2022-03-31 - Sunny, Spring Afternoons

The sun is out! It's even reasonably warm! Really, what else can a person do on one of the first spring afternoons that is so, but rush outside to enjoy it? Besides, it's too early in the season for crowds of tourists, and that means it's all the more important to make the most of it.

Likely enough, that's what's brought Una out here, to claim a table on the deck that she's occupying with herself, her book, and a half-drunk beer. The redhead's shoulders are bare in her deep purple sundress, but her head's covered in a floppy-brimmed hat to keep the sun off of her nose, and her feet? They're probably bare too, hidden beneath her skirt in some cross-legged pose, because she's kicked off her sandals onto the wooden decking.

She's far from the only person who's made this decision: most of the tables have at least one person scattered around them, resulting in an easy buzz of conversation in the air, enhanced by the low whoosh of waves against the rocky beach below.

Life is hard.

Two If By Sea is not on Ravn Abildgaard's usual list of watering holes. This is a little odd, given that the beach bar literally overlooks the beach and the marina. His boat is right there, below the deck. It's five steps up a stair and he'd be in the bar, ready to order a cold one. So why doesn't he? Heaven only knows. The tall Dane has stripped down to cargo shorts and a t-shirt today, as well as a pair of flip-flops. The Vagabond is still on land, and he's busy hosing her down and scraping barnacles off her hull (which explains his choice of attire, it's wet and dirty work).

When he does look up and recognise a familiar flash of red up there, he does lift a gloved hand in a lazy wave. And when he does decide he deserves a break, he wanders up there -- not onto the beach bar's deck, but up to rest an elbow on it from outside. "Enjoying the weather?"

That wave? It gets returned, cheerfully, by a redhead who may not be specifically watching Ravn at work, but has been watching the view enough to catch sight. The redhead turns back to her book, though, apparently unashamed of so-enjoying herself whilst others work.

Conveniently, her table's close to the edge: not only all the better to look out at the water and the marina but, now, all the better to allow her to engage in conversation with the strictly-on-the-other-side-of-the-railing Dane. She sets her book down, carefully placing the bookmark into it (no turned down pages for her!), and grins up at him. "Hard not to," she admits. "Though I'm basically slathered in factor fifty. This poor winter skin!"

"How's it going down there? She's coming along?"

"Yeah. I'll have her in the water by the end of the week, maybe next week." Ravn grins slightly; he's a few shades pinker than usual which is no wonder given the spring sun's reflecting in the ocean and the fact that he may have put on sunscreen but he's working with water -- it's all there, down there, on the asphalt, with the dead barnacles. He knew this would happen. It's the price of boat maintenance.

He glances down at the sailboat. "And then I guess the arguing begins? Unless people were in fact kidding about that whole thing the other morning. I'm happy to take people out for a trip around the Bay but I doubt we can fit more than four, five people comfortably. She sleeps six, according to her paperwork, but I'm going to argue that those six had better be damn good friends."

"I faithfully promise to be an actual adult, and refrain from argument," swears Una, hand over her heart... or what would be her heart if she were built in reverse, because evidently she's temporarily forgotten. "We'll let you go peacefully, and after that... we'll take turns. Small groups, no whining. If you're lucky, I'll even bring real food, cooked in a real kitchen, because I bet there are limits to what you can achieve on there... not that you cook anyway, I guess. The point stands anyway."

She leans back, adjusting the brim of her hat all the better to be able to see Ravn, and not just half of him. "Do you need a drink of some kind? I can order you something."

"Nah, I'm fine. And I could just order something myself. I'm not banned from the premises, I just -- I used to work here, you know?" Ravn glances back at the bar beyond the deck. "Worked there for four months, five? Was an easy to job to get when I came into town, cleaning tables and restrooms. Even got started a bit on tending the bar. Things just got -- complicated. Some misunderstandings, and before you knew it, a lot of people went around giving me the stink eye for attempting to seduce the owner's wife."

Una opens her mouth... and then begins to laugh. "Somehow," she says, "none of that surprises me. I swear, is there anywhere in town where you don't have a weird relationship going on with someone? I didn't actually think you were banned or anything... just that you were on that side of the railing, and I was here. But. Okay."

She, however, needs to draw her beer a little closer, and then take a sip from it, and after that? "So what actually happened, since I'm pretty confident you weren't actually attempting to seduce the owner's wife."

Ravn can't help a small chuckle at that, either. He shakes his head. "I should be all huffy because come on, it's not that bad, but it kind of is, isn't it? I guess I'm that guy who gets into stupid arguments and fights."

He leans both elbows on the railing and basks a moment in the spring sun. "It's a long story. They always are, have you noticed? Anyhow, the bloke who owns this place went missing. Before I came into town, that is. So his wife -- girlfriend, not sure they're actually married, but, steady partner, anyhow -- ran the place in his absence. I got a job here and she seemed nice enough. Came out a few times on the pier in the evening for a chat -- and why not? It's literally just down there, and when she said everyone in town treated her like she was made of glass and about to break, she wasn't wrong. People did tip toe around her because of the missing bloke, a lot."

Ravn glances back down at the pier. "And then the bloke came back. Which sounded like good news if you asked me -- I mean, how often does the Veil give up someone once they've been Lost? It got awfully complicated though. He didn't think I was trying to seduce his partner, I'm pretty sure of that. But somehow, a lot of other people did. I ended up quitting because I figured the only way to lay all of that in the grave was to simply not work here. I haven't seen her since. Nor him, for that matter."

"I don't think anyone has a problem with you at the laundromat?" Una throws that in there with a grin.

She's more serious for the story, though, expression turning first thoughtful, and then distinctly darker: more of a frown. "Well," she says, finally, letting the word out on an exhale of breath that lasts longer than it probably needs to. "That sucks. I mean... ugh. Sometimes I really hate people. The way we treat each other. Everyone getting worked up about stupid things and making things difficult for other people. If the three people actually involved knew what was what, then it shouldn't matter to anyone else."

Another exhale, this time with a wry chuckle. "Sorry. I get that none of that is news to you. But-- it seems like one thing that still does get in the way, in this community: we have each others' backs to a certain degree, but interpersonal gossip-y drama is still a thing. I suppose that's just human nature."

