2022-04-19 - Out Near Goose Island

"Ahoy-hoy!"

It's not piratical, but it's at least nautical in tone. Maybe. Either way, that's Ariadne saluting two-fingers off her brow in the direction of The Vagabond. She's dressed for a late afternoon out on the water with layering; the sun could be warm, but the breeze is off the Pacific and the ocean tends to have a vicious briskness to it. Her windbreaker is brightly-coral in color against the tan of her cargo-jeans; her sneakers are an older pair, beat-up with some grip to the soles, and she's got her hair pulled up and back in a clip beneath her Avalanche hockey team baseball hat.

And a pizza in a cardboard box rested across a hand. It's not a big one, enough for two people to have perhaps three slices a-piece if they were very hungry.

"Half and half, just like we agreed on. You can have the half with the awful stuff on it and I'll eat the actually-edible other half," she adds once she's in earshot. Pineapples. Ew.

"Just because you don't appreciate proper pizza toppings," Ravn returns with a grin from his seat in the Vagabond's aft. He's in cargo shorts -- perhaps to welcome the spring sun, perhaps to try to render it snow blind -- and a black turtleneck. A couple of blankets lie next to him, because sun is all well and good but it's still April and the wind gets chilly on very short notice. Also, socks in the sandals. Come at him, he deserves it.

There's a couple of paler stripes on his shins, from tangling with burning kelp in a Dream; in time they will fade entirely.

The Dane does not get up to offer a hand in navigating from the stern -- at the moor -- to the aft; he knows Ariadne knows her way around a boat. He does get up to offer to take the pizza off her as she does, though -- because it'd be a shame to lose balance and toss the thing in the Bay while gripping for the boom rope.

Kitty Pryde remains on the prow. Step over her, step around her, she won't care as long as you don't step on her. Every so often someone walking on the pier pauses and looks again, as if they're wondering if that's a real, living cat or some kind of deck decoration. Every once in a while someone familiar with the boat and its feline owner nods at her in passing. Sometimes she nods back.

"More meat-dissolving enzymes for you, bud." Ariadne hands over the pizza in order to clamber on-board. She isn't near enough to Kitty Pryde to disturb the cat, but does give the black-furred figurehead a slant grin. The boat's becoming one of those instances where if the cat weren't sitting there? Something would be amiss.

A little grunt as she drops down into the cockpit and then gestures for the Dane to hand back the pizza box, the better to stash it where if it slides around, it'll be contained in its travels. "Seriously. Drop chicken in a cup of pineapple juice one time and go poke it with a fork after an hour and then see how you feel about pineapple. I'll let my stomach acid do the good work," the barista smirks. "But enough about pizza and more about where we're off to, cap'n. You're thinking a putter around the bay itself or beyond?" Her face, shadowed by the bill of her cap, turns towards the distant Pacific.

"Also, my dude. Socks?" A point down at his sandal-sporting feet and lift of brows to go with her smirk.

"Did you know that that enzyme in pineapple and for that matter, kiwi, is why you can't make a pineapple or kiwi gelatine?" Ravn smirks. "You can get pineapple or kiwi-flavoured jell-o, I'm sure, but it won't be the real thing. The enzyme breaks down the part of the gelatine that's supposed to stiffen."

He returns the pizza box to its proper owner as instructed. "I was thinking we might just nip out past Goose Island and lie out of the wind. Nothing stops us from going out past the Points, except I assure you that it's bloody cold out there -- ocean wind compared to our shallow little duck pond here."

Vagabond's little engine putters as the mooring ropes are released and Ravn navigates the sail boat out of the marina. It's powerful enough, in theory, to take the boat through a storm. It's questionable whether doing so would be enjoyable. Kept at its lowest possible speed, though, it's but a barely distract plut-plut-plut that nonetheless takes the boat past the piers and the mooring buoys of larger yachts.

"Also, what's wrong with socks in sandals? I don't want to freeze. Do blue toes impress you?"

Lines cast off, there the boat goes, and Ariadne takes up what's becoming a fairly standard placement along the inner wall of the cockpit. She leans back against the railing, fingers curled up and under the metal bar. Her cap-bill turns towards the direction of their travel and a small smile lingers on her lips.

