2022-03-17 - It's (Not) Raining Men (Alas)

Okey Kokey Videoke is a ridiculous name for anything, including a karaoke bar, but that's half the fun, right? It's supposed to be ridiculous. Fun! Singing! Drinking! Listening to other people sing terribly! What could possibly go wrong.

"Beer?" wonders Una, shedding her coat as she leads the way into the bar. "Whiskey? I'll buy, if it'll get you on stage, Ravn~" It's said in a sing song, but not a serious one. Does Una really believe they're going to get Ravn on stage? No. Does that mean it's not fun to keep trying? Absolutely fucking not. "It's been so long since I did this. It's ridiculously fun."

"Buy anyways, it might get him on-stage."

Stop Ariadne from chiming on such an endeavor? Somebody dare try. She's grinning like a fiend at the taller Dane, though ultimately in a friendly manner. There's no pressure, in the end, to sing on-stage. "It's been...yeah, since college, damn," the barista adds as she shrugs out of her windbreaker. Beneath, her cream-colored sweater dress with wide brown belt. Black leggings, brown cavalry boots, and a messily-classy up-do brings her to dressed for a proper outing. "And beer for meeeee," singsongs the barista. "The dark stuff, the good stuff, the non-dishwater stuff."

Ravn looks around, a little dubiously. "Is this place new?"

It's not an unreasonable question; karaoke night used to be a Pourhouse thing but the tourist season is right around the corner, and if you're going to open a place, now is the right time to work out the kinks before the tourists come a-swarming. What he means, of course, is -- is this a dream?

Oh well. Either way. No fucking way he's getting on a stage. He's in his usual black slacks, blazer, turtleneck -- casual, sharp, elegant. He knows he'd cut a good look in the spotlight. He also knows that he's asthmatic and can't carry a note if his life depends on it. "Buy the whiskey anyway, and I may forget that you tried. Mind you, make it proper whiskey."

Someone is, after all, a terrible whiskey snob.

"It's new," chimes Una. "I doubt it'll last, but while it's here... we have to make the effort." To sing? To support local business? Who knows.

Sorry, Ravn: this is not a Dream. This is real, you are in this sticky-floor'd, neon-lit place... but on the plus side there's no Veil entity intent on forcing anyone into singing.

Una's sigh is dramatic, because it's no fun when Ravn refuses to get in, but she's also a realist, and having too much fun to really care. "Dark beer, good whiskey, and we'll see. Good deal. Go find us somewhere to sit?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, darting off in order to see about the drinks. She's in plum jeans, with a slouchy emerald-hued woollen sweater and black boots, a matching green scarf woven through her hair.

"Aye-aye, m'am," replies Ariadne with a chipper two-fingered salute off of her temple. While Una goes to figure out drinks, the barista scouts out a booth tucked to the middle-side of the place, where no one's going to get accidentally bumped into and privacy of conversation can still be possible. Her coat is tossed onto one of the booth-seats before she sliiiiiides in, managing a little glide due to the fabric of her sweater dress. It makes her laugh to herself and then have to obviously straighten the skirt to its proper falling again.

"Place is new," she then echoes of her fellow redhead's assessment. "Russ made some comment about it last week, how it cropped up and should be here for the tourist season, like you said. But hey, supporting local businesses is the thing, yeah? Maybe they'll have a good dark beer on tap and I can pass on word to customers at the coffee shop." She has her fingers crossed for a good porter, at the very least. "Though I wonder about the song list. I'm hoping it's not limited to less than two-hundred. A good selection of nineties and eighties, maybe some two-thousands. Who knows. I might sing Britney Spears and your brain will be forever scarred," she grins at Ravn.

Poor Una too.

"What did those poor customers ever do to you?" Ravn is still not a dark beer aficionado.

He glances after Una as she goes and then smiles lightly. "She's really -- starting to relax. It's good to see. You seem to have that effect on people. I mean, hell, I let you two drag me here. I've only ever attended one karaoke night at the Pourhouse while I've lived here, and I snuck out early while no one was looking my way."

It's easier for him to slip in across from Ariadne, at least. Slacks have some perks compared to sweater dresses. It's probably not a coincidence that he keeps right on sliding until he's in the darkest spot. Places like this are full of happily drunk people all looking to make new friends and the last thing he wants is some happy drunk stranger to try to climb his lap or hand out hugs.

There's already a crowd of people by the bar, and that gives Una time to glance over her shoulder and track where her companions have gone-- and also to consider the current performer, whose rendition of Whitney Houston's I will always love you is just short of execrable. Una winces, but attempts nonetheless to aim an encouraging smile in the young woman's direction. You tried, go you!

Happily, the bartender is ready to take her order a moment later, which results in a quick conversation, almost inevitably working through the available options with regards to dark beer (and, for that matter, acceptable whiskey).

"Those customers dared to like dirty dishwater," the barista blandly retorts to the snub at her beer choices.

She then grins. "N'aw, shucks." Looking away from Ravn-of-the-Shadows, she tries to find where along the bar Una went. "I just figure I'm fun. Fun is safe, yeah? I'm also not an asshole and I'm patient. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm definitely the archetypal 'beware the temper of a patient woman', but I also just...don't jive with trouble. It's a waste of my emotional time and energy. I work public food retail. I deal with enough assholes all day long. Why would I want more trouble?" She shrugs.

Speaking of trouble. Ariadne squints and glances over at the stage. "Hmm. Yeeeeah, uh. Mmm. I promise not to do that."

"Sing Whitney Houston? I recommend something simpler, yes. Most people can not carry that tune if it kills them, though I think that's the point here -- that you sound as ridiculous as you look. Want to bet that Staying Alive and Jolene is on the menu, too?" Ravn shakes his head. "At least Jolene is within vocal range of most non-castratos."

He looks around. "I guess this place serves some variety of miserable toast. Seeing as that no one is smoking. Davis doesn't say anything if you smoke at the Pourhouse but I've still not done it since Chief de la Vega just looked at me and quoted me the law of the number, whatever. Made me have to go look it up -- not allowed to smoke in a public place that sells food."

Una is adept enough at carrying a tray of drinks to suggest she, like Ariadne, has had at least some experience in food retail. There's two pints of dark beer, and a double shot of amber-hued whiskey, and all three drinks make it safely to the booth, and get sent down with a flourish. "Nachos," she reports, evidently hearing the very last bit of Ravn's comment and extrapolating the rest. "And hotdogs, and that kind of thing. Ariadne, that woman was screeching too loudly for me to hear the name of the beer, but the bartender swore it was good, so-- I hope it's acceptable."

She doesn't specify the whiskey, though she is smart enough not to serve Ravn anything he won't happily drink.

The redhead hesitates for a moment, seemingly deliberating over seating arrangements: there is room next to both her companions, and as comfortable as she is with them both, now (that is certainly true), the social intricacies give her pause. "Do you want a human barrier against randoms, Ravn?" she says, after that moment. "Or do I cosy up to Ariadne instead?"

"Nothing wrong with Jolene," muses Ariadne, looking thoughtful about the song itself. "Hopefully a good selection. Also, if you don't want to sound like a snob...you just sounded like a snob." She gently laughs in the Dane's direction. "Order something off the menu which looks appetizing. Hell, an appetizer. I'll go figure it out. If it's just bar food then, eh, we live a little and it goes great with the liquor and this is not a four-star restaurant to start with."

Another shrug and some dimples. "It's about bad food, good drinks, and better company. And caterwauling." Una arrives with drinks and the barista makes a quietly-happy sound. "Savior of the hour," she comments as she takes her dark beer. "Also nachos, yes." A loft of brows for Una's question and she looks to Ravn.

"I am a classically trained violinist, I'm allowed to snob it over people who can't read music," Ravn scoffs. The way his blue-greys sparkle, though, he's probably not all that serious about it. "Also, I'm not grousing about the food choices -- I'm whining that I'm not allowed to smoke."

And then Una has to go and ask a complicated question like that. The Dane pauses and -- gives it entirely too much consideration, really. The social dynamics here are clearly a lot more complicated to his mind than to anyone else.

After a moment he offers a slightly strained, "Whatever you prefer? Toss a coin?"

Given Una asked the question in the first place, it's clear she finds the social dynamics complicated too (but perhaps not quite as much as Ravn). The face she makes is torn between awkwardly self-conscious and apologetic. Apology for asking the question? Something else? Who can say.