"Human nature. We try to stand up for one another but, we're still human." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Besides, no one gets along with everyone. I think people maybe picked up on the fact that the missing bloke and me didn't really have much to say to each other. He's one of those big, burly, manly men and well, I'm me. We don't really speak the same language."

Another snort of laughter from Una, who abruptly grins. "Got it. I expect you and Deacon, Ava's friend, are definitely not going to have much in common either. I mean-- neither do he and I. Half the time it's like they're speaking a whole different language, but I guess it's just a completely different wave-length, and something about the frequencies..."

The illustration falls apart when Una fails to complete it, and shrugs it off: well, Ravn gets what she means, most likely. "At least there are other places to drink, albeit maybe with a less scenic view, and you're doing fine without the job."

"Oh, sure. I just don't kind of feel like starting another round of that gown gossip. This was at a time when the whole thing was going on where everyone's lives were rewritten, and I was also being accused of drugging women on my boat and -- " Ravn shrugs, and wrinkles his nose. "I just kind of noped out. I'm not a lose relationships kind of bloke. I'm not interested in one night stands or conquests. So I just walked away because fuck it, no, just, no. I've been in town so much longer now and people know me well enough that I don't think a rumour like that could take hold now."

He hauls himself up to sit on the railing, swinging his legs over. "So, tell me about Deacon, then. Sounds like he made an impression. Or was this one of those Men are from Mars and I don't know where I'm from but it sure as fuck isn't Mars moments?"

"Yeah," Una agrees. "That makes sense. It's harder when people don't actually have a really good sense of who you are. And that's even before the whole rewriting thing. I'd nope out too. There's other places to work, spend time, or just generally be."

On the other hand, do those other places have nice big decks with sunshine and views and beer? So that's a trade-off.

She watches as Ravn situates himself, and then laughs, head shaking. "He-- Fuck, I don't know. Every smug, arrogant cliche a police detective has ever run into. I probably should have brought doughnuts instead of cookies just to complete the stereotype. He really rubbed me the wrong way. I went there, wanting to thank him for doing a nice thing, and..." That red head shakes again. "I'm glad Ava likes him, but I don't think I'll be inviting him over for an Oak Avenue barbecue. I'm not even sure it's a different planet; different galaxy, maybe. Different universe. Not my type, and I mean that in a purely 'person' kind of way, nothing more than that."

"Give the bloke a second chance if you bump into him but don't go looking, would be my advice." Ravn nods and then chuckles as bit. "I tend to feel like that around some of the really manly men myself. Probably because some of them -- enough of them -- have assumed that I'm either some kind of pretty boy weaseling my way around 'their women', or some gay asshole they need to take their homophobia out on. Trying to not judge someone just because they look like a stereotype, though -- if Brennon likes the bloke, he's got to have qualities somewhere. The real assholes don't have friends, only sycophants."

He fishes in a pocket and eventually finds his cigarettes and zippo. A flicker of a light, and then a glance at the smoke to make certain it wafts away from the person he's talking to. "Those blokes intimidate me a bit. Took me a while to get used to de la Vega, for instance. Never said or did a thing at me. Just the whole -- very macho man. And acting Chief of Police at the time which is kind of not really a recommendation in the book of an ex-thief."

Una makes a face, but she nods-- though her nod is plenty reluctant. "I guess," she agrees. "Ava's not stupid. It's not that I think he'd go out of his way to hurt or anything. I'm sure they get along really well. Just--" Just. The big 'just'.

A smile follows, though. Partly for the way that smoke blows just so (good trick!) and partly, likely, for the rest of what Ravn says. She idly runs her fingertips across the condensation on her glass, and acknowledges, "I can see why that would take some time, yeah. But now you seem to get along just fine? I guess that's the point: just because people aren't your preferred kind of people, doesn't mean you can't find some common ground."

Beat. "Which... I would do for Ava. If she dates him. Try, anyway. Not getting along with a person's partner can be shitty to a friendship."

"You can usually find some safe middle ground if both sides want to." Ravn nods his agreement and basks almost lizard-like in the sun. "De la Vega's a good bloke. He's from the school of keep your thoughts private and let your actions do the talking, though. And I'm from the planet of never shut up, with a detour around the moon of police are the people who run you out of town when you try to spend the night at a bus station waiting room. I'm kind of proud that we're friends in spite of how different we are. He's a good guy, and this town would be hell if we didn't have people like us on the force."

He shakes his head, and chuckles slightly; recalling, perhaps, awkward situations of the past. "The type I have the hardest time with though? Women who feel slighted if you're not trying to impress them. The kind who want nothing as much as to have you on your knees just so they can say no."

Una shifts her position, but mostly so that she can draw one leg out from the pretzel configuration she's found herself in, and bring it up so that her bare foot rests upon the edge of her chair, and one hand can idly clasp her skirt-covered knee. "Mm," she agrees. "Well-- good."

Those brown eyes consider Ravn for a moment before she allows herself a laugh: a low chuckle, really. "I'm not much of a fan of them, either. That kind of woman often wants to compete with other women, too. They want you men to try and impress them, and then they want their claws out to make sure that even if they don't want you, they also don't want anyone else to have you either. Apparently not playing the game is not an option."

Wryly, then: "Lord what fools these mortals be."

Ravn blurtlaughs. He can't help it; the solemnity, and indeed, the wryness gets him. As does the familiarity of the sentiment.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath after that. "You're not wrong. Definitely not wrong. Although, you can definitely opt out of playing the game. I'm pretty adamantly refusing to play the game, and from what I've seen, so are you. I don't compete -- and that tends to cut that game pretty short, because competition is the whole point. It helps being as oblivious as Rosencrantz keeps saying I am, I suppose -- I don't even notice most of the time."

Then the Dane tosses a searching look Una's way for a moment. "If somebody gives you a hard time about not wanting to play, tell the rest of us. The only person who gets to decide whether you want to be interested in some girl or bloke is you."

That laughter seems to please Una, despite her own solemnity. Certainly, it makes her smile, the corners of her mouth twisting their way up though she's quick to hide them behind the rim of her glass.

