2022-04-19 - Monday Night Is Pizza Night

For all the time Una spends in the kitchen, some nights are not for cooking-- or even reheating the inevitable leftovers. She tries not to do it too often, because that's expensive and she's doing her best to full frugally on her inheritance, but... some nights are definitely pizza nights.

Despite being alone, the redhead has co-opted one of the bigger tables, and that's probably because she's updated her status on Friendzone with an invitation: not as direct as a text message, but more of a 'yay, pizza night! come and eat with me!' only with better punctuation, because it turns out she actually does care about this, most of the time. For now, she's got a glass of water and a book, and a whole table to herself, and there are worse things in the world.

Much worse.

Whether the sound of a Dane plonking himself down in a chair opposite is on the list of worse things is anyone's guess. Here he is, though -- Ravn Abildgaard, hipster hobo, holding a glass of the house's red in one gloved hand. No one is surprised in the slightest that he's wearing black; shirt, blazer, jeans. Couple of new ginger highlights in his hair hints that he's either seen a hair dresser today or -- more likely -- caught a lot of spring sunshine on his boat.

"I ordered a Meat Lover," he says by means of greeting. "I have no idea whether they can do a good one. But it's always a safe choice. Put lots of fatty, unhealthy stuff on my pizza, add cheese. Can't go wrong with that."

"The whole point of pizza is to be as unhealthy as humanly possible, right?" Una sits up, her bookmark slipping back in between the pages of her novel so that her fingers can otherwise let it close, no damage (it's a library book; it's probably already been thrown around a few times and repaired, but it won't be necessary after Una is done with it). "Mine does have mushrooms on it, but the sentiment is otherwise the same. I spent the afternoon in the garden, growing vegetables, so I think I deserve to completely ignore them for the evening."

That's how it works, right?

"While I am certain that healthy, low-fat, vegetarian pizzas exist, I will argue that if you order one, you should just have gone out to pasture with the other cows." Ravn smirks. He's got nothing against vegetarian food, but you don't walk into a pizzaria for kale, just like you don't walk into a vegan restaurant and ask for the beef option.

Some people probably do. Some people want to watch the world burn. Ravn is not one of them.

He leans in. "Whatcha reading? I have a hot date planned for myself tonight -- just me, Kitty Pryde, and the newest Ken Follett. He's perfect evening reading because his historical mistakes are enough rage fuel to keep reading, and the romance plot is the same every time so it doesn't keep me awake with excitement."

"Vegan cheese," says Una, making a deep, disgusted-looking face. "I mean, I guess if you're vegan, it's better than no cheese at all, but..."

But is it really?

"Your hot dates sound like mine, though the only company I ever tend to have is my one-eyed teddy bear." Una has no shame in admitting the existence of aforementioned bear: there are a lot of things about herself that embarrass her, but the continued presence in her life of this bear is clearly not one of them. "Ken Follett... he was 'Pillars of the Earth', wasn't he? I liked that. Do you really read for the rage? I had to stop reading books set in Seattle when it was clear no one had even bothered to look up a map. I'm doing historical fiction too, though:" She turns the book over to nudge it a little closer: Edward Rutherfurd's 1987 absolute doorstep of a novel, Sarum. "I'm a sucker for a family tree."

"Pillars of the Earth, yes. Which is a great novel, to be honest. It makes some errors that you need to be an architect or a historian to really notice, and they don't get in the way of the plot. And then he wrote two sequels both of which tell the exact same story, just changing names and moving each a century or two ahead." Ravn chuckles. "And I kind of had to read them because they're the kind of historical novel that my students will have read. They repeat his mistakes as gospel truth. Which is toe curling at times, though not quite as bad as those times I end up having to gently explain to someone that Vikings is not a historically accurate docu-drama no matter how it's made by the History Channel."

He sips his wine. "I'm enough of a literature snob to think that in a time and age where Google Maps and Wikipedia exist, at the very least check those. Not everyone has access to, or time for, or awareness of the existence of, some obscure university library. But bloody hell, if it can be Googled in five minutes, do it."

Una's tone is dry and amused when she says, "Well, once you've found a formula that works... I guess that makes sense, though, that people read that kind of book and just assume that it's all true. In a way, worse with books than TV, I think? Because there's this idea that books are somehow on a higher level than TV, and while I'd personally rather read a book... there's a lot of room for people to go wrong. And worse, I guess, the further back in history you go. We don't actually know a lot of things for sure. How can we? So of course things get made up, even in reasonably well-researched novels, and..."