It's over-kill, given the quandary at hand, but evidently she decides Ravn's suggestion is a good one: she reaches into the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a dime, change from their drinks. "Heads for Ravn, tails for Ariadne," she says, before tossing the coin.

Heads it is, and, accordingly, she slides into the booth next to (but still some distance from) Ravn.

"Come summer, we'll go drinking somewhere you can smoke, I promise. Outside. And yes, nachos."

Ariadne blinks. "I'm impressed you actually had a coin on you. I rarely carry bills and coins anymore," admits the barista to the now-seated Una. Her own wallet is in one of her sweater dress's pockets as it stands. "Also, outside, sure, but I'm allergic to cigarette smoke, so...I'll have to sit upwind of you if at all possible." Another shrug for Ravn, though she doesn't seem apologetic in this one. She likes breathing too. "But let me go get that nacho order in."

A sip of her dark beer and little happy sound. "Gurl, you good," she tells Una with a quick grin. "Back in a snap." With that, the barista sashays her way over to the bar. Indeed, a sashay. Someone's happy to be out and about and it shows.

Ravn glances after Ariadne's departing back and then shakes his head with a chuckle. He throws a blue glance at Una and murmurs, "Shouldn't be a difficult question to answer, should it? And still I fucking freeze up as if you'd asked me if I was looking to date either of you, or getting in the way of you two dating one another. Guh. People are too bloody complicated."

He dips into a pocket of that sleek black blazer, to pull out -- a cigarette?

A plastic cigarette, as it happens. Not even a vape -- just a plastic cigarette that contains nothing but, well, plastic. "Keeps my hands busy all the same, though."

That the beer is acceptable pleases Una, but it's Ravn's murmured comment that makes her laugh on an exhale. "Right?" she says. "I mean, a normal person just... sits down and doesn't think about it. But I stand there like a moron debating-- I don't even know what, because it's not like it matters." Except it does. Obviously it does.

She pulls her beer off of the tray and towards her, giving Ravn a side-long glance. "I get that. My hands like keeping busy too. You don't-- really mind coming to this kind of place, right? I know it's not actually your thing."

A night free of responsibilities is definitely in order for Monroe. Alfie is staying the night with some school friends and that means Monroe is free to be a normal twenty something college student and soak up the local nightlife for a change, instead of worrying about work, school or pre-teens. Wild curls, a linen shirt that looks at least five sizes too large, and jeans that have got to have spandex in them to be that tight, paired with an oversized Hand of the Goddess pendant on a long chain, and a pair of beat up biker boots make up Monroe's look for the night.

He pauses just inside the karaoke bar, getting the lay of the land and looking for anyone he might know... and spots Ravn and Una, giving a friendly wave, before walking toward the bar to order a drink.

"Well, give me a ... hint or something, if you need me to get lost so you can, I don't know, make a move or something." Ravn stares into his glass. Then he helps himself to a proper swig from it. Is it good whiskey? Is it up to his standards? He couldn't care less, just give him something else to think or talk about now, please.

Like that cigarette. It's great for toying with. Look, it can do little flips.

He's all but jumping out of his seat at the sight of Monroe. The friendly wave is enthusiastically returned. "Hey! Come join us if you like!"

The little noise Una makes is a scoffing one. Make a move? Pfft.

She's so focused on her beer that it takes Ravn's so-enthusiastic greeting for her to register Monroe (his wave, alas, goes unnoticed, but at least she's not missed the whole of the exchange). "Yes," she agrees. "Come join us, and save us from... well, Ravn and I being awkward turtles without Ariadne, apparently." Is it really that easy to say all that across a crowded Karaoke Bar? Who cares: that's what happens.

(In the background, someone is singing My Heart Will Go On, and they're... well, they're not terrible? But they're also no Celine.)

There's a nod, and Monroe seems to pick up what's being said, even if he doesn't hear the words themselves, because lip reading is a great skill to have, too.

He approaches the table with his drink, which appears to something fruity and pink and decorated with a wedge of lime and a little tropical umbrella in it.

"Why are you being awkward turtles?" he asks, sliding into position across from Ravn and Una, then glancing up at the singer and wincing. "I spent a week in this little town in California, this little yuppie boy in the house I was renting drive way space from got dumped by his boyfriend while I was there, spent three days listening to that bloody song on loop."

Ravn winces; he is in fact the classically trained violinist he claims to be, and speaking as a proficient musician? Ow, man, he feels Monroe's pain. "I'm sorry you had to live through that," he tells the younger person, in a tone as if he was saying sorry you had to live through the Battle of Somme.

He sips his whiskey again. Steady man, steady. "I'm not really -- used to places like this. I guess I'm not a very social creature. Loud people, dancing people, drunk people -- I tend to sneak off when I can. And tonight I can't because these ladies both know it, and what's worse, if I tell them I need to go, they will let me and feel sorry for me about it."

"And as an awkward person, I'm already feeling bad for having dragged him here in the first place," Una adds to Ravn's explanation. "A few sips of beer are not enough to cure me of that, unfortunately, though at least when Ariadne's present-- she's gone to get nachos-- her sense of fun tempers it out and makes me more fun." She's matter-of-fact about that.

A few more sips of her beer are definitely needed.

"But we're here. And we're going to have fun, even if Ravn doesn't sing, which is fine whatever we try and pressure him into. Do you have a favourite song?"

"It's alright, builds character." Monroe flashes a grin at Ravn and takes a sip of his drink, pulling the slightest face at the sour-sweetness of it, though he clearly enjoys the drink. Without Alfie to look after and set a Proper Example for, he seems a bit more relaxed, more carefree. "Sometimes the best way to handle a place like this is just to get absolutely knocked on your ass drunk and have a wild time of it. Not that I think you'll do that."

"Isn't everybody awkward?" Monroe asks, canting his head to one side slightly. "Alright, I'll be the sense of fun until your Ariadne gets back. I'm thinking I'll sign up for a song in about..." he tilts his glass slightly, looking at the contents as if accessing the alcohol content, its effectiveness on him and a few other things. "Oh... five or ten minutes ought to be enough to get me less awkward. As for favorites... I'm sure I can find something on the list I can sing. What about you?"

"You wouldn't like me when I'm drunk," Ravn murmurs and toys with his plastic cigarette. "I'm not one of those happy drunks who get into all the fun shenanigans. I'm the guy who goes to sit in the corner to cry about how hard his life has been, and how he knows it actually hasn't, and now he feels guilty about that too."

He lights up in a slightly forced smile. "So I'll drink in moderation and keep it to whining softly about how places like this make me anxious as all hell, and then pat myself on the shoulder for going here anyway. My therapist would undoubtedly be very proud of me, if I had one."

"Everyone's a little bit awkward," Una agrees. "Some of us just take it an extra level or two. But I'm not so awkward I'm not willing to sing, when the moment arises. I'm-- well, I'm not ready yet, that's for sure." More beer required. Possibly a lot more beer, because the idea of Karaoke is much easier than the actual execution of it (it turns out).

"Does knowing what your therapist would say count as therapy?"

"Oh, but those guys are the best. They get all philosophical once you've calmed them down... unless they go stiff upper lip and pretend they have no idea what you're talking about the next morning." Monroe gives Ravn an amused look, "The fact that you know it is a damn sight better than most, though. Me, I get giggly, then sleepy."

"So what are you planning to sing?" Monroe asks Una, brows lifting slightly as he toys with one curl absently. "And if we did somehow drag you to stage, Ravn, what would you sing?"

"I can't sing. I have asthma." Ravn clings to it like a straw in a well. "Which is not to say that I will not bite the hand off anyone who tries to drag me into a spotlight."

Is he eyeing the fire escape? Yes, yes, he is. Just in case.

"I can do drunk philosophy but I tend to get pretty dark and pretty cynical so -- that's the whole part about not a fun drunk. I probably should have a therapist. Just, I've met two in this town, and both of them seemed to think we should be dating instead." He upends the shot glass. This is going to take more than one whiskey to get through.

"I get sleepy too," Una puts in. "Happy, but not giggly, and then sleepy. And then I wander off and curl up in a corner and actually go to sleep, which is why I don't let myself get actually drunk in public." That's just dangerous.

"Maybe you need a male therapist... though, no, that may just up with the same result. It's a whole trope, isn't it? Psychs falling for their clients. Coincidentally, I'd probably get up and do Tainted Love. I like the stamp-y bits."