"Mm," she agrees. "It's not happened here, at least, not so far." That she's grateful for this goes without saying, but it's pretty audible in her tone nonetheless. She turns her gaze away, though: staring out over the water rather than meeting Ravn's searching look. "I suspect I'm just naturally a little less oblivious than you are, and more likely-- well, no, I can't say that, probably-- and just likely to be flustered by it, and for some species of competitive female, that's like blood in the water. It's fine. I've got nearly a decade of not playing under my belt, now, and I think I'm getting pretty good at it, despite what other people think."

"Yeah, it is. Men as well. I tend to find those conversations end up pretty short. Somebody starts to act condescending and sort of hint that you might be able to earn their favour if you'd just try a bit harder. All it makes me feel is, you haven't seen the beginning of oblivious yet. I can be positively thick. Numb-skulled, even." Ravn offers a smile that's a tad wry, and has a hint of that same familiarity. "It's possibly the least attractive trait I can imagine -- putting others down to make yourself more appealing. All it tells me is that when they tire of me, they'll do the same to me. Listen to psychos and narcissists when they tell you what they're like."

Una's return smile is equally wry, and this time, she's turning her brown-eyed gaze back on Ravn, acknowledging what he says with a quick little nod. "Being able to see through it is a skill," she admits. "But I think once you start figuring it out-- well, I don't want to say it's easy, but you can definitely start seeing the patterns. I'd much rather people just deal with me honestly. I'm not playing games with anyone, so no one needs to play games with me, whether it's for reasons of sex and relationships, or anything else."

Her nose wrinkles in a way that is slightly exaggerated. "People! But: thankfully not all people."

"Hell no. Most people are pretty decent. And most people are reasonably high functioning adults who have more fun chasing people who actually act like they want to be chased." Ravn quirks an eyebrow all the same. "Is anyone giving you a hard time? Or are we speaking more hypothetically? Because heaven knows I'm no macho man ready to go beat up some asshole, but I can certainly think of other ways to drop a hint."

The abrupt little gasp of laughter that follows Ravn's question may be answer to the question, or maybe it's the (now embedded) idea of macho, macho Ravn going off to beat up some unsuspecting schmuck. Either way, Una's quick to clarify: "No, no-- not here, and not recently. Thankfully. I'm not going to pretend it wasn't at least part of the reason I was so intent on getting out of Seattle, though. I expect that's why I reacted poorly to Deacon: I needed to know, first, that Ava knew, and was on board with, whatever it was he was after."

She shakes her head, wryly, then adds, "No, no issues here. But if it does come up, I may ask you to drop a piano. That's like a hint, right?"

"Nothing subtler than a grand piano dropped from seven stories up," Ravn agrees with a completely straight face. "A locked safe containing a note with the tender words 'LEAVE ME ALONE, BENNY' is another viable option."

He draws on his cigarette. "Everybody's got baggage. Something along those lines was what got me packing a bag one day and just leaving home, too. Although in my case I was in a relationship with her -- until she died. Because I was insecure and self-doubting enough to be grateful that any girl would look at me twice. That's not a mistake I intend to make again -- but it's a lot easier to say at thirty-something than it was at twenty."

Una's face is far less straight, though she manages to forego outright laughter.

"And then she followed you anyway," she remembers, with a wrinkle of her nose and a twist of her mouth. "Though thankfully that's not usually the way of things. I think-- and look, I'm still a few years away from thirty, let alone thirty-something, but this is the impression that I"m getting-- that most things are easier at thirty-something than at twenty, except possibly... no, probably rather, including, putting out your back by stretching wrong."

That's definitely easier at thirty-something than twenty.

"Which is encouraging. Life experience is worth something. I'm glad that your last experience hasn't turned you off the idea altogether, and that you're secure enough to know that some girl out there might. Maybe even three times. Maybe even wait long enough for you to notice and work through to it." A half smile, now: only ever so slightly teasing. "Because I hope there is."

"It helps being old enough to have realised that our culture is wrong: You're not a complete loser if you're not married with at least one kid and a good, secure job at thirty." Ravn nods, smiling. "I mean, that's kind of the standard -- remember being a teenager? The crippling anxiety that you might be undate-able and broken? Helps to grow old enough to realise that it really helps to not be a self-absorbed, self-pitying dick."

He leans back and looks up at the sky. "I'm not worried about it. I know that sounds very blasé but I'm all right with my life as it is. I wouldn't mind falling for someone. I can think of a few people I could possibly entertain the idea of, but that's what it is -- fantasies. Life has a way of working out if you just give it time enough, and do your own part to fix your issues. I sometimes think that the people who seem the most desperate to conquer or convince somebody to try conquering them are the sad ones: Imagine being so desperate to prove that you're fuckable that you'll just about accept any offer coming your way because anything is better than nothing."

Una's nod is interrupted by her wince. Does she remember being a teenager? Yes-- yes, she remembers being a teenager, with all the anxieties that went with it (some of which, of course, have yet to be fully banished).

"That makes sense to me," she agrees, with a grin. "And-- good. I mean, you're absolutely right. There are too many other things to think about in life; and much more important things, too. If happiness is forever tied to someone else, that's just asking for trouble, because it's pretty clear that nothing lasts forever. We don't get to control other people. I mean, we shouldn't even want to. So."

Una's shoulders roll. She flicks a fly (well: tries to) off of her arm. And; "Speaking of. Rosencrantz. Do you think he'd appreciate some cookies? I know you said he was... dealing with some stuff. Or is it weird, if I just start handing out baked goods to people? My inner barometer for these things is not always good."

"Pretty sure he'd blush crimson, eat everything, and go fight a dragon in your name." Ravn grins -- and widely this time because he does know his violin buddy pretty well. "He's not really a big talker either -- about personal stuff, I mean. Full of general life advice. Also full of the kind of kicks in in the arse a bloke like me needs, sometimes. I lock up in anxiety, Rosencrantz gets up and ready to fight whatever the issue is."

He nods his approval. "Rosencrantz's the kind of bloke who will fight the world. See an injustice or an asshole? He's there, taking a bullet for people he likes. Big mouth, genuinely good bloke. Feed him all the baked things and don't be surprised if he starts following you home for more food. Then ring me, because hey, free food."

