In on its secrets.

"You think it'll help you get girls, huh?" He chuckles, and eases off to go set the tote bag on the kitchen island, and fetch some glasses. "Guy like you, I doubt you need any help in that department." The wood stove's burning tonight, sending spindles of smoke into the chill air above the cabin and keeping the interior warm. Smells like someone might've made food recently; "There's, uh, kugel if you're hungry." Probably an Itzhak creation, then.

"I'd like to have the option, if it should ever become an issue. But most of all, I'd like to be able to tell my anxieties to fuck off." Ravn pads along; there's a certain charm to these houses that he can't help associate with something warm and rustic and comfortable -- might just be the smell of burning resin and wood. "I'm sick and tired of being a fragile porcelain doll who breaks if three people look at him at once. And to be perfectly honest? If I should decide sometime that I want to try to trip some girl up, then yes, it'd be nice to not have talk myself out of it because it's going to be a miserable farce anyhow."

There's something almost defiant in the man's voice at that. Maybe not the most fun self-own to have to make. He must feel strongly about honesty being the best approach here.

The bottle of tequila's liberated from the bag while Ravn elaborates on his reasons for being here tonight. It's hefted into one hand, turned around so Javier can inspect the label, then set on the counter and twist off its cap with a deft turn of his wrist. "So why me?" he murmurs, decanting a couple of fingers of the alcohol into each glass, then lifting his gaze to the younger man's, and crooking a little smile. "Your girlfriend's a more powerful empath than I am. I've seen the way she shines."

"Swallow your ego, get her to teach you." He picks up one of the glasses, eases in closer, dark eyes intent. "Besides, you haven't fucked someone until you've fucked them while linked up here." He lifts the glass to indicate his temple, then holds it out to Ravn with a husky chuckle.

That thought had very obviously not even occurred to Ravn -- the thought of being intimate with someone physically and mentally. It's plain to see from the widening of eyes and the pause to collect himself. So many opportunities. Holy shit. Holy shit.

He blinks and refocuses. "Right. I ask you for several reasons. You got a lot of experience with this -- the whole calming people down thing, I've seen you do it several times. That's the most important thing: I want to be able to do that to myself. I've lived with neuropathy all of my life, I can go on living with it -- but anxiety can make me unable to function in a critical moment." And as everyone is acutely aware, Gray Harbor offers a lot of those critical moments.

The glass is accepted and Ravn looks away a moment. "Also, you're right. I could ask Hyacinth, at least about the -- fucking part. And I probably would have, but I'm honestly not sure where our relationship even is at. I like her quite a lot, but she has very, very little time. And very little experience with dealing with anxiety."

Then he glances back, less evasive, because some things are closer to home than others. "Also, I wanted to check in on you. Heard that you decided on an impromptu leave of absence. Where I'm from that means he decided to walk with his dignity intact before he got walked out by security. Are you okay?"

De la Vega's just enough of a bastard to get off a little on how taken aback the other man is. The look on his face, that this had truly not occurred to him by now. It's priceless. He takes a sip of his drink, and nods Ravn toward the worn leather couch situated by the window-- and opposite the terrarium with its presently sleeping reptile.

"Sit, before you break something. You want something to eat?" He loiters a moment like he's not sure if he's going to have to whip something up for his guest. Certainly the man knows his way well enough around a kitchen to come up with something palatable.

As to his impromptu leave of absence, "I'm fine. Got a lawyer, got a private investigator--" Three guesses as to whom, and the first two don't count. "--on the case. Didn't want the fucking job in the first place, so the downtime's not been bad, if I'm honest. Rather not do time for shit I didn't do, though." He grimaces at that.

"Yeah, I get that. You could decide to just not go back, though. I mean, even when this blows over -- with a C.V. like yours, there's got to be private contractors in town who'll take on someone with that kind of administrative and people handling skills. You're good at what you do, but I don't think Gray Harbor's going to collapse if you decide to hang up your badge and do something you actually want to be doing." Ravn settles where he's pointed to. "Life's too short to live for the convenience of others."

He sips the tequila and raises an eyebrow in slight surprise. Not unaccustomed to strong alcohol this is nonetheless quite different from the aged whiskeys he usually picks -- but not in a bad way. Different, like the Scottish moors are different from the Argentinian pampas, maybe; both have a lot of grass and heather but they're certainly not much alike otherwise.

And belatedly remembers that he was asked a question. With a wry little smile the Dane shakes his head. "No slight on your cooking but anxiety and food mix like a white girl in a Harlem jazz club, and I'm pretty nervous even talking to anyone about these things. Don't want to ruin your carpet."

"I could, I could," concedes the cop with a rusty chuckle. And he does, to his credit, seem to genuinely mull that over for a moment. "I, uh.. I worry, you know?" Well, maybe he does have a heart under all that gruffness and snarl. "Whether there might be some politics in play here." Which, given that it's Gray Harbour, there probably are. That, or maybe someone just didn't want a fucking Mexican in charge.

He grunts, and trails his guest out of the kitchen, collecting the bottle of tequila on his way over to the couch. "Maybe you're right, and I shouldn't get involved. Take this as my ticket out, if I can dodge the charges." He winces as he settles down beside the other man. Hard to say what's ailing him; take your pick from a collection of war wounds, and more than a few accrued since arriving in this little shithole town.