"If you have asthma... don't you think it'd be smart to avoid the real ones?" Monroe points out, gesturing to the toy Ravn's been playing with. "Might help." he takes another sip of his drink, then shakes his head slightly. "What he needs is a ninety year old nun with some psychotherapy training."

"Oooh, guessing the Soft Cell version, rather than the Gloria Jones version. For me..." he looks thoughtfully at the stage, "I sincerely doubt they have anything by Barbara Markay... so I'll have to see if they have any Tina or Whitney." he pauses, then looks to his companions, "Turner, not, uh... the other kind of Tina."

"There's another Tina?" Ravn blinks. "Do Private Dancer. Let me see you do the shimmy again."

Then he shakes his head. "Of course I shouldn't be smoking. But you know what they say in this town -- have to find ways to cope. Mine's drinking and smoking. Figure at least I'm only harming myself. And what I need, if I ever do decide to try my luck with a therapist, is one who isn't looking for a boyfriend. It's unprofessional and uncomfortable, and I am strongly opposed to the idea of anyone being in a relationship with that kind of power imbalance."

"Fair," says Una, evenly. (Mostly evenly.) "Mixing up therapy and relationships definitely sounds like a recipe for trouble, all jokes aside."

"Soft Cell, yeah. I think you're on for a safe bet with Tina or Whitney. They're staples." And Una? She looks impressed: that's her impressed nod of acknowledgement.

She's also trying to track Ariadne down in the food line-- but evidently it is slow. Life is hard.

"... Don't worry about it." Monroe tells Ravn with a smile. He's not going to clarify, it seems. "Careful, I have the bus all to myself for the night, I will let you see me do the shimmy if you ask nice enough." he winks at Ravn, though it's clearly an exaggerated flirtation rather than a reflection of actual amorous intent.

"Yes, that's the sort of relationship that never ends well."

Monroe acknowledges Una's expression with a slight shrug, "Gran insisted I have an appreciation for a variety music, and Mum and my step-dad continued the tradition. Lots of Tina, Whitney, Fleetwood Mac... and any time there was a new cover, she'd get me to listen to the original, too. Usually on vinyl." he smiles, overwhelming fondness mixed with a hint of sadness. "Just to remind me that it's okay to put your own spin on things, but it's also important to appreciate the original."

It becomes apparent that the food line is one of those instances where when the fry cook needs a smoke break, it becomes a mild or moderate hassle, depending on your patience reserves. Ariadne? She's patient. She's fine with putting an order in for the nachos and standing off to one side, preoccupied by her phone. Surely, someone meanders over and starts up a conversation for the sake of boredom, but the art of harmless banter is one she has a black belt in -- it is a 'must have' for the public retail world. Thankfully too, her nachos get called out before anything more than idle opinions about the merit of having movie soundtrack songs on the karaoke list are on the conversational table, and Ariadne grabs the two plates and returns to the booth.

Make that, sashays back to the table. Again, fun night out, can't contain herself.

"I have returned bearing nachos and news for you all," she begins and pauses to assess Monroe. "And you included, newcomer, welcome to the booth! I'm Ariadne, if these two didn't introduce me. This plate is for you all...and this plate is for me. You know why?"

A beat.

Oh god.

Here it comes.

"Because my plate is nachos."

Cringe away, people, cringe away.

Ariadne adds, after a dimpled second, "I'm kidding, there's no way in hell I'd be able to eat this plate by myself, not even thinking so while I'm drunk. Somebody's going to have to help me out." Given a chance to scoot into the booth, she does, and sets down the second plate within reach of all hands available. It places her on the same side as Monroe, opposite of Ravn and Una. "Also, whoever doesn't like their sour cream, dibsies, I love it so much that I'll eat it straight. Did we decide what songs we're going to sing?" A glance around the table expectantly.

Ravn looks at Ariadne in that way of someone who doesn't get it -- and then he spells out what he's saying in his mind, and comes to two conclusions. One, he's not enough of a native speaker to get that kind of joke right away, and two, that was a truly god-awful pun. He grimaces. Winces, even.

"I'm more of a bluegrass man myself," he admits. "I'm not saying that no good music has been made after 1980, it's just that no good music has been made after 1980. Yes, I realise that Private Dancer was 1984. It's the exception."

After all, what's a bar for if not pointless arguments for the sake of arguing, and also, let's definitely talk about anything else than relationships.

"That's a lovely memory to have of your gran," Una tells Monroe, with a smile. "My mom's the reason I know 80s and 90s music, for the most part: we'd listen to it and dance around like loons." That, too, is a fond if wistful memory, one that the redhead rapidly blinks away from, content to be interrupted by Ariadne's return.

The look she gives Ariadne is half horrified, half indignant. "That's the worst pun I've ever heard, and you should feel bad, because it was bad. But you brought nachos, so I will forgive you. This time. This is Monroe-- he's going to do some Tina or Whitney , which means my expectations are high."

It's then that she pauses, to glance back at the Dane beside her. "What a terrible world to live in, where no good music has been made in the past forty-two years. Really? Really?"

There's an obligatory groan at Ariadne's pun, even as Monroe scoots in to make space for her. "I'm Monroe, pronouns he/him or they/them, either are fine with me. And I will fight you for some of that sour cream, it's delicious." he flashes a smile, warm and friendly, that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. The accent is Received Pronunciation, stubbornly holding on despite over a decade in the states.

"I am apparently singing Private Dancer, because Ravn wants to see me shimmy. Though I'm now wondering what music after 1980 hurt him, since he wasn't even alive yet. If I had to hazard a guess... Death of John Lennon?"

Monroe catches the wistfulness on Una's face and gives a sympathetic smile and a nod to acknowledge he's heard her, but doesn't want to press the issue further, since it's clearly tender for them both.

"Though now I'm tempted to perform 'Bitch, I'm Madonna' just to horrify."

Ariadne frankly beams at the reactions she garners. Excellent, nearly the full gamut.

"Monroe, nice to meet you," she says to the frizzle-haired young man next to her in the booth. "I'll arm-wrestle you over the last of the sour cream, have no fear. Though I hate to point it out, but Ravn is wrong and out to be a snob this evening. Una's got it right -- there has been good music made since 1980, one just has to find it." Napkins tucked beneath her armpit are passed out around the table to prepare for nacho-greased fingers.

"Good choices for karaoke songs all around and definitely bonus points for shimmying if you decide to. I'm thinking some Stevie Nicks myself, we'll see what's on the list. She's in my vocal range," the barista shares before she takes a grateful mouthful of dark beer.

"John Lennon abused the shit out of his first wife, and I can't say I care much for his music either." Ravn hitches a shoulder in that very annoying 'bring it' way that he's an expert at when he wants to pick an argument in order to not have another argument. "If I thought I could sing? I'd do Five To One -- shake my hips like Jim Morrison." He glances around. Amp it up a notch. "But then, I don't suppose any of you kids even know who Jim Morrison was. Getting arrested for being too erotic on stage with a leather belt, now, there's an achievement."

Does he realise that he sounds like he ought to be seventy and not thirty-two? Probably. It takes a conscious effort to scoff quite that dismissively. "But seeing as that I'm sure the audience here can barely remember a hit from last year, I'll just have to sit out."

Now is certainly not the time for airing old grief, and so Una acknowledges Monroe's nod in return, and lets the topic go.

"Geez, granddad," she teases Ravn, as she reaches out for some ooey-gooey nachos (and yes, thank you, she'll scoop at the sour cream, because dude, of course). "I'd argue that the quote-unquote kids need educating, and you're just the man to do it. You're the teacher, after all."

Waving her hand for emphasis just results in a dollop of that sour cream escaping to the the table... but at least it doesn't go flying further than that.

"You'll win, my arms are noodles." Monroe tells Ariadne with a grin. "I reject masculinity, which includes upper body strength, apparently." he laughs and also helps himself to a nacho, then the sour cream, accepting a napkin from her.

"Jim Morrison, wasn't he with some band no one's ever heard of?" The best defense against a know it all is, of course, to pretend to be an idiot and tease them incessantly.

After Una makes her point, Monroe nods emphatically.

"Right, you're going to have to put your money where your mouth is, Ravn. Lipsync... for your life."

Given her mouth is full of nachos, Ariadne has to lift a hand to spare the view of food as she laughs at the counter-razzing.

