2022-03-30 - Social Media, You Tart Tattletale

In all locations of existence, Ariadne had been too far away to hear the explosive and fabulous retort of the package left on Ravn's porch.

As if social media was going to spare him dignity or her any form of mystery.

And, as such, there's a drawl just brimming with the twinkling of repressed laughter which precedes the barista walking up the front path to number three Oak. "Ohhhhh my god, it's true. Look at thaaaaaaat," and the woman in her sundress and black flats can't help outright chortling now. Flowers in watercolor patterning of teal and emerald-green wash across the black fabric of the dress, its hems long enough to reach mid-shin. "Ravn, what have we told you about fist-fighting unicorns?" Her warmly-hazel eyes glitter like her grin. Her hair is up in a braid wound and crowned to the upper-back of her head, surely full of bobby pins.

Ravn, on his knees on the porch, in jeans and a t-shirt, equipped with a bucket of water and a stiff brush murmurs, "Always fight the unicorn because he's going to yell at you with a New York accent and then beat you up, but glitter bombs will ruin your entire porch?"

He can't recall if Ariadne's been told about spirit forms yet, and if so, that Rosencrantz' spirit form is a large, black unicorn with a dappled butt. It doesn't matter. Fighting a unicorn would still be preferable to this mess.

"At least it's water soluble?" He can't help laugh. He knows he's a sight. Even after vigorous showering and scrubbing there's traces of glitter in his hair, along with a strange blueish tint to his usually brown-coppery tone. He's going to be finding glitter in places he does not want to find anything for quite some time. The local sewer rats are setting up a crafts shop based on the waste water from his bathroom.

"Little wins!" the barista agrees as to the removability of the paint itself. A non-water soluble would have been just a right bastard to figure out. She drifts up by the porch and brings with her the faint scent of perfume above the astringent paint and moisture of the water. It's blood orange and golden vanilla overtop sandalwood and cocoa, sweeter too than the warmed greenery of the oddly-summery lawn of the abode. She stops at the base of the steps and ends up leaning a hip against the railing there, watching in a moment or two of smirking silence.

"Soooooooooo. What's the actual story? Because I know you didn't fight the unicorn with the New York acc...ent."

Ravn can almost see the tumblers click into place. "...Rosencrantz?" the barista then volunteers, sounding confused.

Scrubbety- scrubbety-scrubbety. Steady does it. Ravn pauses and looks up again. "Rosencrantz, yeah. He's a unicorn on the Other Side, sometimes. It's a bit of a community joke but, you know, he is a unicorn. Bloody good looking specimen too. Saw him throat punch a dragon with his horn once. Not a euphemism."

Then he shakes his head. "I said something to someone I should have stressed for them to keep quiet about. Word gets back to the wrong people about it, things might get bad. So it's a thank-you-asshole and a warning to be more careful. And also, a buddy who's more than a bit of a prankster, and some day, I'll get him back good and sound, believe me."

He sits back on his haunches and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead (leaving a trail of glitter). "Come to keep me company for a break? It's been a day already, I could use a beer even if it's still early. Apparently, I've been adopted."

Ariadne of a month or two back would have blurt-laughed and asked where Ravn was keeping 'the good shit'.

Now? Of being informed how Itzhak is demonstrably a unicorn on this weird Other Side she keeps hearing about? The barista takes it in stride other than a bemused twist of not-quite-smile. It...makes sense, she admits to herself as she shifts her weight. "I believe you," she says of the Dane getting prank-revenge. Already, in the back of her mind, nebulous suggestions are beginning to rise like steam from heating water. Woe betide. He pauses and asks and the redhead nods.

"Sure, I've got an hour or two, but no beer for me. Something lighter. How'd you manage to get adopted then?" Ariadne can't help the small laugh. Sometimes, the things that come out of the man's mouth are still absurd enough to trigger her rationalist streak so heavily embedded in her psyche. She gestures for him to lead the way while she eyes out a clear path up the steps, the better to avoid tracking paint into the interior of the house.

Fortunately, soda and mineral water are in ample supply, fortunately, and cold too. Ravn is happy enough to lead to the kitchen table -- because sitting outside is still a tad chilly, summery yard or not, particularly when one's shirt and jeans are kind of soaked in places. "I could do with the break," he reiterates and gestures at the fridge -- whatcha want?