She breaks off, curling her fingers around her glass of water, instead. "But-- yes. Googling. It's really not that hard to check if x existed in y year, or how bus routes work, or whatever else. Not doing it is just lazy."

"I'll forgive some unfortunate author for not realising that a particular kind of cotton was not grown in a particular location until eight years later, certainly." Ravn nods his agreement. "Particularly if the novel I find the error in is very obviously not trying to pass itself off as historical fact. But if you're not going to do any kind of research, maybe just take that little step and make it Alternate Universe or inspired by, and you're home safe."

He hitches a shoulder. "Take the Marvel Cinematic Universe? It doesn't interest me a lot but it also doesn't bother me -- and that, if anything, does a number on Norse myths. But it doesn't pretend to be real. Any fanboy who stands up in history class and starts talking about Loki the adopted son of Odin is going to get laughed out. Still a fun watch. And of course I have all the issues as a Scandinavian because Vikings got hijacked so hard by the Alt-Right to represent some kind of macho male ideal that never actually existed."

"Or turn it into fantasy, where you can do whatever you like," agrees Una, with a grin. "Which-- I guess that's what Marvel has done, too, isn't it? Low fantasy, because it's still earth, most of the time, but fantasy nonetheless. So maybe there will be the occasional confused person who stands up and starts talking about Loki like that, but most will pause because the rest of the movie is obviously fantasy and... maybe, just maybe, that means it's not all real."

Her expression twists slightly, as if she's trying to say, without actually saying, that it's not like she means the Norse mythology is real either, except as a mythology, but if that's the case, she does not actually say it out-loud in any sense.

"Ah yes. When men were men, and women were women, and the world order was as it should be. Of course."

Ravn does catch that look. He chuckles and nods. "Yes. Well, it's obviously still mythology. But it is real in the sense that people believed in it, and some people still do. So it's as real as any other religious story book, or trickle down economics." Beat. "I take that back. Trickle down economics were always fantasy."

He offers a small, tired smile. "Yes. When men were grunting lugs in bear skins and horny helmets and women did whatever it is women do all day when they're not on their knees with their mouths open, something, something. So, speaking of enraged females, did you see Jules take off after some bloke at the salmon cannery the other night, or had you not wandered in yet?"

"Right," agrees Una. She's serious, except for how she breaks out low laughter for the mention of trickle down economics; her nose wrinkles for that. Fact.

"Of course. Well, fuck the alt-right. No one should listen to what they have to say anyway." This doesn't mean it doesn't still matter, though, and Una's expression is sympathetic for it.

Not that it lasts, not when there's Jules, and the ghost lobster, and... "It was before I arrived, but I heard all about it. Della got a photo, and some video even, but she made us promise it wouldn't end up on Friendzone this time. I wish I'd had the full experience, though. Jules is terrifying when she's in that mode."

"I can't not hear what they have to say given that my students are largely unhappy young men who feel abandoned by society. Like kibble tossed to sharks. I have to know whatever crap Peterson or Molyneux tossed out into the so-called Manosphere lately, so I can counter it." Ravn makes a face. "It's hard sometimes. Particularly Peterson. He thinks lobsters are the ultimate life form and frankly? I'd like to invite him to come participate just so I could toss his skinny, Canadian ass into the Bay. Or indeed, introduce him to Jules. Remind me that I'm never arguing with Jules? Thank you."

Una's little exhale comes with a sharp wrinkle of her nose. "I feel for your students," she says. "I mean, not... not like that. But that they do feel abandoned by society, and have, as a result, started feeling like they're heard by those people. I suppose it would be a bad idea to introduce Peterson to the ghost lobsters, huh?"

Of Jules, she can only grin. "I try to avoid arguing with Jules, too. She's terrifying. But I have sympathy for her, too. I think it's a hard candy shell, protecting her soft, vulnerable belly. In the meantime, she's an exceptional attack-dog when you want one, and I mean that in the very best possible way, because I love her dearly."

Beat. "Also she might bite me, otherwise."

"Blink twice if you're a hostage and afraid to talk." Ravn smirks and sips his wine.