Daubing in mock-delicacy at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, she too notes, "Lip sync because you talk a big game over there, oh Distinguished and Dignified one, or you're all hot air. I have no idea what band he's talking about anyways," the barista adds urbanely to Una and Monroe, making a point of obviously playing along with Monroe's gambit of being the clueless half of the banter. "This Morrison sap must have attempt to get famous and just bombed it. Enlighten us, Ravn, who's this poor bastard who wanted to make it big and failed utterly?"

She grins over her pint of dark beer and flicks brows.

"Oh, just some Florida Man," Ravn says airily. "Probably died wrestling a 'gator. In a hotel room in Paris. And the only way I'm getting up in front of a spotlight is at gun point and even then I'll take a few to try to determine whether the potential shooter actually knows his weapon enough to make it fast and painless, in which case I'll take the bullet, thank you very much."

Long, gloved fingers toy with the empty whiskey glass. "I should go and order another of these. Just, before any of you decide to go WAP on us all. In which case I will be taking pictures and blackmail will happen. Let me out?"

And then he's winding his way towards the bar which is of course also a way to avoid further engagement in discussions one does not wish to be held accountable for later.

Una's eyes gleam too much with amusement to imply she's not well aware of the game afoot, but she doesn't add in her own two cents.

"Blackmail! Are you blackmailable?" she wonders of the others, already sliding out of the way so that Ravn can go and get his drink. "Because I'm... no, okay, I'm probably blackmailable. I can't think of anything worse than seeing photos of myself later; even if I'm having a great time in the moment."

With Ravn gone, she slides in to take the corner seat, and takes her beer with her. "You're kid-free tonight, Monroe?" Beat. "Well, obviously you are."

"Wait, didn't Lana Del Rey make him famous with that one song of hers by giving him a shout out?" Monroe asks Ariadne, grinning, before he takes another sip of his drink.

"I mean... I've always tried to live a life of authenticity. When you're always authentic to who you are, you can't be shamed by anything, right?"

He shakes his head as Ravn leaves, but he's smiling, "Yes, it's my first night off in months. No school, no work, no kid wanting things like food and shelter. Of course, I pay for it by babysitting later this week." he leans back and sighs happily, taking another sip of his drink. "It's totally worth it, though."

"I vaguely remember something about Lana Del Ray, yeah," says Ariadne with a coy smirk on the tail end of Monroe's comment. "Cheers." A salute with her pint glass to Ravn off to get more whiskey. She watches him depart and then returns attention to the others, half engaged in scooping up more nacho filling on her large corn chip.

"I don't know if I'm blackmailable. Good question for another time. And hey, good for you and a night off," she adds specifically to Monroe with a grin. "I can't imagine babysitting, personally, but more power to you if you don't mind it and find it validating. I've got a dog. I figure I babysit enough on a regular basis. He might as well be a furry toddler minus thumbs and thank god for no thumbs. The shenanigans," she says with a shake of head, letting imagination stand in for what on earth a dog might get up to with those appendages present.

The queue for alcohol is shorter or the bartender is better at whipping up drinks than he is at serving food. It does not take Ravn long to start winding and weaving his way back, glass in one gloved hand. Every step he takes is fluid; a lifetime's worth of practise in how to avoid bumping into others or having them bump into you. The plastic cigarette dangles from a lip and nets him a handful of frowns and odd looks -- some of which turn into smiles at the realisation of its true nature, some of which clearly think 'idiot'.

He doesn't care. No one here matters besides him, his glass, and the table he is aiming for. It's with a sigh of relief that the Dane finally manages to plonk down at the edge of the booth. Karaoke bars are not and probably never will be his native environment.

"You two are terrible," says Una, with eyes that are so bright and so amused, and a smile that refuses to be hidden behind that hand that is probably not actually intending to hide it: just wipe at her mouth, and the beer-and-grease that's been left there.

"I babysat as a teenager, and it was exhausting, and that was just a few hours at a time. I don't know how you cope doing the full time kid-caring gig-- so I'm glad you're going to get out and enjoy tonight, Monroe. We won't be offended if you decide we cramp your style, of course... Ravn, you didn't run away."

"Oh, babysitting's not too bad. I'm my little brother's legal guardian, after our parents..." he trails off and shrugs, "His friends are nerds, too, so it's mostly hook up his PS5 to the TV and let them play video games while I do homework upstairs. It's a double decker bus, so it's not like it's hard to keep track of what they're doing." A slight shrug from Monroe. It's a fairly new situation, still, but he's, as Una noted, coping. "Some dogs manage just fine without thumbs, from what I've seen."

"Honestly? Alfie's a good kid, and old enough that I can mostly count on him to make good decisions. But... Mostly I worry. A lot. Especially being at the camp grounds, that place is damn creepy at night."

When Ravn returns, Monroe smiles. "Of course he didn't. I suppose we should give him credit for that!"

"Amen." Though to what, precisely, Ariadne doesn't define. Maybe babysitting via PS5 or dogs getting up to shenanigans or Alfie being a good kid.

Regardless, Ravn does return bearing his whiskey. "Hey, there you are," she greets as he settles in. "You're a brave soul. We can tell this isn't your favorite place. A good soul and good sport, bud. You know you don't have to get up there and sing, right? We do technically need an audience and a judge we can trust, not some other tables of ne'er-do-wells."

"Oh, I'm not getting up there whether I have to or not," Ravn murmurs wryly. "But I'll play audience just fine, though I have to admit that my knowledge of pop music is lacking. That's not so much being a snob as it's just -- lack of interest. I don't actually think nothing made after 1980s is worth listening to. I just prefer music styles that I don't think you'll find on the menu up there. It's mostly rock'n roll and pop, yeah? I'd be looking for things like CCR, maybe, and feeling terribly old."

Beat. Shrug. "Or maybe I just am terribly old to go out with you kids."

'Damn creepy', in Gray Harbor, is not an especially good thing, but now's not the moment to probe on that either, and thus Una only nods, and gives Monroe a cheerful enough smile: Alfie's a lucky kid to have a brother like Monroe to keep an eye on him.

She lifts her pint glass in something akin to a toast; this, for Ravn, the good sport, and the prematurely old man. "That's fair," she agrees, easily enough. "Not everyone has to like pop music, or rock, or even hip hop or rap or, you know, anything. It'd be ridiculously boring if we all liked the same things. Though," she makes a face, "I admit I only know what you're talking about when you reference 'CCR' because I had to google after you and Rosencrantz referenced them, so... cultural fail, apparently."

Beat. "We still expect you to judge us with spectacular enthusiasm."

"He is a brave soul. Being out in crowds isn't all sunshine and rainbows, after all, especially at his... advanced age.. He's also terribly old. You're what, twenty nine?"

Monroe smiles at Ravn, eyes crinkling again. Playful, rather than snarky. He lifts his glass when Una does, miming tapping it to hers, but not actually doing so, because who knows, these glasses might shatter. He takes a sip.

"Right, let's fuck this party in the mouth. I'm up first." he waits for Ariadne to make way for him to get through, rather than clambering over her, because nobody needs almost six feet of gangly freckled limbs flailing around them in a bar booth. "Watch my drink?"

"Your drink is safe with me, my dude," Ariadne replies as she scoots out of the booth to release the madness that is Monroe upon the world. Get ready, world, here he comes.

"I know CCR because of my parents, so there's my 'old music' geek credit." Air quotes for 'old music.' Far more drolly, before she drinks more dark beer, the barista adds, "I motion for the reveal of how old Ravn is because I call bullshit on his old man front he's putting up. If you're any older than me, you've got a serious case of baby-face and that's not a bad thing, mister. Year and month, fess up."

"Chronologically, I turn 32 in about a month. Spiritually, my fiancée used to say, I am about ninety." Ravn hitches a shoulder and sips his whiskey. "I like bluegrass and folk because it has heart. So does some of the modern music, but entirely too much of it sounds like it was mass produced based on algorithms. I have no doubt that the same thing happened in the 1960s and 70s, but the mass produced junk from back then has not survived the teeth of time, and thus, I don't need to listen to that, either."

It's always wise to be wary of glasses in dingy karaoke bars; Una's grin acknowledges that (and she sips: beer, beer, beer, yay).

The redhead leans back against the sticky plastic of the booth seat, and laughs. "Some of the mass produced junk is fun, though. I definitely don't think most of it has artistic merit, except that... someone hit the sweet spot of fun, and I'm good with that. Not everything has to be art... but equally, I suppose, not everyone appreciates art. With or without the 'he-'." Beat. "Anyway. You do you, old granddaddy Ravn."

"Sing well, Monroe! We'll cheer you on."