"It's Gray Harbor. Means there's kind of two options on the table. Either you did or didn't do the thing, and it comes down to how good your lawyer is and how much your accuser will pay to keep you out of office." Ravn has few illusions about how a court of law works, it seems. "Or it's the Veil deciding you're inconvenient in which case we're up against something that can edit reality so maybe it's better to think about ways to punch it right back. Either way, unless you're going to tell me you took up torturing puppies for a hobby, I'm going to assume that whatever you did or didn't do, you had your reasons."

In this town, staying on the straight and narrow doesn't work very well when the Other Side changes the rules whenever it wants.

"If it 's the former, I'm pretty damn sure Clayton will sniff it out. He's good at what he does. I'll keep an ear to the ground too -- I meet a lot of people through HOPE and the lobster fighting ring. I'll let you or Clayton know if your name gets mentioned, might be something to look at." He nods. This is far more familiar territory: Somebody's getting screwed sideways with a cactus, and the only question is who's doing the screwing.

Amusement at the possibility of the Veil deciding he's inconvenient, and a gesture with his drink. "Pretty sure it decided that a while ago, mi amigo." He chuckles some more, drains another sip of the liquor, then slides his glass onto the low table facing the couch, and scrapes the heavily inked hand through his hair.

"Clayton? Yeah, he's very good at what he does. Better than I ever was, as an investigator. Got out of that game as soon as they offered the spot in narcotics." He glances back up at the blond, and nods once. "Thanks. Appreciate it. You, uh. You've got a way with people most don't, yeah? How's your work with the, uh.." He glances away again. "HOPE?" Speaking of a way with people. This is something de la Vega clearly does not have.

"Sometimes, when I feel like I'm about to faint or start shaking, I tell myself it's just another grift. I'm just conning these people into thinking I know what I'm doing. It's silly, but it helps." Ravn makes a face. "It helps that most regulars know I'm not good with crowds. They cover for me a little -- you should have seen Leontes tackle a reporter head on so I didn't have to, the other day."

He sips the tequila again; a man could develop a taste for this -- liquid sunshine from a far warmer part of the world. "If you'd told me a year ago I'd end up doing something like that, I'd have laughed, a lot. But it's how it works, isn't it? The Veil sets us up for something it expects us to be absolutely miserable doing. Just, somehow, I'm not. I'm a neurotic mess in many ways but apparently not this way. It does help me feel a bit less like a walking clusterfuck at least." Chief of Police, a badge of honour to some, a source of Veil prescribed misery for others.

Javier's always been more of a listener than a talker, and he's listening now. Dark eyes on the other man, creased at the corners in a webwork of deep grooves that've accumulated over a course of nearly fifty years. He chuckles at the story of the reporter being tackled head on, and sobers a little when Ravn mentions being a neurotic mess. Then scratches at his nose, and settles finally with his elbows on his knees, slouched forward.

"I don't handle crowds well, either. People, too many of them, more than one or two at a time.. makes me want to.. crawl out of my fucking skin." The confession of his social anxiety has him swallowing. It's hardly a good look on a high ranking cop, after all, who's practically a public figure.

"Anyway, uh.. we should. You want to start this?"

"When I finally work out how to go full-on chameleon and vanish into the wall paper, I will tell you how." Ravn may be joking about that, but he's not joking about the anxiety that inspired the idea. He gets that. Bloody hell, does he get that.

Then he nods, slowly. "I have no idea what to do. The times people have done it to me made it look easy -- but nothing's ever easy with the shine, is it? Swiping someone's lighter is easy. Anything that matters, though." To be fair, the Dane is one very dull bulb as far as Glimmer is concerned; most people in Gray Harbor who have it at all shine far brighter. "People keep telling me, though, that if I stay around long enough, my power will grow. It hasn't so far. But I need to find out if I can maybe nudge it in this direction."

The laughter that follows that comment about blending into the wallpaper is sincere, if raspy around the edges from all the drink, drugs, smoke and other various abuses the cop's inflicted upon his body. He scratches at his nose again, clearly some sort of nervous tic. Then glances up at the other man, expression gone from bemused to contemplative; all dark, intent eyes beneath heavily knitted brows.

"I'm going to have to touch you." He cocks one of those brows slightly; it's part statement, part question, part something else. Threat, perhaps? His gaze doesn't waver.

"As long as I know it's coming it's not a problem," Ravn murmurs. "It's when people sneak up on me for a friendly shoulder thump and then find me curling up at their feet my social life tends to get a little awkward. Unfortunately most people are very touchy-feely. I had to tie myself into pretzels the other day to dodge a little blond thing who kept wanting to get up and personal."

Most men wouldn't consider that a nightmare.

If Javier was in a mood to be nosy, he'd ask after the name of this little blonde thing. But he isn't, and he doesn't. Which might be just as well.

"You're going to need to shut the fuck up," he rumbles instead, somewhere around tie myself in pretzels. He reaches for his glass, and drains it before pouring himself another couple of fingers of tequila. Like maybe he's going to need it, to get through this. "You're going to need to shut up, so you can focus on what I'm doing. Yeah?"

Clamming up in progress. Like so many others with social anxieties, the Dane is prone to let his mouth defend itself with noise when he is not quite at ease. He falls quiet, no doubt having to make an effort to do so -- much in the fashion of a kid who is having blood drawn and figures that the longer he can keep the nurse talking, the longer until the needle goes in.

Maybe it's a mild comfort that the other man looks just as uncomfortable as he feels. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe -- he bites those objections back too, and just sits still. In for a penny, in for a pound.