"I'm actually not sure what I did. Rosencrantz and I turned up at Brennon's this morning for brunch and -- they informed me that I was adopted. By Brennon and Irving. Some kind of friendship thing? Brennon was certainly in a good mood." He can't help a small laugh. "Rosencrantz does tend to have that effect on a lot of women. She was also telling us about some other bloke that's trying to win her interest -- some cop, don't think I've met him. And somehow that became we all need to have a sleepover cuddle pile, and honestly, I think I was just about sitting there wondering about the fire escape by then."

Deliberate steps have the woman following Ravn inside to the warm and eclectic kitchen. No paint tracked in! Little wins indeed. She gives the place her usual appreciative look around before moseying to the fridge. She plucks a soda for herself, some sort of vintage-looking glass bottle detailing 'cream soda' as its contents. Ravn is offered out a bottle she hazards belongs to his taste profile. It's pale-yellow, at least, probably some wheat nonsense she'd find too bland.

"Poor Rosencrantz." Little smirk which fades into a more thoughtful little frown. "Sleepover...cuddle pile," Ariadne repeats, sounding a little dubious. "I mean, I'm...all for cuddle piles and stuff, but if you were looking for the fire escape, why was the conversation even on the table?" Her soda bottle is old-timey enough to require a bottle opener and she mimes silently at opening the crimpled metal lid at Ravn. "Is there a church key around here? Er, bottle opener? Widget. Thingie."

"Top drawer." Ravn grins -- and flips his bottle cap off with his lighter like a million craftsmen before him. There's a ridge in the old zippo. It's probably been used like that for a very long time, even long before Ravn was born. "And thank you for remembering that I prefer beer, not hoppy syrup sauce."

He can't resist a chuckle. "Dr Brennon still has this idea about curing me, I think. Or maybe she just can't resist a challenge. Either way, I can be talked into sleepovers, I suppose, but I am not joining any cuddle piles. One misplaced knee and I'm on the floor screaming. Not the ending anyone wants, I suspect." He hitches a shoulder. "And I guess a bit of -- you know how it is, people looking to pair each other and themselves off, it's the one thing people always see first. Irving and I? Both long term singles -- gotta find out why, is something wrong with us, do we need help finding someone, and so on."

Opening the indicated drawer, the barista finds the opener in question. She doesn't seem impressed by the use of the lighter, but then again, she's seen her own father do it a hundred million times. It's a tool, it gets used. Setting the bottle cap aside, she returns the opener to its place and turns around to lean against the counter. "You're welcome," she replies as to the beer selection, giving the man a dry twist of smile at his funning.

"What the hell is wrong with being single? I mean," and Ariadne gestures at herself, brows lifted. "Clearly, I'm a functional human being and I don't have any other half waiting in the wings for whatever reason. I'm too busy for that right now anyways, good lord," she then mutters, shaking her head. "The down-rent finally went through for that place over at the Broadleaf, so I'm going to move in this weekend. I'm done with the Motel. It's...only so charming." And Sam is beginning to get antsy. "But you know you also don't have to attend any sleepovers, right? And you sure as hell don't have to end up in any cuddle pile you don't want to. I thought Una wasn't looking anyways...? Or am I not as observant as I like to think I am?"

"I have no idea whether Irving's looking or not," Ravn says quite earnestly. "I think she's mentioned once or twice that she's asexual but that obviously doesn't exclude having emotions. I figure that if she thinks I need to know about her personal status, though, she'll tell me. But it is something that people focus on a lot -- very often in the 'are you competition?' way, or just plain confused as to how come somebody can be, well, not really preoccupied with the idea a whole lot. Somebody once told me it's the default any conversation can always fall back on when no one is saying anything interesting. They may have had a point."

He chuckles. "I usually get it more along the lines of 'are you competition' or worse, 'black clothes and gloves? Come show me who's boss, daddy'. The latter's proved embarrassing a couple of times, not going to lie."

Ariadne nods. The Dane's observations as to conversational cant aren't incorrect in her own experiences. She's tilting the cream soda bottle up for her first sip when he starts expounding on the misconstruing of his own intentions.

Competition. She tilts her head back and forth minutely.

But 'Daddy'?

"PffffftHAUK -- " Thankfully, it wasn't more than a thin prism-spray of cream soda, but Ariadne still has to spend a second wheezing and coughing like it tickled the wrong tube. "Fuck, Ravn, seriously? How -- " Cough-laugh. "How fucking rude of them to assume that!"

Ravn just looks sheepish. "Black clothes, leather gloves. Not flirting with the ladies present. I'm a gay leather daddy. I'd say it's preposterous but, it's happened a couple of times. Ask Rosencrantz, he loves to talk about it."