"Blue toes make me wonder about circulation," she replies firstly to that, shooting Ravn a bigger grin. "And yes, I did know about the enzymes in those foods, so -- yet again -- more for you." They pass a buoy and she idly watches it before glancing up towards the prow of the boat again. Kitty Pryde, ever present, seems to be holding her own position. "I don't think I've been out past Goose Island yet...or, at least, not where it's been identified. I wouldn't mind being out of the wind either. It can get cutting around here, especially off the ocean, yeah. The pizza will stay warmer too." She reaches to knock knuckles on the cardboard box twice, toktok.

"Good call with blankets regardless. I didn't wear knee socks today. But they're colorful, at least." Stooping, she pulls up the hem of her jeans to display aforementioned socks: pastel rainbow stars on a navy-blue background. "It's the little things in life."

Ravn laughs softly. His socks are black. Is anyone surprised? No. "I like the tang. It's like lemon on white fish, it adds an extra sharpness."

Kitty Pryde does not move. Confident? Yes. In part because her obliging human has acquired a bit of coconut fibre carpet and glued it to the deck so that feline claws have something to grip. Ravn must like the cat enough that he doesn't actually want to see her slide into the Bay by accident. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to dive in after her -- and he would, let's just admit it.

"Goose Island's pretty much just a big sand bank," he says and cuts the engine. Suddenly, nothing but the cries of seagulls and the gentle rumbling of the waves. "Rennie Island -- the one just there, between the marina and the bay -- is too, but from what I've heard it's been used as a dump for industrial waste. Town like this, when the locals warn you about landing, you listen."

"Hmm." A sand bank. The young woman looks up at the sounds of the nearby birds and watches them in their signature pale shapes against the sky above. No fishing trawler here, alas, no scraps to be fed -- unless they want to sacrifice their fry-scrounging lives to Kitty Pryde there.

Ariadne's nose wrinkles in what must be disappointment then. "Industrial waste. And people wonder why the oceans and the food chains and gee, everything in it is struggling right now. Stupid-ass motherfuckers." She lifts a hand off the railing in a forestalling gesture. "I don't want to soapbox about it, but I can summarize with people are idiots. I can't...really even imagine what's under the water there then, if it would fuck up a hull like that. The optimistic part of me wants the environment to maybe have started using things as reef structures or something similar, but..." She simply shakes her head. Odds aren't good.

"Anyways. How've you been? Tell me all the town gossip since everybody seems to spill to you. We'll compare notes," the barista says with a dimpled grin at the boat-captain.

Ravn finds himself laughing as he releases the sail -- "Mind the boom!" -- and then settles back as it crackles and thunders and fills. Then the inevitable lurch as the wind grips it, and the Vagabond begins to move. The boat's axis tilts slightly, not uncomfortably, and she begins to march, out towards the sand bank islands.

He reaches for a cold beer from the bucket that until very recently hung on a rope over the boat's railing -- the Bay is an excellent fridge, thanks -- and offers one over to Ariadne as well. An elbow on the rudder's steering rod; a casual lounge. The wind plays with the man's hair, turning it into even more unruly a mop than it usually is.

"Gossip, eh? Let's see. It's been suggested I take an interest in Una Irving, and then in Perdita Leontes. I think all three of us find this highly amusing given that we all like one another very much but not quite that way." Ravn looks skywards and thinks. "Dr Brennon is growing Veil figs on Oak Avenue, and it's probably going to end up causing trouble. This bloke, Haggleford, is still causing trouble, killing cryptids. Is that the sort of gossip you had in mind? Or did you think of Kinney's plan to paint Oak Three in the Pride flag?"

Oh good lord, the boom. Ariadne eyes this very projection of boat-frame as the wind snatches and runs with the sail. Her laughter is admittedly unhelped. There's nothing like the sudden kick of motion when the wind is properly harnessed.