Then he nods his general agreement. "Well, the thing about Jules is that she tends to be right. Invasive species was the argument at the cannery, and invasive species are bad. I'm honestly not sure whether the ghost lobsters count? To the best of my knowledge they do originate from here, but this year. And what kind of effect it will have if they start to spread through the waterways, I have no idea."

He makes a face. "She told me these waters are too cold for lobsters -- the ghost lobsters are crayfish, they're fine -- and I just blanked. Like, of course. You could almost hear that record-scratch stop as reality went shit, and then Officer Penn tells me he got his Mac the Claw from a Seattle deli. I know he told me a month ago he caught Mac in the Bay. It's kind of terrifying to watch, sometimes."

Una blinks once, exaggeratedly, and then hovers, eyes wide, as if ready to blink a second time, but-- no. No second blink. Safe.

Her grin probably says something, too, of course, but then, she might still grin if she were a hostage, right? "Yeah," she agrees, more seriously, tracing a pattern in the condensation on her water glass. "She is. She usually is. Particularly about stuff like this. I guess she grew up knowing these waters; it's all part of her. So when she sees..."

It doesn't make the Mac story any less interesting, though; Una's brows furrow in consideration, her lips just barely parted before her upper teeth come to rest, chewing thoughtfully. "That's still freaky," she says, firmly. "Reality changing itself like that, right in front of you. Just-- rewriting itself. Holy shit. And then people like, uh, Officer Penn? Or the casino guy. They just... don't notice. Don't see what's happening, right under their noses."

"Rhys Evans," Ravn supplies. "He's a nice bloke and he certainly is observant. And by observant I mean extremely observant. But when reality decides to arrange itself, he doesn't get the memo, no. As far as Penn and Evans go, Mac is from a Seattle deli and ghost lobsters were always here."

He sips his wine again. "Which reminds me, we should go talk to him about those falcon rings sometime. If he has noticed them -- that's a bleed I don't like. Both times I've seen silver falcons it was been in Dreams, and somebody ended up murdered. I don't like them happening to the 'normal' folks, and I don't like that in that second Dream, I wore one. It feels like I've been signed up for something without getting to read the small print or even agreeing to join."

"Right--," Una agrees. "Rhys Evans." She tilts her head just slightly to the side, her expression half a question, perhaps relating to the 'extremely observant' remark, given the timing, but she doesn't specify it out-loud.

Instead, "Yes. We should. It's-- one thing for these things to happen in Dreams, which I don't particularly like but I'm getting used to, but another entirely if it happens in real life, too. What made you ask the question in the first place? I obviously linked that Dream to Rhys when we meet him, in the sense of 'oh, yes, that's the casino, I've been there in a Dream but not in real life' but it would never have occurred to me to ask about that. I definitely don't like the fact that you had one either."

The whole thing is troubling. Una looks rather as if she wishes she'd gone for something harder than plain water, but, oh well.

Ravn chews his lip. "Gut feeling? General experience from this town, that if you can think of a worse alternative, it's probably the right one? I think I wanted to see him blink and ask what I was on about. I was not very surprised to be disappointed."

He, at least has wine. Even if it's just a Californian table wine, hardly something to lay a man out flat.

"I feel like a lot of the time -- if you got a bad feeling about something, that bad feeling is probably right. It's the whole knock on wood adage, don't give the Devil ideas. Except here, it's very real, and you might as well prepare for it unless you want to get blindsided."

"... ugh," decides Una, with a sigh. "I mean, yes, that makes perfect sense in the context of this town, and even so. The real question is, did that symbol exist in real life before you mentioned it, or did you mentioning it bring it about?"

She pauses to take a quick sip from her glass, even if it is just water. Sometimes that's enough. Maybe not today.

"I never quite know how to prepare for anything. I think I'm still in the blindsiding state-- I assume that will get easier, in time. I have to remind myself I've only been here, what, four months? Around that."

Ravn shakes his head. "I've been here a year and a half and I feel blindsided all the time. Someone like Brennon? She looks just as blindsided to be honest, and she was born here. I think maybe we learn to recover a little faster once we let go of our ability to be shocked, but that's probably it."

He hitches a shoulder and glances towards the kitchen from whence pizza is still not appearing. "I did my homework on the silver falcon thing, of course. Given we first encountered it in a castle in 1940 I checked the heraldic records -- but while there was a Danish noble house named Falch, it died out in the middle ages. Falk and Falch are relatively common not-noble names in Denmark and Germany. Falcons don't have any specifically significant heraldic meaning -- like most birds of prey they're speed and cunning but, not like the royal lion or similar. And then we see it in the modern era and now I'm just clueless."