Of course he does. What's best friends for, if not razzing one another?

Anyway. Ahem. "But, uh, barring the fact that I am probably the last candidate for a dominatrix role -- not even sure what you call a male one, a domino? --Dr Brennon is in her happy place with this cop bloke who apparently is kind of possessive, which she seems to find kind of hot. To each their own. But to each their own means no cuddle piles for me, yeah. I'm moving back on the Vagabond anyhow this week or next." And remembering how Ava and Una felt about that, the Dane raises a hand pre-emptively. "Just down on the marina. Not going to be hard to find -- in fact, probably closer to the Broadleaf than here. Are you going to need help moving?"

Her mouth daubed at with her wrist, Ariadne has her own light dusting of pink on her cheeks owing more to reflexive lung reaction than embarrassment -- though there's a bit of that too. It's not quite inhaling one's own spit, but close enough.

But Rosencrantz? Razzing about black leather? The barista can't help the sliver of a grin. Of course. Note to self: speak to Rosencrantz about preferred razzing points.

She does appreciate the lifted hand's further explanation and appears to sigh a little for it. "I remember you telling me you preferred to be on the boat during the nicer months, yeah...and it's kind of closer to the Broadleaf?" A pause. "Oh yeah, that's right, it is," she says, sounding enlightened by the realization. "I'll need some help, yeah, but not too much help. No need for a group of people or anything. There are one or two boxes I know that'll require two sets of hands, maybe a chair or two. I don't have a lot and never intend to. I've moved often enough to want to avoid big clutter. Are you offering to assist? I can pay in beer or other sundry goods." Her brows flick before she takes another sip of cream soda.

"I'm sure you can find better beefcake and eye candy if you go bat your eyelids in the right places," Ravn says with a small laugh. "But if you just needs someone to hold the other end of a box, yeah, I'm happy to help. I'm no handyman, but I've done enough boat maintenance to know the business end of a screwdriver, too."

He pauses. And then he shakes his head, almost as if he's laughing silently at himself. "Do me a favour, all right? I have -- some baggage. Some anxieties, as it were. Don't take it the wrong way when I say, I'm offering to help, not to -- you know, hit on you. I probably should tell you about it sometime but, I feel like all I do is tell you ridiculous stories. You know that guy who always talks about himself and nothing else? I feel like that guy."

"Ravn."

His name is said with gentle firmness, a confidence which doesn't traipse into haughtiness in turn. Ariadne tilts her head, her smile friendly and quiet.

"I know you're not hitting on me, bud. I know you're offering help. I know you have baggage," she adds, even more gently, " -- and you've told me before about how difficult it is sometimes to let go of it. Skeletons on the lawn. All I need is an extra set of hands and yeah, maybe some help with adjusting some screws here and there because more hands make for quicker work. I also just remembered that I'd said one time about pizza, so how about that? I'll get pizza ordered and when it's settled, or mostly all settled, calories in pizza and beer and sitting on the back patio will be earned. How about that?"

"Sounds like a good day to me. Definitely spent days doing worse things in worse company." Ravn's smile is almost too relieved; he knows Rosencrantz is right about him just needing to open up about those fears, but bloody hell, it's a horrible feeling, doing it.

He breathes out. Wherps, forgot he was holding his breath there.

"I should tell you, though. Why I'm so -- well, messed up about somebody getting that idea." He toys with his beer bottle, awkward like an awkward aardvark on an awkward day, aardvarking like an awkward aardvark will. "You believe in ghosts, now. I mean, you've seen ghosts, you know they're real. When my fiancée died -- I should say, got herself killed. She blamed me for her death. And she convinced herself, somehow, that the instant she died, I was off to chase anything in a skirt. If you can imagine smiling at someone and even thinking that hey, that's a pretty face, only to have an angry apparition appear out the grave, intent on clawing their face off -- then you get it. For almost four years, I was terrified every time I even talked to a woman, even to ask for directions. Because I had to make sure that she wouldn't have any way to misunderstand what was going on, and come find me."

"Pizza and beer after moving it is," Ariadne confirms, her own grin a bit brighter for it. She doesn't miss his exhale, however, and deliberately keeps her body language loose and conversationally inviting. Another sip of her cream soda and she watches him work through something before he speaks again.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he doesn't have to tell her, but instinct stops her own tongue. Her golden-hazel eyes linger and measure, marking subtle cues in his posture. When he's done speaking, her own brows have drawn together to create a shallow divot.