Una's reaction is a pleased one: bright smile, followed, eventually, by a laugh. "Good," she declares. "I don't need him to talk to me. I mean, genuinely, I'm not a crusader determined to make everyone open up to me. But I like feeding people, and if there are people for whom maybe it will help a little... that's me, I'm in."

Beat. "Besides, we all need a good dragon-killer on standby, from time to time. I like him. I mean, I don't know him well, and I can see why people might decide he's an asshole, but... he seems like good people, and I'm all for that."

"Hey!"

A pause and then an audible laugh.

"Listen!"

Pop culture reference dropped, Ariadne continues on towards the outside deck of Two If By Sea rather than the docks where Ravn's boat is moored. She's outfitted for scraping barnacles by the sneakers and industrial-grade moss-green pocketed cargo pants. The t-shirt beneath her otherwise plain-grey zip-up sweatshirt appears to be a brilliant royal-blue with some white lettering indistinguishable at the moment. A baseball cap sporting the Avalanche's hockey logo completes the deal with her deeply-red hair pulled back.

"So...needing a break already from barnacles?" she asks as she meanders up and, adroitly, hops up to perch on the railing as well. It's a thing of ease for her, balancing on one hip, and she grins between Una and Ravn both. "Or are we scraping other things off the chatter list?"

"Boyfriends, potential," Ravn ticks off an invisible lists. "Rosencrantzes, feeding of. Hints and pianos, dropping. Yeah, saw Una sitting up here looking like a cat in the sun and decided that the rest of the barnacles can wait another hour."

He glances at Ariadne, and then grins even wider. "Looks like you dressed for the mess this is going to be. Going to tell us about the one thing in the animal kingdom that barnacles hold the world record for?"

Una's quick to add explanatory text to Ravn's list, noting, for Ariadne's benefit, "The potential boyfriends belong to neither of us, mind. The pianos are still up for debate. I was just here to sit back and enjoy the sun and my book, but who am I to turn down company, if it means saving aforementioned company for barnacles?"

She toasts the other redhead with her beer (more than half drunk, but who can blame a girl, on a warm spring afternoon like this one?) and adds, "Hey, Ariadne. I promise I'll cheer you on from afar, since I'm clearly not dressed to help." What a shame, having come out here in a sundress, and-- better yet!-- not been called to assist in the first place.

"Drop this factoid on me, go on."

"That's a list," the barista agrees, her grin rustling up a pair of dimples for the pair on the bar deck. She brings her sneakered foot up onto the railing and hugs her knee. Ravn's question has that smile intensifying into the one seen at karaoke only lessened by a few watts.

"Gosh," drawls the marine biologist. "You poor landlubbers, having to cheer us on and live in naivety about the wonderful life of barnacles. You know, I read an interesting paper once about UC Berkley is tracking the shift in oxygen isotopes in fossilized remains of ancient barnacles on the ocean floor. They tend to clump on whale flukes, and act as accidental tracking devices. Turns out that even hundreds of thousands of years ago, the ancestors of the blue and grey whales were migrating along same route. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Her smirk gets toothier. "But Ravn is talking about PENSISES."

Said, of course, just loudly enough, to potentially draw attention while she continues at more conversational volume blithely, "Since the ratio of reproductive organ to animal is record-holding in the case of barnacles."

"By which she means that the damn animal is about the size of a finger at best and yet when I'm cleaning the hull of my boat I get flashed by dicks up to twenty centimeters which is quite frankly making me feel remarkably inadequate." All the straight face and the smoking of a cigarette. "You don't actually see them when the things are dry. So of course my father kicked me into the sea in scuba gear once, to show me. Father-son bonding, you know. Meat market of a gay festival, marine style."

That actually is fascinating, and were it not followed up by something just a tad bit more showstopping, Una might even have follow-up questions: a scientist she is not, but interested in many things? Yes, without question.

The penises, however, were unexpected, and Una's sip of beer poorly timed: she splutters, chokes, and then just begins to giggle, which is probably not helping the drawing of attention, but-- oh well.

"I'm going to go on record," she says, once she's recovered herself (and wiped beer off of her face), "in noting that I do not understand why that is a good father-son bonding experience. 'You have a dick and so do they, but theirs is bigger, comparatively' doesn't make any sense in my head. But. Okay. I've learnt something new for today, and that means today is a success. Thank you, Ariadne."

The barista's own laughter is silvery as it peals out. "I'm here for you and your inability to resist my amazing and sometimes relatively useless compendium of information stored away in here," Ariadne tells Una after she's done making a disturbed face at Ravn's tale. Tap-tap on her own temple to mark her point. Brains. Weird places. The bill of her baseball cap leads her glance back out onto the marina. She marks the others fussing with their boats, again finds Ravn's own boat where it rests, and then looks back again.

"Can't say my father ever did anything like that. Dad jokes, yeah, he's still wicked about those, but now that I can return fire, he's less inclined to yank my chain with them."

"Well, you say that," Ravn murmurs at Una's comment. "And you say it like you think I understand what's bonding about it. Who the hell wants to be reminded that their parents have a sex life? Isn't the fact that you exist proof enough that at least one of them does?"

He hitches a shoulder. "My old man was big on bonding experiences. Every three months or so he'd catch a case of let's be real men, son, and drag me off somewhere to do manly things. And then he'd be reminded that what he had was an asthmatic son who hated deer hunting, tuna fishing, alpine skiing, reef diving, and so on. He told me about barnacles because he thought it'd inspire me. You know. Little guy, big dick."

"Your amazing and rarely useless compendium of information is a welcome part of my life," Una tells Ariadne, one corner of her mouth twitching up though the sentiment seems otherwise genuine. Her bare toes wiggle against the wood of her chair, and her fingertips tug idly at the folds of her skirt; both seem to be unconscious gestures.

"The fact that I didn't have a dad left me in happy obliviousness as to parental sex, and I was always grateful for it. At twenty-five, I'm still very happy to have no reason to believe in anything but an immaculate conception, thank you very much. Seriously, though-- that's fucked up, Ravn. Though." Pause. "I'm not sure I understand how that would be inspiring. I'm not the biologist here, but I'm pretty sure knowing that some other little guy has a big dick doesn't... well." Change anything. You know.