Monroe moves to the sign up board, and is surprised to find that there is absolutely nobody else willing to perform at the moment. A few seconds of inspection finds the requested song, and he takes a couple seconds to primp up his hair in a mirror before he takes to the stage and the song cues up. One simply does not perform Tina Turner with flat hair.

As this is the version meant for karaoke, it's a much shorter intro, and gets to the singing a lot faster, thankfully:

All the men come in these places
And the men are all the same
You don't look at their faces
And you don't ask their names
You don't think of them as human
You don't think of them at all
You keep your mind on the money
Keeping your eyes on the wall
I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money
I'll do what you want me to do
I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money
And any old music will do...

His voice is surprisingly well trained, smooth, and he seems utterly comfortable on the stage with people looking up at him. He's even emoting, like he, too, was lipsyncing for his life.

"Ohhhhhhhhh! Ariadne then laughs. "Holy crap, you are the old man here! By a month," she then adds. "Thirty-two in May for me. The rest of y'all are spring chickens. We can be dignified together," she nods towards Ravn before flashing another grin.

Monroe is then on-stage in a proverbial flash and the music comes on. "'Private Dancer' after all! Whooooooo, go!" shouts the barista across the room, bringing her arms up like a referee signaling a completed field goal in American football. "Okay, can anyone tell if he's actually singing or lipsyncing? I'm a little too buzzed to tell," Ariadne admits, looking briefly between her cohorts in the booth before back at Monroe again.

"He's singing," Ravn says, and sips his whiskey. "And very well, at that. Tina Turner, however, he is not -- which is probably a relief, given that I doubt he'd want to be seventy-something. Also, Private Dancer is one of the most phenomenal albums released in the eighties, and more so given it restored Tina from washed-up has-been in Las Vegas to superstar. Mark Knopfler wrote that song for her."

Might not be an expert on modern music but the folklorist seems to know his way around older stuff well enough. "Speaking of, it's been too long since I heard Sailing to Philadelphia. That man can do things with a guitar that I will marry my violin if I ever manage."

Una is quite possibly feeling her youth at this moment (such a baby, though at least not in comparison to Monroe), but is forestalled from comment on it by that aforementioned younger member of their group's performance. "Monroe's great," she confirms, applauding with enthusiasm, and grinning in that direction. "I'm not sure anyone but Tina Turner is Tina Turner, though I'm aware there are-- or have been-- people playing her on stage and allegedly doing a good job, so..." Judgement withheld. "Either way: good choice, good performance, go Monroe!"

Beat. "Annnnd you've lost me again. Knopfler? No, wait, don't tell me. I'll google later and educate myself that way. I'm clearly too young for you people."

And sing, Monroe continues to do, channeling a wistful fantasy of a husband and some children by the sea, another chorus, and then:

Danish Krones or dollars?
American Express will do nicely, thank you!
Let me loosen up your collar
Tell me, do you want to see me do the shimmy again?

And, indeed, he does the shimmy, looking right at Ravn with an impressive smolder... though all that really does is get that large pendant bouncing around his flowy shirt, and make his curls bounce a little. It'd look more impressive in a fringed dress, to be sure.

The song wraps up with the final few choruses, and then Monroe takes a second to curtsey for the applause, scattered though it may or may not be, and hurries off the stage grinning ear to ear, curls bouncing.

"Niiiice," drawls the redheaded barista of the assertion of actual singing. Another carrying 'woot!' from her before she returns to her drink and another cheese-cemented section of nachos. "I'm a big fan of guitarists who know their business too, so I'll check out this Philadelphia song you're talking about. I grew up with Santana and all."

There is, in fact, a joke here about finger placement, but Ariadne isn't drunk enough yet to volunteer it. Lost chance!

"Maybe Whippersnapper here even knows about Santana," she then laughs in Una's direction, her grin sharpening a little. "He did a song with Chad Kroeger of Nickelback, 'Dance On Into the Night'? Very catchy, great to dance to." A glance back towards the stage is in time to see Monroe shimmy a la Tina Turner and it makes the barista burst into merry laughter.

"Nicely done, hip shake and all. They don't lie," funs Ariadne, calling out a famous line from a Latin song. A highfive is offered for Monroe as he returns to the booth. "Observe, your drink is safe and sound, you're welcome." Another lilt of singsong there, no doubt calling out a movie reference in turn. Stop her now, before she gets another drink in her. "Alright, who's the next victim for the stage?"

What's Monroe trying to say, doing the shimmy in a way that would have made Tina proud, were she here to see? Probably something along the lines of 'you asked for it, old man, and here it is', and that's it -- a joke, playing the ball back where it came from, nothing more. At least that's what Ravn tells himself, about forty times in the tiny space between one breath and the next. That, and that's Monroe, it's just Monroe, just that kid with the other kid, they live in a bus, they're just a couple of kids. Not a threat at all.

He swallows and looks into his glass instead and tries very hard to stay in the moment. This is not the time and place to disassociate -- in fact, Gray Harbor never is, because the risk of disassociating very literally is sky high, and getting lost in some personal nightmare of memory is never a great idea when you've had a couple of drinks already.

He's not hitting on me, it's just a joke, that's all it is, just a joke. It's a mantra in his mind as he looks around, into the shadows.

There's nothing in the shadows. Well, there are movements in the shadows over there, but that's just some college kid and his girlfriend, stealing a few kisses while the house lights search elsewhere. There is no one in the shadows. She's not in the shadows.

Ravn breathes out and hopes no one noticed how he stepped out of his own head for a second, for an hour, for a week, for less than a blink of an eye. He really should know better than to get himself into situations like that. No more ribbing the kid about supposedly sexy songs. Play it safe.

Una sticks her tongue out for the 'whippersnapper' comment, but her eyes are gleaming. "Santana may be old," she retorts, with a laugh. "But he's still around. I'm not dead. Though... that song came out when I was what, ten, eleven? Something like that. Well before_my_ dancing days." If she ever had any; it might not be a surprise to discover Una was not the kind of girl who went clubbing in her (distant, distant) youth.

She's enthusiastic in her applause for the end of Monroe's song, grin all but breaking her face as she begins, "I'm not sure any of us can top that, I mean--" There's a blip there, in the middle of her sentence, as she casts a glance around the little group, one by one, and lingers just a moment too long on Ravn; but if she notices something, anything, that's the only indication of it. She's alert, but maybe not aware. "-- I know I can't. Where'd you learn to sing, Monroe? That was amazing."

"The shimmy is actually more in the shoulders, but if you do it right, it gets everything moving." Is Monroe's cheeky reply to Ariadne, accompanied by the high five. He returns to his seat with a slight flush to his cheeks and a wide, happy smile. That was a lot of fun, apparently. "Thank you for guarding my drink. Can never be too careful, you know."

And, from Monroe's wide grin, he didn't seem to mean anything more than 'yes, I can make this awkward, too' to Ravn, because there's certainly no heat in those sage green eyes of his now.

"Oh, I picked it up here and there. Gran, the old music teacher in primary school, the Fair Folk in the garden, Mum, My step-dad, this hitchhiker I picked up in Mobile played a mean guitar." Monroe shrugs slightly, looking only a little uncomfortable, casually slipping in the mention of Fairies among the mundane in the hopes that no one will notice.

"Gurl, you a spring chicken," is Ariadne's off-handed retort in Una's direction before she laughs. The amount of dark beer in her system now has her pleasantly relaxed and jovial in earnest, smoothing out some of the earlier witty if sharper edges. Her attention shifts to Monroe at the question because, indeed, it was an excellent iteration of the song. Ravn's moment is kept to himself for all the barista is oblivious between booze and lack of visual attention.

However, she's not buzzed enough to miss a certain mention. Lifting a palm out as if she might halt conversation entirely by the gesture, she tilts her head at Monroe. "Hold up one sec there. Fair Folk. Fairies? Like, we're talking a fairy circle kind of fairies?" Both Una and Ravn are given a glance which won't be missed. "I'm still intending to sing, but I want to hear about this first. The weird is real around this city, christ chex."

All good here. Nothing to see. Another solid sip of whiskey and nothing bursting out of the shadows, everything is fine, ask the cartoon dog. Ravn toys with his plastic cigarette, fidgets with it, and then shakes his head. "Anyone in this town not an old buddy of our faerie prince? At least he's a kindly specimen, could be a lot worse."