"Aw...geez, Ravn. That's...I mean, I have thoughts on that, but I'll keep them short. It's also easy for me to say these things, not having been in your shoes or dealt with that kind of situation. First of all, that's terrible and don't let anyone lessen it by saying otherwise. That's really, really awful, because you trusted this woman enough to promise via a ring. That was love and trust and then grief and all of this broken all to hell. Four years is also...fuck, dude, that is hell. That's hell on earth. That's like some asshole with the remote to a shock anklet. No fucking wonder. "

Sorrowful, Ariadne's gaze. "No fucking wonder," she repeats softly. "But...I'm also going to note that you told me she was gone. So...what now? Do you feel like you're still healing?"

"I feel like I'm still needing to be very clear with myself about what I'm doing. In part because of that ingrained fear, and in part because I'm one of those people who honest to God don't recognise most of these cues until somebody's yelling at me that I'm ignoring them or tells me they wanted me to ask them out but they gave up waiting and now they're dating Bob instead." Ravn offers a wry smile. "It's part healing -- and part just being, well, me. I really don't tend to get the memo until it's too late. I make Rosencrantz roll his eyes so hard sometimes I worry about his vision."

He may be bad at picking up some cues, but not others, though. A glance wanders towards Ariadne's ankle. "That's oddly specific, though. Did someone do that to you?"

Part healing -- Ariadne again nods, her smile slowly appearing in that same unobtrusive manner, its cast not meant to draw attention to it. Then, the Dane quips about Rosencrantz and she can't help the soft snort. She's in the middle of yet again lifting her cream soda to her lips when the conversation shifts with all the grace of a water-logged engine, kaCHUNK, to her ankle.

Bringing the soda down without having imbibed more than a drop or two, the woman considers her ankle. Oh yeah. That's right. No socks today. She hadn't thought. Lifting the left foot onto the toe of her flexibly-soled black flats, she rotates it even as she leans to get a better look at something she already knows far too well. The scarring is pocked, wrinkled, paler than her own skin but for permanently red pock-marks: two of them right above the rounding of her ankle bone. It spreads partially up her leg.

"Hmm....yeah, some-thing did." Emphasis takes away humanity as she glances back at Ravn, now quite sober. "When I was little, around eight or so back in Colorado, I got tagged by a western diamondback rattlesnake. They got me to the ER fast enough and here I am, but...it was sketchy for a bit. My ankle's full of scar tissue and rage when it's too damp and cold outside or I jog too far. I was little and didn't know any better about walking into the brush. Or I wasn't thinking, one of those things when you're young and excited. We don't have any rattlers up here on the west side though, so hey, rainbows and sunshine."

"I'm glad." Weird thing to say. The follow-up makes it less bizarre: "A rattlesnake bite sounds bloody awful, but it'd be far worse to have somebody do something like that to you deliberately. An animal is just being an animal. It may do something awful to you but it's not doing it out of spite or sadism."

Ravn shakes his head and glances at the window, or rather, at the town beyond it. "This place? The kind of people we are, who get pulled in here? You hear some bloody awful stories sometimes. So that's what I mean when I say, I'm glad it was 'just' a rattlesnake. I also imagine you're not exactly a snake person now. That's the thing -- something scares you enough, it's really hard to stop being scared. Even when you know there's no reason to be scared anymore. When some woman flutters her eyelashes at me, my first thought is probably going be 'shit, better pretend I didn't notice' for a long time yet."

At first, yes, Ariadne is taken aback. Glad? But then Ravn clarifies and she tilts her head back and forth again. "Ah, yeah, I follow, just an animal being an animal," she agrees. When the Dane's regard goes out a thousand yards through the window, she glances in the same direction, wondering what's drawn his attention.

Ah, allusions of the city and its inhabitants in connection to the topic at hand. "Sure, it's hard to shake it. I'm not going to be going around picking up any snake I see, no. I know the garter snakes around here are harmless, but I almost lost part of my limb, much less my life being so young. I'd rather not touch them or deal with them. But my thing's an animal and your tough point is people. That's still hell, Ravn. I'd offer to help, but that's just...weird...in the context you're talking about, so...I can still just be me, I guess?" She wince-smiles. "And offer fistbumps because we overcame and are overcoming?"

Fistbump is offered.

Fistbump is gently returned.