When a beer is offered, she takes it and eyes the label to make sure it's not that godawful dishwater nonsense -- oh, interesting, it's a red ale. She has a soft spot for these too and certainly doesn't mind sipping at it. Her own lean along the railing hasn't ceased. Remaining there, she taste-tests the beer while Ravn expounds on the various elements of life about Grey Harbor. Another one of those more cheeky smiles appears on the barista's face.

"Hey, that's a good sampling of everything. Applause, applause," and she golf-claps against the wrist of her beer-holding hand. "It is, in fact, the kind of gossip I had in mind. Huh." She's quiet for a time, not necessarily looking at Ravn, but more contemplating while he remains a focal point. "Hmm. I like the idea of painting Oak Three, though that's also your call. You live there at least part time," she notes. "It sounds like somebody needs to at least offer some common sense to Dr. Brennon and this...Haggleford guy, what the fuck." Dark lashes narrow golden-hazel eyes. "I really don't like how that has the sound of a B-movie plot. Somebody's going to get hurt." It's an unfortunately easy prediction to make.

Still, a beat, and her smile vaguely returns. "And how do you feel about the suggestion about taking interest in the others?"

"First off, I own Oak Three, and believe me, I told Kinney to do whatever the hell he likes because I like living in a living art installation." Ravn grins. "I intend to take a ton of selfies in front of the finished paint job, arm in arm with Kinney, and send them to my aunts. It'll be worth it, we'll be able to hear the screaming across the Atlantic."

He crosses one leg over the other and makes himself comfortable with his own beer -- a golden wheat beer. "Haggleford's a piece of shit, and I am all in favour if kicking his arse. It will happen -- he pissed off Rosencrantz, he pissed off Brennon, both of whom are highly likely to punch faces." Then he shakes his head, dismissing that; Haggleford is not interesting out here on the water, not the way the woman across from him is. "How do I feel? I feel like I like them both quite a lot but the idea of getting close to them that way is ridiculous. It's just not -- how we click. Kind of waiting for Brennon to suggest you next, at which point I'll probably blush stupidly and try very hard to act nonchalant because what the hell do you do. She means well. She thinks I'm lonely, and she thinks she can fix it if she can nudge me towards somebody."

Lopsided smile, a bit teasing. "How do you feel about it?"

A fingergun (and another mostly-fingergun) of approval for this plan about selfies and screeching aunts. Ariadne even laughs quietly at the idea. It pleases her, thinking of the shrieking responses. She sips again at her beer and nods to hear about eventual fates of this Haggleford; quietly, the barista also makes bets to herself given the involvement of both Ava and Itzhak. She isn't going to sit there and claim they're anything else other than powerhouses in their own rights. This Haggleford might be screwed. Still, she can tell by the manner of the Dane's shake of head that it isn't a conversation for now -- and she agrees. This is far too sunshiny and briskly adventuresome of a day to dwell on assholes.

Her smile hadn't disappeared entirely and gains a few more degrees of strength as she watches his face now. Another sip at her beer, this distracted given the intensity of her look. Perhaps osprey hadn't been such an inaccurate assignment of shape in the Dreams. Blush, is it? A sliver of her teeth show before she closes her lips, wanting to at least look not overly pleased by this knowledge. The question is volleyed back at her; her brows disappear into the shadow of the baseball cap's bill.

"How do I feel about it...?" Classical stalling maneuver. It's not that she hadn't expected the question to come back at her, but in a way? She hadn't. A slow tilt of head back and forth. "I...think Ava does mean well, yes, but it's heavy-handed. I'm a little surprised that she hasn't name-dropped me yet, honestly, but at the same time, maybe I can treat it as a compliment...?" A soft laugh and sip of beer. "I feel like...it's your decision in the end, right? If there's someone you click with, then you click with them. I don't think there's anything wrong with being single, but lonely is hard -- and that's if you even are lonely. Nobody can read minds around here." A beat. "...to my knowledge."

And, yes, all of this didn't really answer the question and Ariadne's aware of it by the faint color at her cheeks in turn.