Both hands wrap around Una's glass, now, sitting in the table directly in front of her. "I'm not sure that's comforting," she says, with a rueful little laugh. "But okay. Fine. Quicker recovery, I'll take it."

"That was going to be my next question, but right, of course you did. So it's-- completely random? Speed and cunning, some kind of thief, thing? Except you're not a thief, now, so that doesn't make sense either. It's not related to any other countries, either? A completely international thing?"

"Not that I know of, at least. But I suppose that if there is some secret code, the whole point of it is that it's secret." Ravn makes a wry face. "If it is important I'm sure we'll see it again. But until we do -- I still intend to go ask Evans what he's seen, and perhaps hint to him that if he sees more of them, it may be time to beef up security. I'm pretty sure that the Grand Olympic doesn't usually cater to Saudi royalty, but just to be on the safe side."

He makes a helpless like shrug. "Ever feel like your life is zapping from one late-night movie to another now? I do."

"Stupid secrets," Una mutters, but not with any force behind her words: it's true, of course.

"Yes. Constantly. One day it's lobster-fighting, the next it's faeries in the garden, and then it's a casino and maybe a heist and possibly a plot-line I missed when I ran to refill my drink thinking nothing of importance was happening. And I never quite manage to catch up on anything. It's maddening, because I want to, but also... I'm not getting all the necessary information."

Her expression is pained.

"Lobster fighting is just -- what it is, at least. Silly, strange, bizarre. But I don't think there's any big, deep secret. If there is, I didn't get the memo, either." Ravn has to chuckle. The secrets of the lobster fighting mafia. It sounds like a Jim Henson skit with cute, red plushies and a confused Kermit.

He shakes his head. "I don't think any of us get the whole story very often. And I think that's intentional. If we understood it, we might work it out. That's not the point at all. Depending on who's running the show, the point is for us to suffer. Or to be drafted as actors in some kind of weird fantasy. Or both. But it's definitely not knowing what's going on."

"I know," says Una, sighing. "I mean-- yeah. I get that. I understand what's happening, in that sense. I don't have to like it, though. I like context and background and logical consistency; all things that tend to be in short supply around here, unsurprisingly enough. Information's only ever drip-fed, and mostly when it's inconvenient rather than helpful, because of course."

At least she smiles, more or less, as those hands abandon her glass again. "At least I'm not hiding things from my housemate anymore. Della spoke to you, I think? I don't know if she's entirely comfortable with anything yet, unsurprisingly, but she's dealing. So far."

"Yeah. Came over on the porch with a notepad and a lot of questions. Came out to my boat the other night too for a chat." Ravn smiles. "I like her. Kind of intimidating at first, very scientific method. Kind of appreciate that she gets down to business, though. I have a feeling that once she starts to catch her bearings, she's going to be formidable at poking holes in the inconsistencies. A lot of the time, that works, because the stories often have to follow their own rules. All about reversing the monkey's paw."

Una's smile echoes Ravn's. "I like her too," she says. "Especially now that we can talk properly. She's-- not quite like Ariadne, with that scientific approach. But she's very thoughtful about it, and I appreciate that a lot. She's someone I'd be happy to have at my back, in anything that came, you know? Pragmatic."

"Ariadne and Della are both prone to asking questions. They don't go about it the same way, but neither of them take the Veil's shit at face value. That's what I mean, yes." Ravn nods, with another small smile.

And then, because he can't resist: "Any bets on when Dr Brennon will suggest I invite her out?"

A quick, sharp nod: yes, that's an excellent way to sum it up. The questions.

Anything she might have said, though, goes out the window at that question: Una begins to giggle.

"She suggested you and me, once," she notes, once she's managed to stop. "I had to disabuse her of that, too. She just really likes matching you up with people, I think. Any and all single women in her path, or yours."

The door's shoved open, and held while a couple of teenagers dawdle on out. The guy who steps inside looks vaguely irritated, but then doesn't he always? He's in a black tee shirt with number Juan dad scrawled across it, and a hot pepper in a sombrero that looks picked out from a novelty store.

Ambling on up to the counter, Javier tucks his phone into his jeans pocket and gestures to the menu. "Cheese pizza. Don't put anything clever on it, yeah?"