Like, say, it could have been the Leenan Sidhe, draining artists of vision until only husks remain. Or Cat Sidhe from nowhere in particular, mischievous and often vengeful. Or one out of a dozen unpleasant things cordially named unseelie. As far as Ravn is concerned, he's got some kind of Peter Pan in the backyard, and while Peter Pan was oblivious in some respects, his intentions at least were not malicious.

You learn to be thankful for some things in this town.

He shakes his head and takes another sip. Here to have fun. Not to brood or freeze up in old, bad memories. Laugh a little. Live a little. Everything is fine.

Una, guilty as charged: a veritable child. She grins.

"I wish our fae would teach me something useful," she puts in, turning her glass idly upon the table, leaving rings of condensation because, of course, there are no coasters to be found. Or maybe she hasn't looked for one; that's equally possible. "I mean, it's not like they're not doing the yardwork, so there's definitely a trade going on, but... I suppose I did have a conversation with Peter Pan, way back when just after Christmas. I don't know. Clearly I'm not sober enough to even complain about anything specific."

Beat. "Anyway-- maybe it's good to know we're not the only people with fairies in the back garden, as it were."

"Well, not here. The only thing we have in the garden here is our neighbors, and while they're a little odd I wouldn't call them Fair Folk." he shrugs slightly, "They got tired of all the people trapsing about Beeston Castle, and Gran invited them into our garden as Guests." Monroe shakes his head and smiles fondly. "They didn't like Alfie much when we went back to visit, though. I shared my biscuits."

"Wait, you lot have a Prince? I have to meet him." he smiles at Ravn, then takes another sip of his drink, which makes his face pucker just a little.

"Careful what you wish for, Una. Before they taught me, I didn't have freckles. Gran used to call them Fairy Kisses." Monroe laughs and smiles again, shaking his head. He'd look weird without freckles, and it's probably just because he spent so much time out in the sun with the Fair Folk.

"You can always ask if they'd like to teach you anything... just be careful about how you phrase things, make sure you give them something generously, and remember... they bite."

"Uh, yeah, I'm with Monroe here. I don't know of any faerie prince. This city has a faerie prince?" Ariadne blinks. "...why am I even asking this," she then adds nearly sotto-voce and with a roll of eyes at herself. Of course. It's Grey Harbor. She'll not quite totally believe it if someone told her Bigfoot lived on the outskirts, but...maybe sooner than later. She does listen with interest to Monroe's warning to Una and glances briefly at Ravn, brows lifted, as if to silently say, holy crap, those old rumors about dealing with the fae are true.

Nodding to herself, she finishes the rest of her beer and burps -- politely and quietly -- behind her napkin. "Alright, scoot," she demands in a friendly manner of Monroe. "I've got my song in mind." Thus released to the stage, the barista in her sweater dress and knee-high cavalry boots flounces in this direction. Nobody in line to sing? Fabulous. She flips through a page or two, draws her fingernail down the listings...and then smiles fit to court the prince of foxes. Meandering over to the microphone, she clears her throat and then readies herself with a roll of shoulders. Her stance is confident and her owning of space evincing the lone female rock stars of an earlier era.

Lo and behold: E minor, a single note, plucked on repeat for several measures. Everyone knows it, surely. With zero hesitation, Ariadne launches into it.

Just like the white-winged dove, sings a song, sounds like she's singin' -- oooh, oooh, ooooh...

"I'm not sure what his literal title is," Ravn replies to Monroe's inquiry. "He calls himself Petra or Petre, but he's essentially, well, Peter Pan. The original, not the Disney version. A fae prince or lord of some kind who spirits abused kids away to his own realm and takes better care of them than their parents did. But unusual insofar that he also lets them go -- he seems genuinely kind hearted. The circle in our back yard leads to his realm, or so he said."

He pauses because he realises how ridiculous it sounds, and adds, "When Una and I had coffee with him at Espresso Yourself earlier this winter. Apparently he lost a couple of nightmares in town and asked us to keep an eye out. Don't ask about the rope woven from the hair of a maiden."

The folklorist shoots Monroe another glance; one that portends a future inquisition. He is distracted from inquiring further about the ginger's experienced at some castle because that's when Ariadne's display catches his eye.

Hot damn, that girl has confidence. The song is vaguely familiar but it's the way she walks and carries herself that traps Ravn's attention. He can't answer for the prince of foxes, but as far as he is concerned -- he'd pick up the foxes and run, because that is the smile of someone who might well have a prince for lunch and ask for seconds.

Una lifts her hand as if she's about to swear to something, and promises, faithfully, "I've read up on my fae mythology now-- don't worry, I'm not about to offer anything I can't afford to pay. The last thing I want to do is unwittingly enter a deal that puts me in a shitty position. Cookies and milk I can do; other things, I'm sure I can't. Anyway, if the fae gave you freckles, Monroe, they did you a good deal, in my opinion."

Beat. "Yeah, definitely don't ask about the rope woven from the hair of a maiden. It's still curled up in the pocket of-- well, somewhere safe."

She, too, falls silent as Ariadne sings, though, except for the low sigh that escapes: not quite envy, not as such, but certainly some level of admiration. "Damn," she says, not much more than a murmur. "Now I'm definitely not getting up to sing, guys. I should've gone first."

Monroe hops up so that Ariadne can take to the stage, then puts his thumb and forefinger to his lips and lets out a piercing whistle, followed by a cheer as the intro begins. It's either going to be Edge of Seventeen or Bootilicious, and Monroe is here for either.

"... Where in the hell did you find a maiden 'round here?" he asks, keeping his voice down, as Ariadne's performing, eyebrows raising slightly.

Monroe turns slightly pink at the comment regarding his freckles and shrugs a little. "Come on, don't chicken out on us now. Would it help if it was a duet?"

There's something terribly fun about singing Stevie Nicks. Maybe it's the way she carried herself. Maybe it's how she growled through some of those notes, swanned through others, carried them out more than necessary and just as necessary.

Ariadne, having decided that she's going to enjoy the hell out of singing this song, certainly does. It doesn't mean she puts on a perfect show, by any means. A full pint of dark beer might help loosen her up, but's also made her more prone to laugh at her mistakes. At one point, slipping out of the main line and into the background's harmony, she ends up giggling at herself rather than dedicating vibrato to words. The microphone itself is held, caressed, at one point leaned as she sways into it in a particularly emotive note. Cymbal hits, those choral 'oos', all receive sharp hip-hits right on time blending to slow rolls.

The clouds never expect it, when it rains,
But the sea changes colours, but the sea
Does not change
So with the slow graceful flow, of age,
I went forth...with an age old...
Desire...to please,
On the edge of seventeen...

And Ariadne croons and growls through the coo, just as one should, leaning in to snarl into the mic before extending the mic-stand out sharply away from her. Her booth of her companions gets a flash of a bright grin full of sparkling enjoyment. Through the final chorus she blows, reaching out towards the table and then bringing her fist back in a slow pump alongside her ribs. The song peters out and fades off and she laughs to herself as she then picks up the fringes of her sweater-dress to mock-curtsey.

She arrives back at the booth just a little flushed and twinkling. "I know, I know, I laughed, but I think I did well! I'm getting another beer, anybody want something?"

"Medieval thinking," Ravn murmurs, distracted by the display of sheer and unabashed joye de vivre that Ariadne is giving. "Unicorns are medieval symbolism -- and if there is such a thing as a nightmare, it probably follows similar rules. So we extrapolated -- in medieval religious dogma, there are essentially two kinds of sexual intimacy: Procreation, and everything else which is sodomy regardless of whether you're screwing your same sex buddy or the neighbour's sheep. We had to find someone who's never done penis in vagina sex -- which is difficult but not impossible in a town full of queers."

There are no stupid questions -- and in a place where the faerie are obviously real and the unicorns probably are too, there shouldn't be stupid answers, either.

"I'll have another whiskey if you're fetching," the Dane replies to Ariadne's inquiry. "And then we get to watch Una and Monroe do a duet, apparently?"

The look he sends Una, however, comes with a quirked eyebrow; you don't have do that if you don't want to.

"And yes," puts in Una, though she's equally distracted by Ariadne's performance, "there is something ridiculously weird and more about asking people if, by chance, their sexual preferences mean they're still actually a virgin, no big deal."

She bypasses replying to Monroe's offer temporarily-- perhaps she needs to think it through, or work her way up to it-- by focusing instead on watching to the end of her fellow redhead's performance, cheering enthusiastically. "You were amazing," she tells her. "Laugh or no laugh. I--"

No, she doesn't have to do it, but equally, there's something deeply torn in her expression: inhibitions or no inhibitions. Join in or don't join in. Let go or don't let go.