It's a little like the blind leading the blind, here. What do you get when you put two men with severe social anxieties in close proximity?

Well, when one of them is a very powerful empath with the ability to call forth electricity by commanding his neurons to fire and his nerves to fire and his touch is fire, coated in a sudden wash of current as his rough fingertips make contact with Ravn's knuckles. When one of them is that, it changes the equation quite substantially.

"Breathe," is a rough growl in the space between them as he maintains the touch and shares the 'bond', such as it is. No emotion, no thought; nothing but the taste of that low level static charge, and the strange intimacy it creates as it travels through both their bodies at once.

Breathe.

Fortunately a very simple command; not that Ravn did not need to be reminded. He takes a deep breath and sits still, fighting off the urge of a lifetime of bad experiences, to pull his hand back and get some safety in distance. He is reminded, somehow, of that rainy day, five or seven years ago, when his fingertips accidentally brushed across the electrical fence around the horse paddock. Fortunately for Ruiz' ears, this shock is not nearly as severe, though he has to bite back a yelp.

Itzhak did something like this to him once; an attempt to connect on a more mental level, to explain something or other without words -- and whatever it was never got said because the things the Jew found in Ravn's mental processes pissed him off enough for a shouting match instead. Still, it means he has some idea of what to expect -- as well as an awareness of what these powers can do, that is anything but comforting. And all he can do is try to stay open -- not something that comes naturally, either.

It's maintained another twenty or thirty seconds; enough to allow Ravn the understanding of what it feels like to channel such a thing through him. To know what it does to his body, and feel the pathways that it takes through his vessels and muscles and tendons and nerves; those of least resistance.

And then it's over. The circuit's broken as he withdraws his hand, and the charge fritters away as his power dampens it down to nothing. And then he sags back against the couch cushions, and rubs his palm over his face, and rubs at his eye with his thumb and forefinger as he tries to steady his breathing. It's fairly clear that something took a great deal of effort, there.

The glance Ravn shoots the other man is one of concern; he has not forgotten an autumn day a year previous where identifying the owner and origin of an expensive camera lens was paid for with a bleeding nose. He knows how floating a lighter is no great effort to himself -- but anything heavier is not just effort, it's outright impossible. It doesn't surprise him in the slightest that in all things shine there are no set rules -- what's easy for one man will be hard labour for another, and the only constant is that there is no constant.

If anything, he regrets a little, asking something that is clearly not just a flick of a mental switch. The problem with people with natural poker faces is that you tend to forget that everything is not always as simple as they make it look.

"You can talk, you know. I didn't mean--" Ah, there it is. He swipes it away with his knuckles, and then it's an obscenely bright red smear against ink and swarthy skin. He starts to his feet, to go grab a box of tissues from nearby. "I didn't mean you weren't allowed to talk. Just.." He tugs a couple out, dabs at his face. Then his ear. Balls them up, and tosses them in the garbage.

Then, after looking lost for a moment or two, he sinks back down and takes a slug of his tequila. "Look, if you wanted any of this shit to be easy.."

Ravn winces at the sight; it's not the blood that bothers him as much as knowing that he's the reason for it. "I don't really know a lot about how any of this works. People try to explain it to me, but it's like trying to explain colour to someone who was born blind. I don't get most of it. I hear the words but I don't understand."

He reaches for his tequila as well. "I'd love for it to be easy. But when is anything ever easy? Only thing that seems like it's always easy is getting into trouble and fucking up relations with other people."

He's accustomed to it, one presumes. Certainly he doesn't appear startled by the presence of the blood, and it isn't particularly copious. And after a few seconds, the trickle tapers off to nothing. Another handful of tissues, more dabbing at his nose, and a sharp sniff to clear it.

"You don't need to know how it fucking works," he mumbles. A sigh, as he flicks the bloodied tissue into the garbage and scruffs his fingers through his hair. "You just do it. It's a little like.." He looks over, and gestures with his fingertips at Ravn. "Relations with other people. The shit does that mean, anyway? We talking about sex, or.. or what?"

Ravn winces. "Mostly 'or what'. You said it yourself -- I'm good at dealing with people in a sort of professional context. On a more personal level -- I'm a neurotic clusterfuck. Fortunately, most women pick up on that in a matter of minutes -- or I fail entirely to notice that they might be interested, and at the time I do, they've long since moved on. It's not a big deal, I am not one of those who need to have a woman to validate them as men. Also, I talk too much." That last quip delivered slightly tongue-in-cheek, perhaps.

He shakes his head. "I don't think the sex analogy works for me. Because sex is never just something you do, from where I'm sitting -- because of the neuropathy. It takes hard work and careful planning for not too great a payout most of the time, which is also why I can't be bothered most of the time. It's the anxiety I want to be able to suppress, most of all. When shit hits the fan, I need a clear head. I can't throw fireballs like some people around here, I don't throw lightning, and I don't heal. The one thing I can do in a tight spot is that I know how stories work. And I can't use that if I'm curled up in a ball on the floor with a panic attack."

The sound Javier makes is one of bemused irritation, when Ravn starts listing what he doesn't do. What he can't do. "You're telling me that you have to plan.. sex," he repeats, expression a rictus of incredulity. "And don't fucking--" He looks away, then back to the younger man. "Look. I didn't show you that trick with the electricity just for kicks, yeah? You want to learn how to change the channel on emotions, you need to first learn how to work lightning without it hurting you. Don't fucking ask me why, but that's how it fucking works. And another thing.."