"I know," Ravn says, laughing softly behind a gloved hand. He actually pinks a bit at the idea -- maybe it's a bit awkward to discuss it with the subject. "She suggested that to me as well."

He might have been about to say more on the subject -- probably 'for God's sake, don't tell Ariadne or Della, I'll die' -- when a familiar face strolls in. As always, the priorities are: Read de la Vega's t-shirt, always good for a laugh, then raise a hand in a friendly wave. "Long time no see, Chief. Feel free to join us if you like."

Una's eyes brighten with amusement. For once, she's not blushing, though whatever comment she might have, too, is forestalled: Ravn lifts his hand in greeting, and she swings around her upper body in order to see who it is. "Evening," she calls, echoing the Dane in his greeting. "Maybe if you're here, we'll actually get our pizza eventually."

And, because she can't quite let it go, just quietly: "I won't be offended if you won't be."

The cop does a little double-take when he realises he's being greeted, and manages a quick smile for Ravn. Una gets a mumbled, "Hola," before he turns away to dig out some cash for his food. With his back turned, he adds, "I'm not sure what gives you that impression. Can't exactly arrest anyone for shitty service." A flick of dark eyes to the cashier, "Keep the change."

Then he checks the time on his watch, and ambles over to where the pair are seated, sprawling in beside the folklorist. Whether or not he opts to make room.

Plenty room; just a scrawny Dane on this side of the booth. "I'd worry about what happens to that pizza in the back room, though. I mean, never piss off the line cooks." Ravn sips his red wine and then smiles. "Been a while, Chief. You met Una Irving? She's my neighbour on Oak Avenue. And having been in town for a while, she's as steeped in this town's weird as the rest of us."

"We have met," says Una, pleasantly, and with an uplifted chin that acknowledges Ruiz as he sits. "But only in passing, so I wouldn't expect you to remember. It's okay; I don't expect anyone to be arrested for shitty service, as helpful as sometimes that would be. I'm mostly joking, I promise."

Also? "I could sometimes do with a little less weird, yes. But I'm still here."

"Of course we've met," Javier agrees, looking over the redhead briefly, then settling into the booth and digging his phone back out. "Several times, actually." Ravn's shot an apologetic grimace. "I've been spending more time in Seattle than I'd like, lately. This fucking case."

"I'll take jobs I don't envy someone else for having for five hundred, Alex." Ravn nods his agreement. "Also, I am shit with faces and I default to assuming that so is everyone else. How's life treating you lately, Seattle notwithstanding?"

He taps a gloved finger against his lip. "Things have been -- kind of quiet, for Gray Harbor, on my end lately. Got attempted kidnapped to be sold into extra-dimensional slavery, broke both arms in a gas leak explosion, and faeries have turned our backyards into eternal summer. So, all in all, nice and quiet by local standards."

Una's expression seems momentarily caught between pleased (at being remembered) and awkward (at being remembered, probably), and ultimately settles to something more neutral. "'Quiet', hahaha, no big deal. None of those things are remotely concerning, not at all. What's the Seattle case, or am I not supposed to ask about that?"

A grunt from the Chief, but no further comment on his job. Whatever compels him to stick around in this town and keep doing it, who the hell knows. Can't be the compensation. "Life's treating me fine," he murmurs, sliding the Dane a long look over the top of his phone. Like he's wondering whether the other man is fishing for information of a certain type. You know, the New York Jewish type.

"I, uh.." He scratches at his beard absently, at the question from Una. "Just people killing other people over drugs. Nothing fucking new." In other words, mundane awfulness, not Veil shenanigans.

"Bad enough, though. A reminder, I guess, that we don't need monsters to be miserable, we're more than capable on our own." Ravn shakes his head; possibly at the folly of drug related crime (one area that he never was involved with on a scale beyond selling and buying pot, at least), possibly as a denial: He's not going to probe about the Lower East Side Occasionally A Unicorn kind of problem because if Rosencrantz wants his love life discussed, he'll do the talking himself.

"Nearly had to break up a fight the other night," he says instead, and then can't resist a chuckle. "The illegal lobster fighting ring that I obviously know nothing about whatsoever had its opening night. Bloody well near had to call an ambulance for a guy who got beaten up by a lobster, and then almost got beaten up by Irving's lodger for trying to run away with the lobster."

"Plenty bad enough," agrees Una, making a face. "I always like to think of small towns as somehow bucolic, and unlikely to have those kinds of issues, but that's never true, is it?"