"Look, never mind. Fucked up. That's the end."

Ariadne pulls her mouth to one side and arches a brow, very clearly in agreement with Una's sentiments about this terrible attempt at bonding.

"I've got a little sister, so I was never in the dark as far as my parents and their antics." Her hand gestures off of her knee before returning to wrap around it. The leg left down to hang as counter-balance on her railing-perch idly swings back and forth, dragging sneaker-toe on the concrete patio. "But...inspiring? Dunno about inspiring, unless you want to look at it from the perspective of a species knowing how to take advantage of its ever-changing environment. Barnacles don't swim like fish. If they want to reproduce, they've got to get lucky, if you will. It means getting those genes out far and wide and relying on the tides. Your genes aren't going to get very far if you keep it in your pants." She shrugs, still vaguely amused by the little lift of her mouth-corners.

"Small kid, big dick energy, something, something. Look, it didn't make sense to me when I was thirteen, either." Ravn hitches a shoulder and stubs out his cigarette -- and for once, he doesn't pocket the stub but tosses it into one of the fire pits to go the way of firewood, later. "Anyhow, we were kind of talking about how some people just give you -- the feeling you might never speak the same language as them, even if you are in fact both speaking English."

He draws up one knee to sit there on the railing like a lounging teenager. "And about which blokes seem pretty safe to take a batch of cookies to without them getting the wrong idea, and which blokes you should get donuts instead."

Una looks very much as if she'd like to burst out laughing again, particularly as Ariadne makes her last comment, but-- she restrains herself. Good Una, bake a cookie. Instead, she buries her smile into her beer for several long seconds.

Ravn's continuation-- or rather, his change of the topic -- draws her gaze back up, and she nods, splaying fingers idly atop her knee. "And which blokes, to borrow the word for purposes of extending the analogy, you should probably avoid baked goods with altogether. I think I can safely feed Ravn anything, now, without him getting the feeling that he's being fattened up... though he is being fattened up, just for a different purpose. But the language bit is interesting. People's brains tick in completely different ways, and some of those ways are definitely not compatible."

Her attention shifts between Ravn and Una again, indicative of how she's listening and trying to figure out the individuals within the context. Thankfully, there's one of the railing pillars behind her back; Ariadne moves an arm to simply rest on her drawn-up knee, her fingers dangling down limp-wristed, while she aligns her spine against the pillar.

A shrug. "Yeah, everyone's got a different brain behind their skull and eyes. It's...a daunting thing to consider sometimes and makes the fact that we can all coexist to some extent even more amazing. Cookies, or donuts, are a statement though which should be thought through carefully first, yeah." Her golden-hazel eyes, shadowed by the bill of her cap, return to the others again from watching a seagull drift by. "In my opinion, it's providing a resource. Food. Hell, how many animals use that as a courtship technique? 'I can provide', it says. I can't blame the under-wiring of the human brain to maybe jumping to that conclusion and then...yeah, you'd be at the mercy of the other person's interpretation unless you're clear as fucking crystal about the intent. Somebody I don't need to be bringing cookies to?"

"From what I'm picking up it's more a matter of no one else needs to be bringing cookies to Ava Brennon, just to stay with the metaphor." Ravn nods slightly, and taps his gloved fingers against the railing. This is where he usually steals a sugar packet or plays with his plastic cigarette, but his cargo shorts offer neither. "But, well, given that at least neither Una nor I plan to court her, we feel pretty safe we're not in opposition. So unless you're planning to put your ticket in the hat, you probably don't need to worry either."

Ariadne's drawing out of the metaphor draws a somewhat disquieted look from Una: caught somewhere between discomfort and outright betrayal. "Well fuck," she says, with concision. "Now you're going to have me second-guessing every package of cookies I bake to take somewhere. That was a metaphor, not a 'Una has learned through utter disaster not to feed people' story, though I still won't be taking Deacon any more cookies."

Well. It was half a metaphor. A metaphor Una had already made not-a-metaphor, but still. And now? Now it's a shitty one, drawing Una to drop her foot back the ground, and smooth her skirt carefully over knees drawn together.

Ariadne isn't so distracted by the landing of a nearby gull, hopeful for french fries, to miss the expression on Una's face. She ends up wince-smiling in her fellow redhead's direction.

"My bad. I didn't mean to turn it into that. I don't think everyone is going to treat your gifts of baked goods like that, Una, I really don't. Observe." And she spreads her hands out to either side of herself as if she were presenting herself on-stage. "My misanthropic, distrustful streak fed weekly by working public food retail. You," a point at Una, " -- always mean well, hon, and at the very least, Ravn and I know it. Fuck anybody else who wants to twist your good will on itself and may they get a bad case of sugar ants in their kitchen for it. It's also me missing the metaphor," Ariadne adds, not too embarrassed to admit it by the shrug. "So there's that. I'm not giving out cookies either, to stick with the metaphor."

A beat. "But we also don't need me trying to bake," she then laughs, now pinking a little at her cheeks. "It's...some science I don't understand. House-frau, me? Nooooooope."

"Don't look at me, I am the master of eating at the diner or nuking TV dinners," Ravn says with a laugh. "I actually have this deal with Kinney -- he cooks, I clean. Because bloody hell, I'm a disaster in a kitchen. I'm so bad that Gabriella across the street once came over and spent an entire evening trying to teach me the basics of roasting a chicken just to make sure I eat something not junk food now and then."

He smiles lightly. "As for being safe to bring cookies to? Yeah, I think I can say I am that. To get me thinking in that direction, you'd probably have to bring me red velvet cake cut into heart shapes, wrapped in red foil with red silk ribbons embroidered with the words 'TAKE ME TIGER' in sparkly pink. And even then, I'd probably wonder if you got the packets mixed up somehow."

Una's moody stare off into the distance, complete with flushed cheeks and rueful expression, softens a little as Ariadne speaks-- and then Ravn, too. By the end of it, she's smiling again: still a little rueful, but at least acknowledging the points that have been made. It helps that Ravn's last remark has all-but made her laugh out-loud. "You do realise I'm now half-tempted to make that cake for you, Ravn. Just to fuck with you. Only now it'd be an in-joke that no one else would get, I guess, because you know I know-- you know. Whatever." Words. Words are hard.