He swallows, and digs an inked thumb and forefinger into each temple. "I should've mentioned sooner. This shit doesn't work on yourself." Softer, "Eso es una maldición."

"I can tell you've spotted the snag in casual dating for me," Ravn murmurs with a hint of dryness. Then he nods. "I think I get what you are saying. I have to learn to -- lose control, even for a moment."

He does not speak Spanish. But some words are enough alike in all of the romance languages (which English keeps mugging) for him to recognise malediction, curses. "Can't fry myself with accidental lightning. Good. Think I might be able to calm down myself, just a little? Or at the very least, learn to pick up a little on what others are feeling? That would help with anxiety as well -- wouldn't have to wonder if the other person think I'm a complete disaster if I can tell what they feel."

"No," murmurs the cop, barely audible, to the question of whether Ravn might be able to calm himself down. He remains quiet for a little while, big shoulders stooped, inked fingertips jammed into his temples hard enough to blanch the skin. Then he sniffs again, and goes for a sip of his tequila.

"I don't think I can teach you this." Another sip. "You think it's bad, not knowing what people think? You wait until you can't help but have it screamed in your ears and shoved down your fucking throat. I spent years not knowing what the fuck to do with it, the way it.." The way it overtook him, he means, and left him a quivering mess on the floor. He licks a trickle of alcohol off his thumb.

"Ask me for something else."

"Maybe I just want too much," Ravn murmurs, wincing. He can picture that -- not scanning someone's emotions for cues but having them blasted in to his head until you can't tell where one man ends and the other man begins. It's vivid enough a picture to make him wish he had far less of an active imagination.

"People keep telling me the longer you stay in this town, the stronger your powers grow. Mine haven't changed. I was hoping maybe I could make them -- shape them into something useful. But maybe I am in fact better off this way. A mundane guy, except the Veil lets me keep my memories at least. But also a risk to people around me because when the shit does hit the fan, I'm a liability they have to protect as I can't do much to protect myself." Ravn reaches for his tequila and upends it; this may taste like hellfire and bad decisions, but maybe that is not always a bad thing.

Javier grunts, and finishes off his own drink, before pouring himself some more. Then he waits to see if Ravn wants a refill on his own. The cop's starting to lose some of the habitual tension in his shoulders, the snarl in his tone of voice. Everything worked over as if with sandpaper, softening all his sharp edges.

"Or maybe you're just barking up the wrong tree. You've got the gift of moving. Maybe it's.. maybe it's Rosencrantz you should be talking to. Not me." A tick of dark eyes to blue, and a chuckle. "I'm a one trick pony. Never learned how to do anything.. anything else."

"I take one look at the things he and the other movers can do, and I know somewhere deep in my gut that if I could do things like that, I'd have worked it out years ago. Not for lack of trying." Ravn holds his glass out; definitely yes please to more hellfire and bad decisions, so far preferable to feelings of inadequacy and frustration.

He leans back with it, once filled, a wry little smile flitting across his face. "Thank you for trying, though. I don't know what I will do. Keep trying? But that's how it works around here, we keep trying. Make stupid decisions, do things that are technically wrong but we do them anyway. I did want to talk to Hyacinth about all of this at first, but -- she has a thousand obligations and not much time, and she is the kind of person who -- well, she is used to fixing things for people, and this is something I have to fix for myself."

"And you think, what, that mind reading shit, that's got to be easier? Is that what?" There's a bark of laughter from the older man, though he dutifully pours out a couple of fingers of tequila for his guest. Okay, maybe more than a couple, but who's counting?

"Look, have you even fucking tried talking to Rosencrantz about this?" He sets the bottle back down with a thump, and turns to watch the blond leaned back against his couch. "Have you actually tried? Don't you fucking lie to me." He gestures with his glass, then downs a good third of its contents.

Don't let good alcohol grow old in the glass; Ravn follows suit. He may not be a seasoned tequila drinker, but people who accuse him of downing Scotch whiskey like water aren't entirely wrong. Then he makes a face. "Kind of. Parts of it. I have not asked him about moving in specific, because I take one look at the things he can do, and my entire gut tells me, yeah, no, that's just not going to happen, don't even bother trying."

A glance towards the ceiling. "We have talked about -- other things. I mean, we're friends. And frankly, women trip over themselves to get the man's attention, not that he seems to care for it a lot. He told me once he's just as scared of people sometimes as I am -- but unlike me, he doesn't hide away. He gets back in their faces, and that's why he's always up for a fight." A small chuckle. "And he lectured me a few times -- open your damn eyes, Abildgaard, a girl comes on your boat with a bottle of wine and talks about watching stars, that doesn't mean she wants to watch the stars. I'm slow on the uptake like that."

"Your gut?" de la Vega counters in that rough scrawl that's equal parts gutter trash Mexican and clipped East L.A.. Kid who grew up in Tijuana, then ran with the white boys around the barrio a while. "You sure it's your gut telling you that, and not someone else's voice that's got in your head?" He chortles, and runs an inked thumb along the rim of his glass. "Maybe I should take a look. See what you've got in there. Mira lo que puedo encontrar, si?"

As for Itzhak and the attention he gets, the cop's silent for a moment. But the way he looks at Ravn.. well, it's the look someone gives when they know something you don't about someone. "I wouldn't say he doesn't care for it," is what he concludes, bemused, after a time. "But he's right about girls and boats and bottles of wine, though."