On the other hand, she has a little snort of laughter for the lobsters. "Jules will be very quick to tell you that she brought the lobster back, thank you very much, and he-- she? I'm sorry, I don't know how lobsters prefer to be gendered, or... well, whatever-- is going back to the pond. Or is already back in the pond. I wish I'd seen it. Not just the video."

Javier, by now, is re-absorbed in his game of flappy bird, and only grunts occasionally to signify he's hearing what Ravn's saying. Except to note pointedly, when he gets to the part about the lobsters, "That's really fucked up. Even for Gray fucking Harb-- shit." Furious thumb action ensues, as his game grabs his attention once more. Una's comment about small towns simply gains a rough chuckle, like he isn't even going to comment on that. They all know that this isn't most towns, though.

"Oh, I can top that," Ravn tells Una. "The crayfish -- ghost lobsters are crayfish, and believe me, Jules would remind you -- is female, because they're all female. They breed by parthenogenesis -- they're literally all the same female genetically speaking. Also, her name is Miss Pinkett, and Susan Trejo assures me that she was back on her door step the morning after. Miss Pinkett wants that championship bad."

Ambitious crustaceans. Only in Gray Harbor.

Finally, pizzas are delivered. Meat Lover in this incarnation seems to involve copious amounts of bacon, kebab, beef, and tiny wiener sausages. Ravn nods his approval; as long as no one has polluted his pizza with kale, lettuce, or tofu, he's good.

Eyebrows shooting straight up into her hairline, Una's comment would no doubt be a good one, but: pizza. It comes first, and the claiming of a piece of hers (meat and mushroom, lots of garlic) is of more immediate priority. (And anyone who puts lettuce on a pizza deserves whatever they get in life.)

"What the fuck," is thus more cheerful than bewildered. "Well, I wish ever luck to, uh, Miss Pinkett, then. It sounds like her foray into man vs crayfish hasn't daunted her in the least; good for her. I wonder what happened to the dude, after he talked to Jules. He seemed vaguely familiar, from the video, but I don't think I've met him."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "I thought the same thing. When he wanted to fight Miss Pinkett, that is. I know this guy from somewhere. Can't put a finger on it, though."

He picks out a tiny bit of bacon. Pizza, it seems, get treated no different from cookies. This man is just plain bad at eating, period. "Maybe he's someone we would have recognised if we lived somewhere else, who knows. That's one of the things I love about Gray Harbor -- whoever you were, out there, no one gives a fuck here, and no one remembers, either. Once you've had paparazzi on your arse, you learn to appreciate it."

It's a crime against cookies, and a crime against pizza, too, but Una valiantly says nothing (even though there's a cop, right there!)

"Maybe, yeah," she agrees. "I'm not super great at recognising famous people at the best of times, so if he is someone I should know... well. It doesn't matter. You're right: we're all kind of the same here." The tilt of her head, and the somewhat appraising glance she gives Ravn suggests she's imagining the Dane subject to paparazzi attention, but perhaps she gives up in the attempt, because her gaze drops again to focus on her pizza.

"Though if he is someone we're supposed to know, it's a pity we can't use star power to bring in the masses for-- well. Whatever festival, you know?"

Ravn catches that look and laughs before shaking his head. "No, I'm not a secret pop star. But I was a not at all secret celebrity chef for a couple of months, thanks to the Veil. And I did have paparazzi chasing me all over this damned town. I did not enjoy it, and I don't miss it." He glances at the Chief; de la Vega was there, even looked into some of it, to verify that that was all those folks were -- paparazzi assholes.

Then he hitches a shoulder. "Maybe that can be a selling point? A market faire or whatever, for normal folks. No big shots getting special treatment or having their arses kissed. Though I suppose we may have to kiss Mayor Addington's backside a little. You know how these small towns work."

Pause. Then, "I wonder if that's why Dr Brennon wants to buy her own house for her plan to revive the Historical Society. To separate it entirely from the Addingtons."

Una wrinkles her nose, but leaves alone that particular topic: paparazzi assholes are paparazzi assholes, and that's really all there is to it.

(She eats her pizza the way she eats her own baking; which is to say, with gusto, and without dissecting it for flaw, although that day may come when she decides she needs to get in on this game too.)