Ravn knows as well. He's not going to push it. He would not appreciate it if he was being pushed. "It is my decision, and their decision, and the decision of everyone involved, I suppose. I like them. But liking somebody, considering them a friend, is not the same as feeling attracted to them. It's a common misunderstanding, I don't know if that's what's going on." He hitches a shoulder. "Some people do hear demisexual as, just needs to be friends first. It's a little more complicated than that. Just like it is with everybody else, I figure, there's more to it."

Ariadne's not the only one present who can waffle. He sips his beer and buys himself a second of time. "No one can read minds. Only emotions. As far as I am aware. Mind you, I cannot. I have to ask like everybody else."

Kitty Pryde can probably sense the amount of waffling going on and is disdainful because no maple syrup is involved. Tsk. Humans.

"I mean, nothing wrong with asking." Ariadne shrugs, playing it cool while her insides squiggle. Her not-quite answer was sussed out. Damnit. "Look, I'm not jealous. That's not it. I...kind of wish...Ava would suggest me, yeah, if only because then I'm not making some fool of myself in turn, but I kind just...made a fool of myself anyways, soooooooooooooo..." Her lips press to a thin line before she simply drops her chin and puts a hand to half of her face. The bill of her cap hides everything, really, but ugh. So not smooth.

Her shoulders shake in a little giggle. Damnit damnit damnit.

Ravn can't help a smile at that; he knows that feeling of awkward so very well. Then he shakes his head. "But it was not Irving or Leontes I held hands with on the marina," he points out, still smiling. " I didn't think you were jealous. It's all very awkward, and we can make fools out of ourselves together, I suppose. It makes me laugh because she means well. If it felt like -- well, proper match-making, I do not think I would be laughing."

Take that, aunts.

"God, no, I wouldn't be laughing either," comes the agreement as Ariadne waves her hand; help, she still has to hide behind her bill, her cheeks are way too warm to look dead on at Ravn right now. "That's people all up in business they have no business being involved with in the first place. Meddling. Serious, serious, not very useful meddling." Nice, we're babbling now, check yourself, girl. "I'd probably be like, keep your goddamn nose out of my goddamn business and a few more rude things and probably make your aunts clutch their pearls."

This requires more beer, which requires actually lifting her face in turn. Oh, look at that: her cheeks are quite pink, but it's the wind whipping past the sailboat, surely.

"...and yeah, I know it wasn't their hand." Her smile is now definitely crooked because she's trying to keep its intensity down. Still: what a betraying little wiggling of her empty fingers, as if she were remembering the contact; she's still a touch too sheepish to make eye contact, though it seems his shoulder is safe for the moment.

Ravn is laughing too; not at Ariadne but with her. Does he know this feeling? That his mouth is in overdrive in an attempt to direct attention away from whatever it is he isn't quite ready to address? Hell yes. It's kind of the story of his life. Misdirection, feints, pretence. Issues that he is not ready to tackle straight on, issues that he has tried to tackle straight on and failed.

"If we end up making something of this, there'll be plenty gossip to go around soon enough," he muses and sips his beer as well. "This is a small town. An even smaller community inside that small town. Every time somebody start seeing each other in a social way, the jungle drums don't stay silent for long. And yes -- 'seeing her socially' is exactly what Hyacinth Addington's cousin told me I was doing, and this is why she had to come make certain I met expectations."

A little eyeroll, but it's not at Ravn. "Nobody from my family is going to come check on you for meeting expectations." She informs him of this with a crisp disdain for the idea clear in her tone. "Yuck. Fucking adult babysitting, bullshit like that. Tending to a name. Like, good lord, be your own goddamn person and be responsible for yourself, don't let anyone else make decisions like that for you. Proverbial you," the redhead is sure to note.

"And I know people will gossip. I don't really care about that, I work in public retail. Half of my amusement is listening to the gossip." Now Ariadne's brave enough to flick her eyes to the left and meet his in turn. "Though...I mean, I assume you don't care about making something of something with some bold-mouthed little un-landed American tart, right?" By the cant of her smile, she's definitely teasing both at him and herself in turn, since turnabout's fair play and all.