"Oh, I'm sure he cares for the attention and for being able to get laid if he wants to. But he doesn't seem to care for it in the sense of connecting with people -- he's got friends and boyfriends at home, so why would he?" Ravn shrugs lightly. "I'm not going to pretend I understand how that works. But it does work, and that's the important thing."

And maybe to him, it is. He's certainly no relationship expert.

Javier's suggestion gives the Dane a bit more pause; as if he needs to weigh options. "I wonder what you would find," he says after a moment. "Itzhak tried it once. He found walls of steel, and a very miserable cat. I'm not sure I really have a lot to explore -- but if you want to make the attempt, I will not run away screaming. This whole business is about getting to know myself and managing to extend a little trust to others, I realise that."

Beat. "But I don't want you do keep hurting yourself. One nosebleed a day for me being curious is enough."

Itzhak is also not as powerful, nor as dedicated an empath as de la Vega. So who's to say what the cop might find, should he decide to go spelunking. As to hurting himself, and the price of his power, "Up to you," murmured into his drink before he downs the last of it, slides the empty glass onto the table, and slouches back against the couch cushions.

"I do think you don't give yourself nearly enough fucking credit, though. Rosencrantz is a good teacher, in addition to being a hot, mouthy little shit." It's spoken with obvious fondness. "You could learn plenty from him. But if you're still determined to understand the, uh.. the mind shit. You come back and we'll do some more, yeah?" The drink's getting to him; his words are smudging together, and his gaze is drifting from Ravn's face, no matter how much he tries to keep it there. "Unless you want to keep going." Tonight, he means.

"The mouthy little shit part is what we like," Ravn murmurs, not that he'd ever say such a thing if not for the tequila. "When he went with me to New York? He almost decked one of my grand-cousins. I wish he had. If I'd heard what was said, I would have decked him."

So much for decor, Abildgaard.

He sits up. "You know what, let's do this. What can you find in my head that you don't already know? That's the fun thing about having secrets: I don't have any. Anything embarrassing people want to know about me, it's all out there. People keep acting like I keep things from them, when all they have to do is ask a question or fire up a search engine. Let's do this. What's the worst you can do, decide I'm a privileged asshole? We already know this."

"He's taken you to New York?" Javier gets a funny sort of look on his face at that, tries to chuckle to cover it up, and rolls his head away where it's still resting against the couch cushions. It's not followed up with anything, but perhaps it needn't be.

He's still slouched there heavily as Ravn goes to sit up, and makes his decision. Dark eyes meet blue for a moment, and even in his inebriated state, there's a flicker of something in him. A hint of warning, a touch of that predator who hunts to kill and is regrettably good at it. What he asks, low-voiced, is, "Are you sure?"

Ravn shakes his head. "I took him. Because I couldn't face going to my cousin's wedding alone. I needed somebody sane there, if only to get me drunk and get me out. We only stayed that one night and I don't think either of us regret not extending the visit."

He meets the other man's gaze straight on, slightly blurry grey steel. Then he shakes his head, again. "No. I'm sure I'll regret this. But that's the story of my life, de la Vega. Everything I do, I regret, including getting out of bed in the morning. Everything terrifies me. The only thing I ever want to do is run and keep right on running. I want to stop running. Sometimes, the only thing you can do about fear is pretend you're not afraid. Do your thing. Worst case scenario, I may leave a Ravn-shaped hole in your wall."

He probably regrets saying the words as soon as they've left his mouth, given the look on his face. It's not like he's married to the guy. Who gives a shit whether he's met his parents or not. Well, except Javier clearly does give a shit. And perhaps this fact irritates him.

Grunting something like, "Don't fucking care, you want another drink?" he pushes out of his slouch and reaches for the bottle of tequila. "Well, you can try running from me. But I'm not going to make it easy for you. Fair warning."

"I ran for three years from a dead, murderous ex. What are you going to do, scowl at me?" Bloody tequila, makes the Dane's mouth faster than his common sense. He holds his glass out for a refill nonetheless because stupid is as stupid does, and when you're already waist deep in the lake you might as well go all the way under. "Fair warning: I have no idea what to expect. But if I wake up in your bed dressed like a French maid in the morning, I will burn the evidence."

That gets a slanted look out of the corners of the cop's eyes, and a wolfish little grin that's pure amusement. "I think I like you better drunk," he confides, big hand around the bottle's neck, and using it to gesture at Ravn before it's set back down again with a thump.

"And I'm not into that kind of kink, but nice fucking try," he points out, sliding his gaze away and scruffing his fingers through his dark hair. It's not yet started to sport any silver in it, unlike his beard, but that's purely a matter of time. "You comfortable?"

Ravn laughs and then says quite honestly, "No. But as comfortable as I'm getting. Comfortable, to me, involves a hell of a lot more alcohol. I usually find a few minutes of it just before I pass out."

It's good enough, apparently, as far as he's concerned.

There are no more words from the older man. No more questions, no more warnings. Just that familiar sensation of something in the air.. shifting. Like a vibration just outside of the range of human hearing, a tremor that's felt more than heard as his power's awakened like a slumbering beast, and starts sloughing off him with the sharp scent of ozone.

Then it isn't de la Vega at all in his head, but a beast with golden eyes, and a sleek body made of darkness and fire and ash. Linking with most people is like receiving a knock at the door, and choosing to answer it. Linking with de la Vega is like waking up to an intruder with serrated knives for teeth and butcher's hook claws, and it might as soon carve you to pieces as simply skulk about like an unwelcome guest.