"Okay," she adds, glancing from one to the other, then giving a sharp little nod. "Okay, you're right. But it's a good reminder to be a little careful, lest I accidentally cause issues. Friendship cookies only." Both hands rest flat upon the top of her table, currently ignoring what's left of her beer in lieu of stretching out, and perhaps-- just perhaps-- giving her something solid to connect with. Everything is fine. Cookies are still cookies.

Beat. "Though, of course, your Gabriella story just proves Ariadne's point, doesn't it? She wanted to cook her way into your pants, Ravn."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with those frozen turkey pot pies," Ariande argues idly for the sake of it by her smirk, before Ravn expounds upon striped cakes with glitter and glam. It makes the barista bust out laughing again really rather helplessly, loud enough that she claps a hand over her own mouth in turn. "'m sorry! Sorry!" she claims between chortling spurts, her own ears turning red because it was probably best not to laugh at the imagery, but at the same time --

-- take me tiger. She's never going to forget this visual.

And, frankly, Una's last observation just sends the barista into more reeling laughter. It almost costs her the perch on the railing but for some quick adjustments of poise and then Ravn and Una might as well be dealing with a kookaburra there.

"I had no idea red velvet cake was that funny," Ravn says, with an impressed glance Ariadne's way. "Now I kind of want to see you do it too, Una. Except, instead of bringing them to me, bring them to her."

Then he chuckles and shakes his head. "Gabriella was seeing one or two other blokes already, I doubt it. She did have this idea that we should go on a date, but I don't think that was about me -- felt more like it was a pride issue for her. And she did tell me at some point she made a bit of a thing out of getting men to buy her dinner because men always leap to certain conclusions about cute blondes. I don't know, cooking seems a long and messy way to work up to asking someone for a tumble. Which, incidentally, she didn't."

"Put the word out," says Una, whose composure is definitely rocked by Ariadne's mirth. "If anyone does want to send a message to our Ravn, hire me, and I'll help them say it with cake. Just don't make me deliver it, or it'll get terribly confusing." On the plus side, this particular mental image has definitely helped ease her disquiet the rest of the way, and that knee? It gets drawn back up to her chest again, toes once again ready to happily wiggle on her chair. Life's not so bad.

"Well, that would be the point: you were supposed to ask her. I mean-- well, no. I know Gabriella, but not that well. I can't judge. In fact, I'm probably the worst person in the world to make statements of fact in this kind of situation-- carry on!"

Finally, finally, Ariadne gets a hold of herself and her laughter peters out into a few blown pufts of air. Wiping at the corner of an eye, she sighs and then gives both of her friends another one of those wince-grins. "Sorry, god, that hit me right in the funny bone. The imagery, just..." A circled gesture off to one side elucidates aforementioned imagery and dismisses it all in one.

"Eh-heh. Hmm. I don't know this Gabriella at all, actually, but I can follow her logic, unfortunately. Let's look at the case of assumptions about redheads." Such a dry look in the direction of her friends over invisible glasses, not aimed at them, but asking for solidarity in this point. "Were I wanting to take advantage of society's assumptions? I could get away with a lot of shit." Another shrug isn't apologetic. "Just human nature, folks. Now, Una: I'd like to make a request for a cake with bluish frosting and lots of glitter on it. Like, copious amounts of glitter. Delivered to a house on your street."

Cue puckish, rosebud smirk in Ravn's direction with a glance at his hair in particular.

Cue gloved middle finger. Mission accomplished this week too.

Then Ravn nods and hitches a shoulder. "You might be right. I wouldn't know. She didn't suggest it so I didn't have to decline, and that's it as far as I am concerned. I think I'm less used to the whole idea that blonde means sex bomb because well -- half my country's blond. And blokes don't get the redhead thing to the same extent, or at least I don't. I do get 'what's a nice young man of means doing not married yet' back home, and here I occasionally get 'black and gloves? Smack me around, papi'. But probably not to the same extent that women have to deal with."

"Ah yes, our fiery tempers and passionate natures," agrees Una, expansively, reclining backwards in her chair and reaching, at the same time, for her beer (it doesn't go well; she ends up having to pause the recline, grab for the beer, and then re-attempt the whole thing. Short arms, man.) She's got a smirk for that middle finger, but notes, "I'm not sure he'd touch anything delivered to his house about now, isn't that right, Ravn? Unexpected boxes are forbidden. But maybe in a few weeks, when the memory-- and the glitter-- has worn off..."

She makes a face, then. "God, the amount of nicknames I got in school for being a redhead. Carrot-top, Ginger Spice, Annie."

And then there's a beat, and she laughs. "'Tampon', later. I guess that one probably definitely doesn't get thrown at guys."

For the middle finger, Ravn gets a sassy, good-natured wink back. Touché.

And, as usual, she can't help the little snort-laugh about the gloves. It might never be helped. However, she reorients on Una with a quick speed of turn of head, mouth parted in shock. "Tampon?! Jesus Christ, what the fuck? Oh my god. Una, seriously? " A sniff and she folds her arms beneath her chest, mouth pursed. "Jealousy is such an ugly thing. Rare hair color, people want to rag about it. Thank you, sir, for being a gentleman about it," she adds towards Ravn in particular. "Never once have I heard you make a crack and it's greatly appreciated. You have class."

"What? I'm a redhead too, sort of." Ravn laughs softly. "That said? There's teasing someone in a friendly fashion, and there's being gross. Tampon? Seriously? Do we go around calling the brown-haired people shitheads?"

He shakes his head. "I got called bean stalk as a kid. And that little emo asshole, and quite a few other unflattering things because much as I insisted on going to a regular school or not at all, my parents sure as hell thought I should be at a posh boarding school somewhere, and the only reason I wasn't was that I kept running away from them. Even then, you can dress and talk like the other kids but when you get picked up at the end of the day by the family private chauffeur, you're fucked as far as fitting in goes."