"I like that," she agrees. "A little bit of ass-kissing for the Mayor, and for everyone else, just... a good time. No speeches, if we can get away with it, and no photo-ops. Do you think Ava will get away with the whole thing? Taking over the Historical Society?"

"Woman gives me the impression that what she wants, she gets." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "She's that type. Energetic, driving, persistent. Don't take it for more than it is, but I'm kind of glad she didn't have her eye on me. That kind of hyper-focus is intimidating. I'll stick to her trying to pair me up with everyone else -- and wonder why."

A sideways grin to the Chief, still engaged in his game. "Gray Harbor, where the one thing we all obsess about is who's seeing who in a social fashion." And back to Una. "I shit you not, that's what Hyacinth's cousin called it when she came to check me out on the family's behalf. Who Hyacinth was considering seeing, in a social fashion."

"If it hadn't started before she started seeing Deacon, I'd wonder if it were just that: happily paired up and thus eager to see others likewise," says Una, and not without a somewhat wry grin. "Some people are like that. I take it as a sign that she cares. I can't imagine you with her any more than I can imagine you with Dita, though for different reasons. I'm glad she couldn't, either. That could get messy quick."

The shake of her head is clearly for Hyacinth and her cousin. "That's ridiculous. Not unique to here though, of course. In a way it's kind of comforting, that despite everything else we've got to worry about, people are still people, and who's doing what with who is still important." Beat. "Well. Not important. Newsworthy, maybe. For some people."

"Oh, I'm sure. I've been told I come across as lonely and awkward to some people. Trigger the whole got to help that poor guy find love instinct." Ravn laughs softly. "So I take it as that, yes. A way to show concern. And I laugh, because come on, it's funny. It's funny because neither you nor Dita are interested in me in a potential boyfriend capacity. It'd be less amusing if someone's unrequited feelings got hurt."

Kebab bite, you're next. How this man ever grew to 6'3 is a miracle. Maybe he was force fed as a kid. Maybe he's secretly a pod person who draws sustenance from the light of the sun. "It does show that we care about one another. Small town gossip can be tedious as hell but you don't get that feeling you can have in a large city -- that you're surrounded by people, but you're more alone than you'd be on a remote island with just a coconut palm and a seagull for company."

"Exactly," agrees Una, firmly. "And it would be absolutely not at all funny, if someone was, and that's when it all starts getting more complicated."

She scoops her pizza up carefully, rolling it over so as to not lose the topping as she lifts it up towards her mouth. Pizza eating is serious business. Watch her very carefully lifting her chin so that she's only ever looking at Ravn's face, and not his pizza habits. "That's-- exactly that, too. I like that people care. I like knowing that the people around me do genuinely want me to be happy; we're a community. I'll deal with a little match-making for that, no questions asked. I'm glad I ended up here."

"Well, it can't become more than a bit of match-making unless both people involved want it to be. Which may happen but, I'll be honest -- if I am fond of someone, it's something I will discuss with them, not any helpful spirit who decides to take it on themselves to find me a date." Ravn quirks a small smile. "I'm far more likely to be up for discussing whether this Bayin bloke is going to find himself arguing with Jules again, and if so, whether we're going to need the first aid kit."

He spears another bit of bacon. Is the whole 'bread' part of a pizza just an exotic plate to him? It sure does look like it. "Then again, maybe I need the first aid kit. Jules did sound like she's got a few truths to tell me too, about invasive species and whatnot."

"Talk with the person you're fond to, rather than other people? Madness. You're clearly not a girl," is teasing, but there's a definite element of seriousness to it, too: Una agrees. "I don't really see the need to gossip about who is seeing who, as a general rule. If people want to talk to me, great. But I'm not-- I never want to push people to talk."

Clearly that does not extend to gossiping about people in other ways, though, because her grin broadens considerably. "My money's on Jules," she tells Ravn. "In both cases, not that I've met-- Bayin, you said? My money's always on Jules. Though it wouldn't be fair for her to take invasive species out on you. I hope she knows that. It's not like any of this was your idea."

"I have no idea whether she knows, but if she doesn't, I'll tell her. And I will happily support any idea she has when it comes to making changes. Either it'll work in which case, win for both of us -- or the Veil will happily ignore what she does, and she can join me on the bench of what the hell, at least people seem to be having a good time." Ravn laughs softly.