"That's what we do, right? We overcome. I've always been the shy and introvert kid. That whole ghost affair just finished what natural shyness started. I had a bit of a breakdown in the end. Checked myself out of hospital, packed a bag, and left. Wandered down through Europe, ran out of land, came here, intending to start over. The more distance the better, right? I had this idea that if I just kept moving -- but every time I even thought about a woman, maybe just 'nice butt' in passing, I'd bring her closer. So just -- don't think it, don't act it, just keep moving. It's a difficult habit to break."

"I understand in my way." Because she'll never understand in totality given she's entirely another mind and heart and soul, but empathy? Ariadne has this. She's secretly quite pleased for the returned fistbump and takes a long drink of her soda before setting the bottle aside. Talking about the snakebite scarring has drawn it to her attention; it requires a gentle rubbing to self-soothe at aching joint innards while she stands almost crane-like and continues her thought.

"But I am going to note that if it was ever something as simple as a compliment? You have complimented me and not gotten bitten in the ass for it." Her half-smile is cajoling. "The sweater, remember? It is a nice one, just as you'd noted. See? Nothing bad."

"Well, it has been almost a year since she died, the second time." Ravn's smile turns wry. "I'm working on it. But I am also very careful with -- being honest with my intentions. I don't want to be misunderstood. A lot of the time, I forget that the person I'm talking to is A Woman. So I suggest something that would be perfectly normal if they were a bloke, and it comes across like I'm trying to pick them up. Given how many assholes do try to pick women up at the drop of a hat, it obviously doesn't leave a very good impression."

The smile turns lopsided. "Besides, that was a nice sweater. I can like things without being creepy about it."

"And that is exactly right," Ariadne exclaims with a pointer finger at Ravn. Her bright laugh fills the kitchen. "You can like things without being creepy. I can say, Ravn, great t-shirt, it looks good on you. The...hair, I'm still deciding on that." Her grin goes cheeky.

Somebody didn't miss the bluish tints.

"Anyways, I can say the t-shirt looks good and I mean just that. The cuckoo clock is hilarious. Roses are beautiful. Cinnamon smells great. All of these things? Opinions. None of them come-ons." Grabbing her soda again after she's set down her vaguely-aching left ankle, the barista adds, "Now, I am going to say that your taste in beer is still terrible, but that's not changing, so I give up attempting to influence you for the better." Smirk.

Ravn peers at his ever-escaped forelock myopically. "I'll admit, blue is not my colour. It'll wash out, but, it might take a bit. And I'm still finding glitter." He can't help a chuckle. "And the winegum dicks really was a nice finishing touch, that asshole."

And then, the haughtiest of haughty looks. "Where beer is concerned, however, you wouldn't know taste if it crawled up and slapped your backside in broad daylight in front of a marching band all wearing a sandwich board reading Syrup is not beer." No, u smirk.

Ariadne's mouth parts in a moue equally offended and positively thrilled. Her eyes practically glitter with challenge.

"If you're talking taste, buddy, I've been fucking it sideways all days of the week and screaming out its name in ecstasy because it ditched you and your dishwater-sucking tastebuds last year out of shame," the barista then retorts with a rosebud smirk of her lips.

SMIRK.

"Well," says Ravn, and blinks before snort-laughing. "There's a visual I'm going to treasure for a while."

He shakes his head, laughing. "God, woman, you and Rosencrantz are going to hit it off like magnets. Same wicked form of humour, same absolute lack of inhibitions. And between the two of you, you're probably going to send me to an early grave, but at least I'll go laughing."

Oh, how that rosebud smirk deepens. Prince of Foxes, you poor bastard, you. Ariadne simply tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear and shrugs her shoulder oh-so-blithely, as if she hadn't enabled such a vision with deliberate word choice.

"You should probably not let us exist in the same room, yeah," she agrees, grinning once more. "I met the guy last week, actually. He was out walking a kid he was babysitting. Hunter. Hunter informed me that Captain America is the best Avenger, but, respectfully, I disagree. Black Widow is where it's at. Fite me," she then adds drolly. "Hunter called another kid a 'schmuck' on the playground and I watched Rosencrantz just laugh in the other kid's mom's face since it was his damn fault in the first place, how Hunter knew that word. And I know that word." A wryly-amused shake of head. "Hunter's a cute kid. Rosencrantz clearly likes minding him, even if he wants to put up a tough guy face. I like him. Itzhak, I should say," she amends, further proving their acquaintanceship.