Deep breath. Glance at Monroe. Finally: "Ok. Get me a shot of something-- tequila? Vodka? I don't care. Get me some dutch courage, and we'll see. What should we sing, Monroe?"

As Ariadne slips up and starts laughing, Monroe laughs with her, rather than at her, and the song ends with a standing ovation from the ginger rocking not-quite boho chic. Of course Monroe loves Fleetwood Mac, he drives a 1977 Chevrolet Chevette when he's not driving an even older double decker mini-bus turned caravan. "You did amazing." he tells the auburn haired barista.

"Oh... you should have just asked, I could have spared a curl or two for a good cause." Monroe shrugs at Ravn, tilting his head slightly, before taking another sip of his drink, which he somehow isn't even half-through yet.

"The perfect duet song: It's Raining Men. The original Weather Girls version, not the Geri Halliwell cover."

Ariadne beams at the compliments. "Y'all are too kind," she insists, leaning a hip against the booth table momentarily. The drink orders arrive and, in true barista style, her tone takes on a mental listing element: "Whiskey, dutch courage, and something later for you once you're done putzing through your drink." This to Monroe, whose drink does intrigue Ariadne in passing. For all she likes dark beers, there's nothing like something sweet with a kick.

"Also, somebody owes me a teel-deer about what the hell conversational topic I arrived to, because all I heard was virgin and unicorns and I know the historian has thoughts on this matter." A quick sliver of a grin for Ravn and flick of brows. "In the meantime, I second the motion for 'It's Raining Men', so let me go get liquid courage and I wanna see this go down." She pats the table smartly and then sashays off towards the bar. In the lull of patrons, it's quick arrival for the mixed drinks and she returns with an identical whiskey to what Ravn had earlier and a shot of vodka for Una. "Must go get beer, berb."

Yes, 'brb', spoken aloud.

"Okay, do the shot, do the drinks, then go do the thing," Ariadne says when she returns once more and manages to settle into the booth without spilling her drink. Points to her.

"Geri Halliwell cover," Ravn echoes as if somehow this is an offence to all things good in music, read: Released before 1980. He shakes his head. No need to comment. No need to continue to try convincing everyone here that while technically a Millennial, he's clearly a Boomer at heart. They already know. Some people are born old.

He needs that whiskey. He needs it a lot.

"The tealdeer is, you need virgin hair to braid a rope to trap a unicorn," he murmurs. "So, well, Una and I asked around, and we've got the rope. Medieval definitions of virginal makes it easy."

A lot. Tempting to order a fourth. Probably better not to.

"Oh, I actually know that one!" Una seems pleased, which probably means that's a 'yes' to It's Raining Men. "I did know the Geri Halliwell one first, granted, but in my defence, both versions pre-date my interest in popular music by a fair amount, so it really just goes to prove that I've done my best to educate myself."

Beat. "Of course, I'm pretty sure the original is still too young for Ravn, am I right?"

She asked for the vodka, and she's got it, though Una gives it a little, squinty glance before she's willing to get up enough courage to shot it (because sure, sometimes you need courage for your dutch courage).

Down it goes (Una makes a dramatic face as she swallows), and the glass goes back onto the table with a clink. "Okay," she says, after coughing, just once. "Okay, I'm good. Shall we?"

Monroe rises as Ariadne returns with her own drink, scooting out of the booth so she can take her seat once more, and finishes off his own drink in much the same way as Una, though it's a larger volume of liquid. He winks at Ariadne, setting the drink down. "It's called a Paloma, and it's delicious, though it's only a bit of tequila, and mostly grapefruit soda."

The grin at Ravn is playful, "You leave Geri alone. She was my second favorite Spice Girl." He wasn't even alive when the Spice Girls broke up.

"I think most things are too young for Ravn. I'm pretty sure he has a portrait in his attic that looks like Prince Philip in thirty years." Oh, look. Monroe flushes as he drinks.

"Let's go make it rain, Una." He offers her his arm with a grin.

Informed of the gist of the conversation she'd initially returned to, Ariadne nods with a markedly thoughtful expression on her face. "The extrapolations in my brain are amusing," she admits and then smiles into her beer. She sets her drink aside and then watches Una build up that gumption to take the shot. Monroe's comment about the Spice Girls has the barista laughing merrily again. She files that away for later reference; it was a good one. "Paloma," she then echoes of Monroe's drink. "Tequila's not my jam, but hey, more for you, my dude."

"Heeeeey, there we are," and the barista claps once the shot's disappeared into Una. "Yes! Yes, go make it rain! I promise, I'll be singing from over here, but not too loudly. I don't want to disrupt the majesty that will be your performance." A hand before her chest draws a circle a few times in a grand mockery of a courtly bow at the waist. In a booth. At least her face doesn't go into her drink or her hair into her nachos. "I'll keep Ravn company." The Dane gets another quick grin. "All I ask is some big arm motions, like, interpretive dance style," she then adds to Monroe and Una. "Don't make me do them all at the booth by myself."

Ravn shakes his head slightly and retreats further into the booth -- he isn't going to go get that fourth whiskey, and he's sure as hell not getting up to sing. "I know, I know. I'm the dullest cardboard cut-out this side of Portland. I've been told before." The retort is delivered with a small, wry smile; he knows he has that reputation, and he knows that he's not really doing a whole lot to change it.

Only when Una and Monroe are out of earshot does he murmur, "Could have done Wannabe. Do Geri some justice. Which one was she again? Bloody hell, this is so much not my scene that I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, or just slink off in embarrassment."

"Hallelujah," says Una, in prompt and automatic reply to Monroe. "Ok, Ravn, let me out, and you can have your corner to hide in again. Don't worry-- tomorrow we'll go back to socialising over coffee and recovering from ridiculous, nightmarish Dreams."

Once she's up, she accepts Monroe's arm with a somewhat wry smile, glancing back over her shoulder go promise Ariadne, faithfully that, "I'll do my best. This could be an absolute disaster, though, so we'll see."

Between the beer and the vodka, her cheeks are flushed, and she looks as if she can't decide between apprehension and exhilaration at the whole prospect of getting up to sing. Having made the decision to do so, however, she squares her shoulder and doesn't hesitate, as she and Monroe head to sign up. "We've got this," she murmurs. "Right?"

"Tequila is too much my jam. Never leave me alone with a bottle, I will re-enact that scene from The Exorcist." he tells Ariadne.

"I wouldn't say dullest by any measure. Reserved." Monroe smiles, walking off with Una.

"Don't worry, this is one of those songs that gets better the worse you are. Just be over the top and have fun, and don't worry. There's a background track of vocals you can lipsync to... and if you get lost... hide behind my hairography." He winks at her as he cues up their song, handing Una a microphone as he steps up onto the stage, offering her a hand.

This is her chance to turn back, to run back to the safety of the booth and abandon Monroe to the monumental task of making it rain men, all on his own.

Una gets another big grin from the barista and lift of beer in salute. "You'll rock it, I just know it."

"Oh, pfft, c'mon, Darth Bathrobes. Nobody here ever said you were boring or dull or anything like that," Ariadne retorts to Ravn good-naturedly. "And reserved is not bad." She snuggles up to the booth's wall and lies a leg along the seat. This is her seat now and, as such, any plate of nachos or Paloma drinks are also hers to guard. "You're being a good sport for hanging around here and it's acknowledged, I promise. We still need a judging panel, right?" A gesture to indicate the Dane. "And here you are. Besides, the whippersnappers are having fun and you're part of the reason." Her smirk turns into a crooked grin before she tilts her head towards the stage, her eyes sliding in that direction.

Look like it's now or never for the karaoke. The song's cued up. Ariande cups her hands around her mouth and hollers, shamelessly, "Make it rain, ay-yai-yai-yai!"

"I do like modern music," the Dane murmurs. "Just, probably nothing that's on the list here. Might be lucky, find Bad Moon on the Rise but I doubt it. And I don't have my violin, anyway -- which is good, because if I did, I would down that entire bottle of tequila in order to claim I was too drunk to play. I've gotten drunk on tequila a few times, and it inevitably leads to me crying on someone's couch."

He resists the urge to dive right under the table at that howl, at least. Being here? Questionable. Being next to an attractive woman yelling and drawing everyone's attention? He's over there, in the deepest part of the booth. In the shadow. Pay him no attention. Deploying social invisibility cloak. Now you see him, now you don't.