Then he smiles. "She does seem to have fewer issues with me after we went to see her family in Taholah. I think I may have passed the 'just asking questions in order to exploit indigenous knowledge' test. Which is not to say there aren't a lot of questions I'd like to ask of the Quinault. But if those things are going to be made accessible to the world, it needs to come from the Quinault. Any time I'm tempted I just remind myself how I grit my teeth when the Japanese try to describe feudal Europe -- which they've got a ridiculous fetish for, and frankly, it's painful."

"I think... I think it made a difference to her, that we were all there to learn from her culture," says Una, quietly. "That she had something to offer. I think being in Dreams that were specifically related to her culture made a difference, too, but I'm not sure. We've not spoken about it in any depth. Jules is always going to be a crusader, I think, but hopefully-- well. She knows we're not trying to stand in her way, I think."

Beat. "And everything her grandmother had to say was interesting, wasn't it? I wouldn't trust myself to explain it to anyone else, not any more than you'd trust the Japanese to do so, not accurately. But it's given me a fair amount to think about. Another lens through which to try and view things."

"Nothing wrong with being a crusader." Ravn nods his agreement. "Humanity needs more of those. Except, what we need is -- in Danish, we call it a fire soul. Someone who burns with passion for their cause. I like that term better because, well, the actual crusaders were dicks. I should know, I had ancestors in most Crusades."

Abruptly, Una laughs. "How do you say that in Danish? 'Fire soul'. That's exactly what Jules is, and it's half of what I admire so much about her. I take the point on crusaders. I do remember the history-- well, enough of it, anyway"

"Ildsjæl." The word is pronounced something along the lines of 'eel-shell'. "Ild, fire, sjæl, soul. It means to burn passionately. I think the equivalent English word is to be a firebrand?" Ravn thinks, and then nods. "Yes, pretty sure that's it. Although, call her an eel shell and see what happens."

Una's tongue predictably mangles the word the first time, but a few more attempts and... well, no, it's still not perfect, but she's made some progress. "Firebrand, yeah," she agrees. "But I think I prefer 'fire soul', on the whole. I think because you tend to brand a thing, rather than it being some innate part of you."

Beat. "She'll probably burn me up if I call her an eel shell, no context. I might risk it anyway. Affectionately!"

"No, no. I mean, yes, a brand is, well, a brand. An imprint made with a red-hot iron. But before that, it's actually a Norse word -- we have it in Danish today as brænde -- meaning firewood. So a firebrand is not a stamp of burning iron, it's a log that's on fire. That's what the term means -- not that different from fire soul. I'd argue that our version is more poetic, though." Ravn grins slightly and then sighs at his pizza. "I'm going to have to take this home, aren't I? Some day I will learn to eat in public, I swear."

"... huh," says Una, surprised, and clearly interested. "Language is amazing."

She's not going to argue the poeticism, clearly. Instead, bluntly: "Does that mean you actually do eat at home? Are you a shy eater?" Beat. "You don't have to answer that. The prospect makes me want to laugh, though, I'm just saying."

Ravn makes a face. "I used to have an eating disorder. Worked through it with metric buttloads of therapy. Still struggle to eat when anyone's watching. I'm working on it because bloody hell, if I want to have pizza with a couple of friends, I'll have pizza with a couple of friends. Or starve trying, and take it home to eat later, it seems. Still giving myself points for trying. One participation trophy coming right up."

... not so much a laughing matter, then, is it, Una?

Her face falls, utterly apologetic. "I'm sorry," she says. "That absolutely sucks, and now that I know that, I will stop giving you a hard time, I promise. You absolutely get points for trying, and... reheated pizza is still delicious. If nothing else, tonight? I have had company while I ate my pizza, so."

Ravn shakes his head. "It's not a big deal, and I don't mind at all that people rib me about it. If anything, the ribbing encourages me to try harder because it's silly. Besides, hell, even cold pizza is delicious."

He picks up his plate. "I'm going to go and ask them to put this in a take-out box for me. And then go home and feed most of it to my cat who has absolutely no reservations whatsoever about eating while I watch, in fact she prefers eating while I watch her and protest that I was going to eat that, damnit. I'll see you both around town, hopefully in not too long?" A glance to Ruiz at that last comment; a chance to catch up, maybe, it's been a while and Mr Community Centre does tend to think his nose belongs in everything.

Then it's up to the counter to pay, have his pizza boxed, and walk out into the cold, dark spring night that hopefully will become summer soon enough.