"Yeah. He's that rare combination of tough guy and not embarrassed to show he's got a big heart." Ravn nods his agreement with Ariadne's evaluation of his friend. "Most blokes who are all ready to get in the face of anyone who bothers them are too fragile on the inside to own up to having the same feelings as the rest of us. Rosencrantz is a tough guy when he needs to be, and a jellybean the rest of the time. All polished on the outside, all sweetness on the inside."

He cracks another wry smile and sips his beer. "First time we met? He yelled at me. Second time we met? Bloody well nearly decked me. Clearly, we were meant to be best friends."

"I imagine Itzhak had good reason to do both of these things, yelling and then decking you." Teasing, Ariadne then laughs. "I got that impression of him, yeah, after seeing him have fun with Hunter. How he's leather on the outside and lamb fleece on the inside."

A beat. "Gosh, rather like a nice glove, don't you think?" She's shameless.

"No small wonder all the ladies want to climb him like a tree and knock some boughs on the way down. He's tall enough." Extra shameless while she sips her cream soda again.

Ravn laughs softly. "I've certainly noticed. Can't say I blame anyone either -- bloke's fun, interesting and a good friend. But if you are considering it, step with a bit of care -- he's kind of in a fragile place right now, not that he'll admit it. Kind of hoping that his ex-boyfriend will stop being an ex-boyfriend. So a bit of patience is probably required if you're planning to go climbing New York fauna. Hell, told Brennon the same earlier. Probably none of my business but, I don't want to see my friend get hurt, you know?"

"Ravn."

This time, there's exasperation despite the gentle tone overall and lingering smirk.

"I just told you that I'm single because I'm too busy for the complications of a relationship right now. Moving comes first, Sam comes second, and those priorities, along with my job and a steady paycheck, are going to have to be the priorities until something changes. I dunno what, but I'm not going to be disturbing Itzhak. I remember what you told me about him and his ex. I said that I was aware of how I would be a rebound. Nope. No rebounds. I have more self-love to myself than that."

Sip of soda. "And you're not being a bad friend reminding people of how Itzhak needs time to heal," she notes.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone changed their mind over time." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "And it certainly wouldn't be the first time someone decided to get laid without wanting to have a relationship as a result, either. Hell, he'd probably kvetch at me if he knew I mentioned it."

Kvetch, of course, because this is Rosencrantz. He's the master of kvetching.

He sips his beer again. "With you on the rebound thing, though. I've had -- a couple offers like that. I'm a good listener and I come across as safe to people. I've said no both times because women who are on the rebound from someone exciting who really set got their emotions in high gear aren't actually looking for a guy like me. They just need some time to lick their wounds before they're ready to pick up and move on."

"Yeah, he'd probably kvetch," Ariadne agrees. She's not going to argue with either previous premise as things stand because both are true in the case of humanity. She merely sips her soda while he sips his beer and continues leaning on the counter. Another idle glance out the kitchen window before back to Ravn again.

"That's what's hard about being a nice guy at heart, yeah. You're safe and you don't take people at face value. Having these traits would make someone attractive to another person who's reeling and wounded, if you will. The sympathetic ear. Granted, yeah, most of the time, it's a rebound situation, since they feel like they need help coming down from the intensity of someone else. I've been in a rebound situation before and...you know, I thought I was being a good person being there for this guy and what he was dealing with." She shakes her head and looks rueful. "I learned. It wasn't good for my self-esteem at the time, but I did some serious growing. Some people can't be helped. That's really what I learned. So now? I'm just going to be patient and enjoy my time while I can."

A faint laugh. "Before somebody sneaks in through my shields again."

Ravn can't help laughing softly along. "It happens, eventually. You think you're just going to be done with that whole mess, you're perfectly happy on your own. You spend a lot of time with someone because they're fun and intelligent, and you enjoy their company. And then some day they inform you that the two of you are going on a date, and you find yourself a little surprised to realise that actually? Actually, you're on board with that idea."

He toys with his beer. "And then that date doesn't happen, and they kind of vanish, and it dawns on you that they were on the rebound too. From proposing to a bloke who turned them down for another woman. From losing a lot of friends and family a year or so earlier. From life. And then they're gone because suddenly you're the reminder of that. Rebound is misery, pure and simple."

"Yeah, no fucking kidding," agrees the redhead quietly where she still leans against the kitchen counter. Rebound is misery. The contents of her soda, not much remaining, capture her attention for a lingering moment of silence. It's not pregnant or intended, just one of those periods of time where it cloaks the room while thoughts tumble and meander about like a clot of kittens.