Walls of steel. Tall castle walls of shining steel that extend towards and beyond the horison in either direction, obscuring everything inside from sight; direction and misdirection, blank surfaces too smooth for anything to stick on, revealing nothing. The perfect mindscape for someone who spends his entire life trying to reveal absolutely nothing about himself, while insisting it's all there to see -- and it is, if what you are looking to see is your own face and expectations reflected right back.

And atop that wall, a Siamese cat. Nothing impressive. Just a very well groomed pedigree cat with eyes that are a familiar shade of blue-grey steel. Looking down and seeing fire and passion and death in a vaguely lupine shape.

It keeps calm. But the swishing tail tip and the fur at the small of the back that refuses to lie down smoothly, one might almost think the cat comfortable.

It cants its head. Trying to decide, whether to extend a paw somehow to help the wolf up to where it is sitting, atop the steel wall -- and then it cants its head to the other side and says, in a familiar voice, "I'm about to get a wolf-shaped hole in that wall, aren't I?"

The perfect sanctuary for a man who's styled himself a grifter, a player of people and yet one who struggles greatly to know them. A paradox of a man, if Javier's ever known one. And he's known a few.

The wolf does no such thing as try to ruin that lovely wall. The fire rages; a conflagration that has no beginning and no end. Reflected in the gleaming steel as the animal prowls forward, as smoke spindles into the air with every step. But it does nothing more than pace a slow circle around the fortress, for now. Golden eyes transfixed on the siamese, and the one thing Ravn may not have counted on: that hunter's patience. It's served him well behind the scope of a sniper rifle, and it serves him well here, too.

You cannot hide from me, inside your mind. You cannot run from me. You can try, but we both know I will catch you. Closer he stalks, closer and closer. Come out. I only bite if asked nicely. The voice isn't his. It's neither male nor female, clear and smooth and strangely tender in contrast to the wolf's mouthful of knives.

The Siamese scratches at his neck. He's wearing a little blue collar. It has a bell on. It is no doubt an endless source of frustration. It reads, Good Boy in neat embroidered letters. It jingles.

The cat looks down at the wolf. Games of chase and catch reverbate in the air, unspoken. It makes a decision about them. It jumps, and slides, on its fuzzy and dainty little butt, down towards the wolf. The surface is mooth and glassy, like polished steel.

And there he is, sitting at the wolf's feet. The castle walls unbroken, the secrets within disregarded. Come out, said the wolf. And the cat, recalling that he invited this intrusion, does so. Because what's in there, on the other side of those tall walls, it's been there a long time and it doesn't really matter. Little does he realise that in doing so, he is opening his mind to the Mentalist.

Fear.

Fear, like a sweater knitted from stinging nettles and poison ivy, carried and worn for so long that it almost feels comfortable in its familiarity. A deep current permeating the Siamese's every thought and feeling: Every move, every word, every gesture, carefully weighed and considered lest the Danish cat loses control of the terror inside.

There is nothing behind those walls worth seeing. The only thing in there is him, in his mind castle of steel and chrome. He will die on this hill.

Inside every man there are two wolves, or so the (fake) Cherokee story goes. Here, there are two cats. A pampered pedigree Siamese, a dainty and fragile lap kitty, inbred and useless for anything but wearing its little collar and bell. And a black alley cat, ragged-eared and shifty-faced, who goes where he wants and never forms a bond with anyone, content to go through life entirely alone. The kind of cat who will tear your hand to ribbons if you try to put a collar on it.

And at the front of Ravn's mind, a deep desire to connect. Taming his fear is a life project. A war that he thought he could never win -- only hope to never lose, either. And now there is hope -- a spark, however small, because here, in this little hell hole of a town, he has found a way. To interact with others like a human being. To touch them. To be part of them. And he wants more.

Does the wolf see it? Does it catch a glimpse, perhaps, of this other side to the pampered housecat? A sliver of him reflected in the fortress walls?

Or does it only see a tasty morsel that's landed very conveniently within reach of its jaws, and one snap--

--one snap is all it'd take. The burning beast prowls closer on massive paws, thrusts its head in to bare those serrated teeth, and the wind whispers, run, little kitten.

Master of bad decisions, me. That's about what speeds through Ravn's head as he realises that he is in fact a very small and rather pathetic feline, and that is one hell of a big damn wolf and also, it is on fire.

And hungry.

Don't mind if I do.

He bolts. Tail fluffed up like a bottle cleaner, he dashes -- not for the wall but along it. There is nothing for claws to grasp on that wall. No way back up the glassy surface. It starts to dawn on him that this time, if ever, he done fucked up good.

And close on his heels, of course, the wolf. Golden eyes and dark, mangy fur, its whole body a pyre that won't -- can't -- stop burning. It needn't run, having much longer legs; it simply follows steadily behind. If the cat tries to climb those walls, it'll attempt to block his path with a swipe of a massive paw, no, not that way. As if it's herding him somewhere, away from here. Anywhere but here.

For entirely too long, the world consists of the sound of claws against steel and dirt. Ravn is not certain how long.

That's the problem with being an inbred, asthmatic, useless Siamese. You run out of steam. Fast. He has no doubt whatsoever as to why his mental self-image would be exactly this: His mother's goddamn suicide-by-peace-lily-eating Siamese. It's exactly like him: Inbred, asthmatic, useless. He hated that cat when it was alive. He hates it now that he is that cat, too.