"Right," agrees Una, nodding quickly as she keeps up her nerve. "It's silly and fun and it'll be fine."

Even so, there's a moment after she's taken the microphone, when Monroe offers that hand, where Una hesitates. Maybe it's Ariadne's holler that gets her over the finish line; maybe it's something else. Una takes in a deep breath, draws her mouth together, swallows-- and takes the hand.

Up on stage, she's looking a little pale as she turns to see all those eyes on them, but the music is starting, and--

"...Hi, hi we're your weather girls..."

It doesn't start too badly, given the first lines are largely spoken word, but...

It gets worse.

Una 100%, without question, cannot sing.

"And have we got news for you! Get ready, all you lonely girls, and leave those umbrellas at home!" Mercifully for Una, Monroe still can. School choir taught him to work with his less vocally gifted peers and either get them back on pitch or at least drown them out by projecting. He tries the former route, hoping Una can at least manage the tune with the bucket he's metaphorically holding out. Still, he's grinning, clearly loving this, and bringing energy into it.

"Humidity's rising! Barometer's gettin' low...
According to all sources, the street's the place to go!
'Cause tonight for the first time, just about half past ten!
For the first time in history! IT'S GONNA START RAINING MEN!!!"

And that last line is positively belted out, with Monroe tilting his head back and absolutely selling it. One gets the impression that if he could, he would trigger the sprinkler system just for more drama~

Ariadne seems clueless as to how far Ravn's jammed himself into the corner -- but is she? It's easy enough to draw the attention when someone wants to hide. It plays right into the reserved personage's plan as it goes. "No tequila for you then," she agrees, giving Ravn another quick grin. "Tonight's for fun, not tequila-sobbing. Besides, how about this: you're being a good sport. You want to drag me along to something some time? I'll be a good sport in return. Sounds fair to me."

The song gets up and going -- and Ariadne's brows slowly rise. There's enthusiasm and there's enthusiasm. Perhaps with their powers combined? "Whooooooooooo!" Still, she's going to be encouraging even if she ends up backhanding her beer all over the table. We're not there yet, Ravn's lap, don't worry, you're still safe. Her hands get thrown up again and fingers twinkle-wiggled. Supportive team is go!

"Bloody hell, that kid can sing," Ravn murmurs and he is most certainly not looking at Una. The man is musician enough to appreciate not just Monroe's obvious talent, but also the way he offers Una a proverbal hand up slash shield to hide behind. Team spirit is go. He finds his foot tapping the rhythm; it's catchy, it's a fun song, and well, it's catchy. The best thing about the disco era, forty years later, is that only the good stuff is still remembered.

And then Ariadne says something which prompts the Dane to very quickly upend his whiskey and look at her like she might be speaking Swahili.

He doesn't mean to. It's an instinctive response, lashing out in pure self defence -- run first, ask questions later.

Power flares, and all over the bar -- the sprinkler system goes off.

Una... tries. No, truly: Monroe helps a fair amount, though nothing is going to turn Una into anything but a terrible singer. On the plus side, as they reach that chorus? She actually looks like she's starting to enjoy herself up there.

She's just launching into the chorus, and hallelujah, it's rain--

Er. It's raining?

On the plus side, the singing stops. On the less-plus-side, she lets out an almighty squeal of shock and surprise.

... here's hoping the sound system and the various bar electronics are properly grounded. Monroe doesn't shriek. Instead, he sets the microphone down, motioning for Una to do the same, then tilts his head back, laughing. His curls are drenched in just a few seconds, hanging halfway down his back when stretched under their own weight.

"Lords, ladies and those that lie betwixt, this is not part of the performance, kindly make your way toward the nearest exit in an orderly fashion while the staff calls the local fire department to check and make sure the building is safe... and hopefully keep things from flooding."

He hops down from the stage, then turns, offering Una his hand to assist her down, grinning wide. "I guess it's going to be raining firemen."

Glimmer abounding in all four friends present and Ariadne included.

She's busy clapping above her head in glee at the display, since with their efforts combined, Una and Monroe are holding their own, and catches that bright flash of power out of the corner of her eye -- senses -- somehow. It makes her blink and reflexively look at Ravn to see him about goggling like a goldfish through the rapid swallowing of his whiskey.

And then the song becomes a little too literal.

On come the sprinkles on high and Ariande too lets out a sharp sound of shock. Water is cold! Arms are flaily! There goes the pint of beer and half of it, easily, sloshes in Ravn's direction. The other half ricochets off of her nacho plate and onto her skirted thigh, as cold and wet as the water showering down on them now.

"FUCK! SHIT! SERIOUSLY, NO -- WHY -- NO -- " Add an angry run of what sounds to be a fluent Eastern European language and Ariadne's ditching the entire booth while trying to put her coat back on -- while heavily buzzed -- it's no display of grace. She's rapidly beginning to look half-drowned, given one of the main sprinkler heads is in their corner of the room. "COLD!" Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. "OUTSIDE!" Yes, Monroe already said this. "WHY?!" She's too buzzed to figure it out yet, too new to the idea of Glimmer. "NO MORE!" Yeah, that's not for you to decide, sunshine. "MY NACHOS!" Priorities, people.

Ravn finds himself soaked -- in sprinkler water, in disgusting dark beer, and in misery. Others may have connected him to the sprinkler failure; he's only kind of figuring it out himself, throwing a suspicious glance up and connecting dots in his mind; it's a song about raining (men, but whatever), and then something came up (totally not what it sounded like!) and suddenly it's, well, raining. His power has been acting weird lately. Fuck.

And at the same time he's trying very hard to not laugh. Monroe's abundant curls look positively depressed. Una, squealing like a teenage girl at a boy band concert. And himself, no doubt looking like a drenched rat -- and smelling like a brewery exploded on him.

He wants to make for the door but so does everyone else, and the last thing he wants is to get caught in an elbowing, pushing throng of squealing people who don't want to be soaked by icy cold water on a cold March night. Instead, he flattens himself against the wall where the sprinklers have the least reach and just quietly laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

At least Una is not wearing a white t-shirt. At least she's not wearing one of her sweaters of more dubious quality, the kind that run dye whenever you wash them. Water rains down, and though Una hastily sets down her microphone (thanks, Monroe), it takes her a few seconds to do more than that, and in that time... well, she's just wet, isn't she? That's when she starts to laugh, and she doesn't stop, not when she accepts Monroe's hand to help her down, and not even when she says, "Hallelujah!" in answer to his comment.

It's mostly just a giggle, the kind that, once you start, is nearly impossible to stop - because every time you do, a stray thought just starts it up again. She's drunk, she's damp, she just made an absolute fool out of herself on stage: tonight wins.

Having been on stage, there's a lot of people to get to the exit ahead of them, and Una's evidently not inclined to try and throw herself into the crowd; instead, she makes her way back to the table, to reclaim her (now useless) coat, and to keep giggling as she finds Ariadne and Ravn.

The laughter may never stop, guys.

"If I had known the sprinkler system was going to go off, I'd have cued up the Geri Halliwell version after all, or maybe 'Maniac', since that's the song everyone associates with the scene from Flashdance... wrongly." Monroe laughs, spinning once he's sure Una's able to stand on her own. He can handle a little water, even if it IS freezing outside still. He splashes his way over to the booth after Una, laughing along with her.

"I don't know what happened, but this is the best night out I've had in at least two years, even if I'm going to have to spend my night washing and resetting my twist out." He sets himself into a pirouette out onto the now empty dance floor, curls whipping around after him. Unlike his singing, however, he definitely didn't have the help of the Fair Folk for dance, and it shows. Still, he keeps his feet, still laughing.

"Come on, I've got blankets in the back of the Chevette!"

Other screeches rise up, intertwined with laughter, from the other bar-goers. Staff is surely cussing either under their breath or aloud, per their personal penchant, and eventually, everyone's outside.

Watch Ariadne shake like a lapdog bereft of a purse.

"It's t-t-too c-cold for Flashd-dance!" she nonetheless laughs as she tries to squeeze out her own hair. No curls to save, thank goodness, and no running dyes, but that dress is definitely plastered to her skin beneath her windbreaker. Little mercies that she'd had it lying outside-up when the sprinkles went off. Its inside it dry and warm -- for a little. Her hilarity continues, induced by buzz and the ridiculousness of the situation both. "G-God, the irony! It's t-t-too good! Y'all are amazing."