A sigh. "Good thing life goes on and we can heal from this shit. That it takes time is the damnedest part. There's always been a part of me where I'd love to be able to snap," -- a snap of her fingers off to one side as she glances up at Ravn again -- "And boom: issue resolved. I'm over it. Instead of needing to muddle through it all. But...there's a reason why we have to muddle through it and I've always figured it's because we have to remember to not let it happen again. If you forgot, you'd just...blunder into the same shit again and again. No wonder drugs and liquor exist in the first place. Easy ways to forget...but harder on the body. I prefer talking with a good friend instead," she opines, her smile appearing with partial-intensity on her lips.

"Yeah. You have to learn from your mistakes or you'll just go right on and make another." Ravn sips his beer and now it's his turn to linger a moment or two.

"I try to err on the side of caution," he says after that moment of even more proverbial kitten footing around. "I ask myself, am I just hoping to see something because I want there to be something, some day? Did they actually say something that gives me any reason to see this? The answer is pretty much always no, no, they didn't. At best they said something that might be an invitation to get in the race. An invitation -- impress me, maybe. And I don't do that. I do realize that's what I did wrong, last time. I took so long deciding whether there actually was interest that she lost patience and just told me. At the time I thought, well, that's a relief. Then she dropped out of sight and now I think she just realised that it was always going to be like that. She was always talking about two other men -- the one who turned her down, and her best friend. I think she realised that rebound is shit, and that she needed to get with one of them, or no one at all."

Sunlight gleams through the translucent glass of the soda bottle now. Ariadne's emptied it and set it aside, the better to lightly fold her arms and continue leaning on the counter. Finding a chair doesn't seem to have occurred to her as an idea in the least. She squints for a moment and then nods, again sighing though this time through her nose.

"I mean...my ten cents on that is pretty blunt," she warns before continuing. "Everybody has their communication styles. Sometimes? They don't match. That old adage abut 'fish in the sea'? It's true, which is why it sucks. There are a lot of fish and a lot of times when the fish don't speak the same language. Why waste the time on somebody who wasn't on the same page as you in the first place? Seriously. You only live once and to spend your time trying to warp yourself into something else for someone else?" Her nose wrinkles. "Fuck that shit. Rebounds? Rebounds aren't healthy and that's that. Period."

Ravn shakes his head. "I'm over it. I mean, it doesn't feel great to realise that that's what you were -- rebound. But I don't feel she lied to me or took advantage of me -- just that she realised I'm not one of those other guys and got out before things got ugly. It would have been a lot worse if she'd stuck around and tried to make it work or tried to change me into one of them, you know? I'd have appreciated being told that she'd realised this wasn't working out but -- given the shit some people will put others through about a break-up I can also see why it might feel safer to just fade out and stop returning calls."

He chuckles, suddenly. "Actually, speaking about communication? That's one habit I freaking hate about that social class. The one line I really, seriously can't stand?" Air quotes. "Call my PA and schedule." End air quotes. "If your time is too valuable to talk to me outside scheduled appointments, maybe I should ask the PA for a date instead."

"Daaaaaaaamn." Cue stronger nose wrinkle. "Call my PA? Yeeeah, that's a bullshit move. Red flag. Nope. Nope-ing right out of that there. That's business over a relationship and misplaced priorities. Why waste time on that? Ugh."

Shaking her head, Ariadne then reaches up and back to fuss with one of the bobby pins holding her crowned braid in place. "I'm glad you're over it, even if it bruises still sometimes. A good break-up will do that, unfortunately...well, for meanings of 'good'. I should amend with 'gnarly' or 'painful.'"

"Well, 'no PA' is on my list now. Although to be fair, I did refuse. That's one of the reasons we never did end up going on that infamous date. I do not call someone's PA to schedule a date. Sorry, that's -- I don't know, too nouveau riche for me. I don't think of myself as a snob in general but on that account? Yes, all the way. I don't want someone on their knee begging for my attention, and I don't get on my knee for someone else's, either." Ravn hitches a shoulder.

Then he looks back at Ariadne. "So, that's my sob story, both of them. The break-up that not even death could finalise, and the relationship that became a break-up before it became a relationship. What's your sob story?"

"Well, yeah." Quiet agreement with Ravn about attention-seeking behavior. Ariadne echoes his shrug to a lesser degree, given her attention is busy divided between listening and feeling about for this shifted bobby pin. Finding it, she then duck-tilts her head to one side to see about rearranging it without losing the integrity of her hair-do.