He hates it so much. And he can't breathe.

He's seeing stars and spots.

Really done fucked up for good, the Dane thinks, and grinds to a halt because he's out of air and if he tries to run further, he will simply stop breathing and pass out. At least turning around, maybe he can get one last claw swipe in. Give this glowing bastard a memento of him at least.

It's not even a contest, surely. The wolf is bigger, stronger, faster and equipped with that mouthful of knives; a veritable killing machine, by all accounts. And yet it never quite manages to catch its quarry. Bat at it occasionally, yes. Snap its jaws with a whuff of hot breath on the back of the Siamese's neck, but not a single scrape, nor singed hair to be found.

Then that sudden, unexpected swipe, and it manages to draw a dark, narrow streak across its muzzle. Not much, but proof enough that the beast bleeds. <<Not bad,>> sighs the smoke in its embers as it pads forward. <<But it's time to leave. There is nothing here for you, any longer.>> And it surges forward with a snarl like thunder, intent this time on snagging the feline between its jaws.

The Siamese wants a fight. Back a terrified cat into a corner, it becomes all claws and sharp little needle-teeth. However, the cat is an inbred, asthmatic thing that tries for another swipe, only to fall over and be caught in lupine teeth.

And hang there, dangling like a kitten, trying to fight his own shortness of breath and the instinctive urge to become a limp noodle, brought on by the scruffing. He is not a kitten being carried by mama cat. This is not OK. Hind legs flail. Tail swishes. Neither achieve anything at all. Goddamn you, paralysing fear and or feline nerve system. Maybe in this mindscape, they are the same thing.

There's a guttural snarl as razor-sharp teeth sink into that little furry form and hold on tight. But instead of tearing the poor thing to shreds, instead of ripping it limb from limb or hurling it into the ground with enough force to shatter every bone in its tiny body, the wolf begins to run with its prize. Away from here, turning its back on those gleaming tower walls, on this featureless landscape that spills out every which way.

It picks a direction, and it runs. Head down, and somehow the living torch that its body has become does not harm the feline gripped in its maw. The fire surges around them both, flame becoming dark, thick smoke that traces their path like spilled ink. And that clear voice again, his and yet not: <<Show me where to go. I think you know the way.>>

There is so much landscape. The deep dark forests of Germany. The high, snow-clad barbs of the Alps. The old, sloping mountains of Northern Scandinavia, the open Atlantic ocean, the Red Sea, the white beaches of Spain and France, the bustling old town of Florence, the neon lights of 42nd Street, the -- Lord, this cat has travelled a lot.

The one thing that is not in all these landscapes and sceneries that fly past under lupine paws of fire, is people. There's no one here. The cars that pass by are empty, the windows are empty, the street cars, the restaurants, the boats, the planes, the trains, they are all empty. This cat has travelled a lot -- alone.

And fire burns. It changes. It purifies. Colour bleeds from the Siamese until there is nothing left but black. That other cat, the rough-eared, black alley cat is all that remains. It, and the little blue collar with the bell on, around its neck. And now its hind leg is clawing -- not at the wolf, but at the collar. "I want this thing off! Goddamnit! I am not my mother's pet!"

The wolf sprints steadily, at first. A dark streak on the horizon; a pyre, unfettered by rain, by snow, by sea. By the time they reach those neon lights, its loping pace has slowed to a trot, and then a prowl. A smudge of smoke and hot embers and golden eyes roaming the empty streets.

And then it bows its head and sets its quarry down, dutifully. Gently, if such could be said of a beast like this. It pauses a moment as if to taste the wind, then bends its head and bares its teeth. As if to slice the much smaller feline's throat open, perhaps.

Or, instead, to cut the collar off, and flick it away with a mournful little jingle, jangle of the bell. <<No,>> hums the voice, like cool water on a day without rain. <<You never were, I think.>> Then with a huff, it continues walking, head down.

The sad little clinkety-clink of the bell as it falls into a New York gutter and is swept away by its tide, destined for a lonely end somewhere on the bottom of a dreamscape Hudson. Good riddance.

The landscape turns back to woodland until it becomes a coniferous forest along an ambling river, and then a very recognisable small town in a near-lagoon secluded bay on the West Coast. Nothing much to look at compared to those grand European cities or the majestic nature sceneries, or the blinking, pulsing lights of New York -- except for that one feature, people.

There are people here. Shadows, outlines, poorly defined as if they are not completely real. But they exist here, and maybe, if one looks at them long enough, gets to know them well enough, they will gain colour and form and faces. It's very obviously a work in progress.

"This mindlink doesn't do subtle for the imagery," the alley cat murmurs. "Don't think I need a psychology degree to make sense of this."

<<I should hope not,>> replies the wolf. <<We're in your own mind, after all.>> If it were possible for that androgynous voice to sound amused, then certainly it's what Ravn catches as it continues padding along. None of the people here respond to its presence, of course, but they are in the ex-grifter's mind after all. These are his constructs. His memories, his hopes, his fears.

<<I need to rest,>> it informs him at some point, sinking down onto its side in the street, flame buffeting its dark shape. <<I'm very tired. Will you be all right here?>>

"I think I want to go home and cry into a bottle of Scotch," the cat says with surprising earnesty. "I don't even know what this means. Yet."