"Well, we go around calling some of the brown-haired people shitheads," Una points out, philosophically. That this once bothered her very deeply is probably not hard to tell, but it was a long time ago (sort of), and clearly she's reached the point where it's no longer something to be humiliated over. "But-- I know. It's awful. And once one person has come up with that particularly delightful sobriquet... well, that's teenagers for you. Fuck teenagers. I happen to like my red hair. It's probably the one thing I've always been really happy about, you know?"

She pauses long enough to sip and swallow her beer, though there's next to none of it left, now, and sets the glass back down on the table. "Yeah, there's no way a kid at my school getting collected by a private chauffeur would've gotten away without a ridiculous amount of ragging. Hell, even getting dropped off by a parent in a car of any kind was bad enough." Brown eyes flick back towards Ariadne. "And what did you get teased about, Ariadne? Or... were you so much of a bad ass no one dared touch you? I can picture that too."

Ariadne's moue has shifted empathetic by the time Ravn finishes explaining his own young adulthood woes. Her gaze shifts from Una, lingering on her fellow redhead and back to the Dane. Back and forth, back and forth, her sneaker of balancing hung leg swings, drawing a barely-audible sound on the cement.

Una brings another chirp of a laugh from the barista and raised brows to boot. "Oh man, I'm...complimented, Una, thank you," she says genuinely. "Me, so bad-ass that nobody touched me? Hah." Shaking her head, the barista removes the cap from her head in order to scratch at the back of her ponytail. "God, no, I wasn't untouchable. Who's untouchable as a teenager?" she asks rhetorically. "Braces. Bane of my existence for a few years...and it never did fix the tooth, not totally." Parting her lips, she allows the others to see the front tooth still twisted just that much. "I...had to teach myself to smile again, in a way, after I got them off. So, if I'm smiling these days? I mean it."

"Being a teenager sucks. It's one long parade of anxieties, failed expectations, and disappointment." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "I wouldn't go back if you paid me. I was so much of an introvert asshole as a teenager that when I actually got pulled back to teenagehood in a Dream here? Rosencrantz was a teenager in that Dream too, and his first reaction to meeting me was socking me one."

He taps another little rhythm on the railing. "All that said, anyone giving either of you a hard time for your hair colour is an idiot. And double the idiot for doing it in a time where hair colour is ultimately something you can buy. It's pretty safe to assume that if someone has whatever hair colour they have, they want to have it, so shut up and if you don't like it, it wasn't for you."

Una's wince answers Ariadne's explanation, though it comes with a twist of her smile, too. "My mom was so glad when my teeth grew in straight. I mean, so was I, but-- I guess it was more about the money, for mom. And for me, it was just knowing that was one less thing people could get at me over, even though half the school had braces at one point or another."

I've never understand," is an addendum, aimed idly towards Ravn, "anyone who thought high school was the best time of their life. Or when we graduated, and everyone was so sad. I'd probably want to punch me, too. But what was Rosencrantz like, aside from being inclined towards punching you, which... fits, I figure."

"At one point I wanted purple hair. Or pink. But... no, I can't really imagine being anything but a redhead. This is me. And it's definitely for me. I don't get that either: changing yourself to suit someone else's preferences. I don't always love me, but screw anyone who wants something else. This is what I've got."

"Nobody in their right mind thinks high school was the best time of their life. College or bust," opines the marine biologist before she settles her Avalanche ballcap back on her head. Her gaze flicks to Una and she grins. Solidarity indeed.

"And yeah, Rosencran -- I can't do that, man, Itzhak," she amends, then laughing at herself. "Itzhak punching someone? I can see it. Sorry, Ravn." Good-natured shrug in his direction. "But Ravn's blue-tinted hair, however, had me thinking about playing with my own because you only live once, right? Imagine this glorious mane," and she gestures at her own hair with the funning grandiose meant to be vaguely self-remonstrating in the process, " -- but with a panel of peacock colors through the back. Like, teal to blue to purple. Then people can really complain about the hair and I'll be like, bitch, please." Theatrical sniff. "Like Una said: screw anybody else, I'm me, we're we, and they can suck it. Boom." This accented by a flip-off of the nearest seagull.

The bird, standing there, tilts its head. French fry?

Sorry, Ravn is not even formally on the premises and certainly possesses no fried goodies to surrender up. Can get you a dead barnacle later, feathers. "How was Rosencrantz, heh. Think angry. Lanky, angry kid from a poor family, playing his violin like it was going to save him from being a Jewish kid on the Lower East Side. Probably already stole a car or two, that kind of kid. And then there's me in that Dream, snot-nosed exchange student who can barely communicate, refusing to play my violin when he's just come in because he heard me play very well. And he knows -- we're the same age, probably about equally good or bad, but one of us can have all the private tutors he bloody well can convince his parents to pay for, and the other is probably going to have to toss that violin and get a real job. Let's just say we didn't get along. He was pretty damn apologetic once we met as adults again, and I just -- couldn't stop laughing. I mean, it bloody well hurt but it was also so... I would have punched me."

College. Una makes a bit of a face, nose wrinkled and all, but doesn't comment. Maybe college would have been-- as her mom probably said-- the 'making of her'. Or maybe it would've been more awkwardness and failure to blend. Too late to know, now.

"Do it," she's prompt enough in telling Ariadne. "That'd look amazing. I'll even help, if you like, if you decide you don't want to pay a salon a million bucks for it."

Ravn's story has her tilting her head to the side in consideration, fingertips tapping out their own message upon the tabletop where, alas, there are no french fries either: just her mostly-empty glass and that closed book. "Oof. Yeah, I'd probably punch you too, in that case. I mean-- outwardly, you two are an odd couple, friendship-wise, even now. But I can see it, too. 'cause the outward's not always the bit that matters."

Denied French fries, the seagull then putters on down the dock, headed for the boats and some distracted person's sandwich. It's inevitable. Flying rats will get those tidbits.

"Ooh...yes, Una, I think I'll take you up on that. I'll bring the supplies and some food?" Ariadne offers to her fellow redhead. She then nods and shrugs agreement with the premise of, unfortunately, probably popping young Ravn in the nose for his attitude, though this comes with a half-smile to smooth out the opinion.