Ravn's question has her glancing up through her dark lashes, lined with a thin stripe of kohl, and then down again. Her smile is faint, wry, twisted to one side. "Hmm. Sob story," she muses while her fingers work. "Well...like I said, I've been a rebound. I was almost hooked up with the rebound's best friend, but thank god I wasn't dumb enough to follow through on that. It would've been messy. Otherwise..." Finishing in adjusting the bobby pin, she glances up at Ravn fully again. A light dusting of pink shows on her cheeks as she shrugs, "I...kind of haven't been in a lot of relationships. I'm fussy...and it's just easier to be alone with a dog. Sam never tests the idea of loyalty or holds grudges or deliberately does things to hurt me. It's...just easier to be alone," she reiterates even more quietly.

Ravn can't resist a small laugh at that. "For real? I usually go around thinking I'm the complete innocent but that sounds like there's two of us, then. Most people in this town -- you know the whole 'drink a lot, screw a lot' thing. A lot of people here take that literally, and a lot of people are a bit, you kind of need a whiteboard to keep track of who was dating who, and when."

He shakes his head again. "I am trying very hard to not be bitter about my fiancée. I do think that in her own way she did love me. Or maybe I should say, she loved the idea of me. The man I could be, the life I could be part of. I never actually told her a single thing about living on the street or, you know, having a bit of a criminal history. I knew she wouldn't understand. So for a while I was living this double, or triple life where I'd be the respectable, conservative gentleman by daylight, studying for my PhD in the evenings, and out on the streets just blowing off steam at night."

"Mmm." There's somehow a subtle warning in the soft sound the barista makes when she's tucked into the corner of 'innocence', but it appears she's letting that slide for the moment. It's not important enough to warrant more than this and a shift against the counter.

More importantly: "It's alright to be bitter for a bit. Not forever though, that poisons. I'm sorry she wasn't able to see you for you. That's...not cool, plain and simple. In my experience, you accept the whole package, not just the parts which float your boat. How is the relationship supposed to grow and deepen otherwise? It's living a lie."

"To be fair, people can't accept a side of you that you don't show them. I just knew that -- well, my family life and my other life will never get along." Ravn shrugs a little. "I don't have that other life anymore. I guess here, I don't need it? I don't need to go out and do stupid things to kill time and make myself feel I'm alive. There's plenty things right here that's very happy to remind me that I'm alive, and that I'd like to stay alive. And I suppose it also comes down to what you actually expect from a relationship. I know I didn't know what I wanted so I just handed over the reins. I should have known better than to think somebody else could make my life not a mess all on their own."

"It's true, bud...hate to admit it." Ariadne's little smile is deeply empathetic. "You give somebody else control, it becomes rapidly one-sided and unfair. A relationship takes two and clear communication. It is just that simple. I don't care what anybody else has to say about it: clear communication and understanding of what each person wants out of it is hyper-critical."

A sigh. "But hey...good things, right? Good things that you're happier here and now, even if you've got the scars to prove it."

"Yup. What's life if not a learning experience?" Ravn looks up and flashes one of his not-quite-common open-mouth smiles; they tend to be far more controlled, lopsided affairs. "That's the thing -- I'm not at all unhappy where I am. I made a lot of mistakes. I plain screwed up a number of times. But I'm not a victim -- to be a victim, you have to get knocked down and then stay down. I've made some really bad choices here and there, but I've never been curled up in a corner, just accepting whatever punches life threw my way. I think that's a very important distinction to make: Sure, sometimes you don't move on as fast as you should, but to be victimised you have to lie still and do nothing."

A literal snappoint at the Dane.

"Got it in one." Ariadne returns the grin he gives and she's pleased to see the sunshine in his in turn. Good -- very good, affirmation that he's not a victim -- that he refuses to be one, as it should be. "You are not a victim and I don't see you ever being one. You've got far too much dignity for that and a spine of steel." A beat. "Even if I've got to learn you more about throwing a punch. At least there's not grass mixed into the glitter and blue paint."

Her eyes lift to that azurine forelock. "It'll come out...eventually...I think?" Turning, she reaches for the empty glass soda bottle. "Alright, lemme get out of your hair -- " Another point at Ravn plus coy smile, acknowledging the pun she made. " -- for now. You were making good strides on the porch and I've still got to go get groceries. Thanks for letting me stop in. I'm glad we were able to talk," the barista adds more quietly, her smile fond. "All good things."

Indeed: all good things.