Yet. Because of course it means something. You don't re-arrange something as dramatic as your entire self-perception in your own mind, and have nothing come of it. It will probably take the Dane a while to sort out what it means. A while, and several bottles of strong alcohol, possibly a fair amount of screaming into a pillow.

He shoots a blue glance at the fire wolf. "You did not eat me. And I think you helped me. And why am I talking while you are -- never mind. Do you know how to get out of here?"

Laughter, sweet and cool and crisp. Nothing like de la Vega's actual voice, which bears the telltale roughness of far too many cigarettes, among other things. <<You'll figure it out,>> it promises, and then lays its head down on the asphalt and closes its eyes. And rather than petering out, the flames burn brighter, hotter; little explosions like embers igniting dry brush, and when the conflagration finally consumes all the available fuel, the wolf is simply.. gone. Hard to say whether it caught the last thing said.

As for the cop, he severs the link abruptly, and comes to with a fit of coughing. Shoving to his feet, he goes to fumble for the box of tissues, to tend to the blood pouring from his eyes, nose, mouth. Which is, "Not as bad as it looks, sit the fuck down," growled pre-emptively at the Dane.

It takes a breath or three longer for Ravn's consciousness to snap from the Gray Harbor of his mindscape to the very real living room of the older man. Another breath or two for him to realise where he is -- and go through the motions of oh god, he's bleeding to he told me to sit the fuck down, with a detour to wordless, silent screaming thrown in somewhere in between.

The Dane sits the fuck down, in the manner of someone who's so busy trying to sift through sensory input, real and less so, that his brain cannot presently spare processing power for mundane things such as movement.

After a few moments longer he manages to relax his muscles enough to unstiffen at least a little. And bolt from the sofa because fuck sitting the fuck down, enjoy the six foot three of nervous, jittery freeze or flight response having reached the flight part of that sentence, now pacing in a circle around the floor while trying to breathe. "I'll be okay, I'll be okay, I'll be okay," he murmurs, although to which man is honestly up for debate at the time being.

Well, Ravn may be taller by a few inches, but Javier very likely outweighs him. The guy takes his PT seriously. Just now though, he's rather occupied with jamming tissues at his face and trying to soak up the mess he's made while grumbling in Spanish.

"You can't tell me you've never fucking mind linked with anyone but Rosencrantz before," he mutters, dropping back down on the couch and hunting for the bottle of tequila. He pours himself a glass, and then Ravn one. "Here, have another drink. Your nerves are shot and you're going to wear a groove in my fucking living room floor like that."

Pacing doesn't stop, but it does slow down a little -- and that tequila glass teleports into gloved hands to be carried around, emptied quickly, and then carried around some more. "You say that like this happens all the time," Ravn murmurs back. He is gaining some control back -- enough, at least, to not sound several octaves higher than usual. "He did it once -- and we kind of fell out of it because I wasn't what he expected. I'm not sure what he expected, but, not the kind of idiot cat who ended up killing itself eating my mother's peace lilies, that's for sure. Are you telling me people here do this all the time?"

No wonder half of Gray Harbor acts erratic as hell at times.

"I think that's exaggerating," grunts de la Vega, wiping again at his nose with his knuckles, briefly examining the blood, then taking a swig and a swallow of his tequila. "I wouldn't say all the time. But I figured you'd done this by now." It's like sex, man. Who knew Ravn was a virgin? "Didn't mean to pop your fucking cherry like that."

"You want me to call you an Uber, or uh." He nods toward the couch. "You're welcome to crash here tonight."

Ravn reaches up to rub his temples with one gloved hand, holding the tequila glass in the other. "I appreciate it. But I think I need to go lie on my bed and get so drunk I don't know what's up and down, and then sleep it off, scream into a pillow, do it again, and maybe then I'll start feeling like I know what's going on in my own head."

He lowers a hand to grab at -- something. The collar, maybe? The one that isn't there, and in the waking world, it was never there, but it feels like it used to be there and now it isnt, and yes, this is where whiskey comes in. Then he puts the glass down on the nearest available surface. "I really don't want to kiss and bail but I think I need to go -- sort my head out. Find out what that was. What it was that was taken away. What it means."

The Dane looks at the police chief, soon to be reinstated though neither man knows yet, with the same blue gaze that the Siamese had, and the black alley cat. "I think I owe you one. But right now, all I really want to do is go ballistic on somebody. I'll see you one of the days, text you, run into you at the Pourhouse, something?"

No argument from the cop. Just another grunt in reply, this one a little less coherent than the last. He watches Ravn a moment longer, then goes to collect the remainder of the bottle of tequila along with his glass, and eases to his feet slowly. Hand out for Ravn's glass, once he's done with it. "Don't owe me a thing." One corner of his mouth crooks into a wicked little smile; there and gone again in the blink of an eye.

Then, glasses in hand, he ambles off to the kitchen. Still that same wolf; the way he moves and the way the tension runs through him and the way the instinct to kill sits just under the surface of every glance. Don't let the fact that he's getting older and slower fool you. "Sure. You let me know if you need anything else, yeah?"

It's a bit of a walk back to Oak Avenue from the Outskirts, and some might suggest it should not be taken alone after dark; but the wolves that hunt for girls in red capes tend to steer clear of men of 6'3 -- and more so when they look so distracted they might just walk right on past a stick-up without even noticing.

There's a lot to think about, now and when the fog of tequila lifts. Such as, when you have worn a collar, figuratively speaking, for your entire life -- what changes when you lose it?