"Hey, need a third pair of hands, I'm game. I don't like dying my own hair but helping out? Why not, sounds like an excuse for a bottle of wine, some take-out, and a good time." Ravn grins slightly and cants his head. "Unless of course you want to make it a girls' night thing."

Then he glances at Una and nods, a little more serious. "We are an odd couple. Seems to be good for me at least. He gives me the kind of kick in the arse I need sometimes. I tell him to back down and breathe sometimes. And of course we bonded hard over the whole violins thing. It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't play but it's a pretty big deal. Of course I'm not performing like Rosencrantz does but, it's still fantastic."

"I'm glad," says Una, of the relationship between Ravn and Itzhak. Simple, really. She is glad.

There is something in her expression, when that spur-of-the-moment offer is taken up. It's not relief, as such, and not gratitude, but-- well, there's something there, subtle but present. "Bring supplies and food, I'll make dessert, and--" whatever it is that's going on behind those brown eyes, she's not so distracted that she can't give Ravn an appraising glance, then lift a brow towards Ariadne. "I don't know. What do we think? I'm surprised Ravn's willing to be around anything that colourful, and yet..."

Beat. "Your call, Ariadne. It's your hair!"

"Ditto," comes the quiet, sincere echo after Una. Ariadne is indeed simply glad as well.

The barista's brows then lift. "I'm down with it. I'll bring supplies and food, Una's got dessert, and you..." Ravn is considered in a manner saved from being haughty by the theatricality of it. "You bring the drinks? Non-alcoholic stuff too, since I do not want buzzed hands near my hair. I'm not saying either of you would do this, but just making my point," she notes. "But yeah, Ravn, bring beer and some other stuff. That cream soda you had at your place before? That stuff was good. Something like that -- or rootbeer, Thomas Kemper. That's the good stuff, fite me. We won't dye your hair, Ravn, promise," the redhead then laughs, twitching her sneaker toe along the cement again.

"I refuse to subject anyone to rootbeer but I can absolutely find non-alcoholic stuff. I feel like I should point that beer is not non-alcoholic though." Ravn laughs softly; trust him, he was a bartender for a month.

Then he winks at Una. "I'm not afraid of colour. I'm practical. I don't really have a sense for it -- and for a very long time I lived in a backpack. It's useful that everything you own can go in the same machine at the laundromat. And now that I have space to own more clothes than I can carry? I still don't have a good eye for colour, and I hate feeling like some kind of walking bill board."

"The actual beer, or wine, or whatever can come post-dye," promises Una. "Because no girl-and-girl-adjacent night," please note that was girl AND and not girl ON, " works properly without some alcohol, sooner or later. Non-alcoholic beer is made of sadness and woe, though, so definitely something other than that, up first." She's pleased. "What's wrong with rootbeer, though?"

And for Ravn? "Pfft. You just need some friends with an eye for colour to take you shopping. Not wholesale colour, mind, because that might be too much of a shock to the system. But a few pieces, here and there, to break up the black. One colour at a time, plus black, and you're solid. And it's still easy for laundry because these days colours don't run much anyway, as long as you're not going for anything too light. But... you do you, I suppose."

A bark of laughter from Ariadne. "Hey! Hey! Your terrible taste in beer is left to beer alone, buddy! I demand rootbeer!" A gesture at Una for her own thoughts on matters which clearly supports the point:

Rootbeer is required.

"And Una's got a point. It can be a thing of shopping or, if it's easier, little gift like things that accumulate at birthdays. A scarf. Other gloves. Socks. They don't have to be dramatic statements in color. Leave those to Itzhak because daaaaaaammmmmn, son, does he do splashes of color. Not a bad thing, I note," the barista does indeed note.

"Let me have my damned illusion that I can pack my stuff and be gone in half an hour if I want to," Ravn grouses, a bit theatrically. "And besides, how am I going to wingman for Rosencrantz if I steal his thunder? Because bloody hell, that man can rock practically anything."

Beat. "Also, I wear tennis socks. They're not black. So there. Kitty Pryde ate my black socks."

Then he shakes his head because one thing a Dane does know? Root beer. Root beer is evil. "Look, root beer tastes like tooth paste and like an awful plastic-like chewing gum that was all the rage in the 80s. It's a horrible evil taste. It's like having your mouth washed out in industrial waste. It's like being forced to drink the stuff dentists brush on your teeth, the fluor solution. It should be acid green and bubbly for how it tastes. Indulge your evil habits if you must but I am not buying that stuff for anyone I like."

Rootbeer, damn it.

Una opens her mouth, ready to scoff, but can't even seem to manage that. "I-- you-- what?" The look she gives Ariadne is over-dramatic, and positively wild. Dark beer and now this?

"You, sir, have no taste whatsoever."

And also, picking up that other thread of conversation without so much as missing a beat: "I've seen the photos of Itzhak in Halloween costume-- that's definitely true. But small bits of colour aren't going to distract. You can do this. I'm half-convinced, now, that your cat is on our side. She's making a statement."

Tennis socks. Ariadne's already tittering. Tennis socks. What a European term to use.

And, then, Una's look, full of theatrical censure and the barista can't handle it. Cue more cackling, enough that her hanging leg retracts a bit and her arms end up one about her stomach, one lifting a hand to cover most of her laughter. Most of it. She needs a moment, give her a moment.

Moment passes and she manages, "I can't believe Kitty Pryde ate your black socks, aaaaahah-hah-hah -- fuck it, you're getting a pair of pineapple socks now, Ravn!"

"Yes, she is. And the statement is, more salmon or your socks get it." Ravn winks.

Then Ariadne is all but falling off the railing laughing and he looks at her in amazement -- and then in horror. "What did I ever do to you?"

Laughter is contagious: once Ariadne starts, Una can't help herself, and she's gone too (but at least she doesn't have a railing to nearly fall off of).

"Oh fuck," she says, trying to catch her breath. "Fuck, you're doomed, now, Ravn. Doomed."

"You existed, my friend," Ariadne manages back to Ravn before devolving into howling again. Look, Una's laughing too, okay? It's helpless, how the barista slips into belly-laughing at this point, barely able to keep her seat.

Does that seagull ever get a sandwich? A measly French fry?

The world may never know.