Ravn laughs. He can't not laugh -- not at that look, that sparkle in hazel eye and the grin on an American tart's face. "I'm pretty sure Hyacinth was not consulted on the whole 'checking my affairs' business," he says, amused at the memory. "I am in fact very sure. She'd have ripped her cousin's face off if she knew, because while she's certainly a rich girl, she's not that kind of rich girl. No one tells Hyacinth Addington what choices she gets."

He shakes his head and then quirks a lopsided smile at the woman across from him. "I suppose I will have to play out My Fair Lady in a modern version. Teach you how to walk, how to talk, dance and deportment. Or, more likely, get beaten up with a slipper if I try."

And then, because all jokes have a core of truth somewhere, the Dane says, "The only one who gets to make these decisions for me, is me. If you were a fifty-year-old Puerto Rican drag queen with an unhealthy fondness for a pink princess poodle and banana liquor, it'd still be no one else's business but mine. Does it worry you?"

Pink princess poodle and banana liquor. That's a thing. Ariadne nods to herself, keeping her smile down because it is, indeed, a thing.

"Worry me? The whole landed business and your family name?" A beat and then she waves a hand. "Nah. I took your mettle a long time ago regarding that. You wouldn't stick to saying the things you have about wanting to vanish here and being tired of the weight of a family name if it was something you were just trying to offhandedly dismiss. You mean business about it. I mean, don't get me wrong: when I say bold-mouthed tart, I really do mean bold-mouthed tart. I'm aware of how American I am. I know we're considered brash and crass and full of brass balls or boobs or whatever. If any of your family shows up and tries pulling rank on me? Well. They'll regret it." She shrugs with just a little apology to it, as if this encounter truly did have the smallest chance of happening and she might as well make amends now.

It then seems to occur to her that -- "I'm also assuming things by this, so...yeah, um. If it turns out I do need a little My Fair Lady lessoning, then so be it. I'm alright with that. I can flounce like nobody's business." Observe: the lift of nose. Has she got looking down it figured out yet, boss?

Ravn has to laugh. Oh lord. If only his Aunt Amalie could see that sniff. If only.

Then he nods, smiling. "I am in the fortunate position that I am the head of the clan, so to speak. I have aunts and uncles and cousins with ideas of what I should or shouldn't do, but none of them are in a position to tell me anything I don't want to hear. Progress happens -- whether old, conservative families like it or not. Everyone else's kids want to live in the modern era too. Hell, Prince Nikolai is a fashion model. That's the bloke Leontes is always on about getting an introduction to."

Then he decides to address the whole Old World-New World issue straight on, because it is an issue, to some. "I want to say no one gives a fuck these days. You read papers, you know that's not true. But in all honesty? I think the media cares more than the actual people involved. The gentry is a bloody outdated institution, but they sell papers. That is part of what I love about living here, that your name seems to kind of fade from public view. But if I go home some day with a wife? See above statement about fifty year old banana rum sipping princess poodle tamers. So, how much would your family choke on you bringing back some European ponce academic?"

"Oh. Wow, really? The prince is a fashion model?" Ariadne blinks. "Note to self, look this up out of curiosity, damn. How delightful is that."

As she then sips her ale, the redhead realizes she's grateful for the bluntness. It's refreshing and a great relief. A nod or two as she listens and then a sigh, deep and out through her nose. "Honestly? I'm pretty sure my sister would be jealous. It's a little sibling thing, always feeling like she has to meet my level. She's nearly grown out of it, but you know. Family things. My parents would probably smile at the fact that you're an academic. Dad likes to say I'll never get away from the learning and he's probably right. Mom would probably be..." Oh god. Ariadne giggles and feels her cheeks heat. "She gets the whole business of landed family names better than my dad does, so she'd be all a-twitter. I mean, like, actually twittering. She does this thing with her hands where she fans her face quickly and tries not to giggle like a girl and oh my god, it's embarrassing like parents are, y'know?"

Observe, very pink cheeks. MOM, GEEZ.

"Anyways...no one would choke. And if they did? Oh well. I'm the head of my own little clan and everybody can butt out." Insouciant American shrug.

"I'm an only child," Ravn notes. "But from what I've seen -- it's the job of the youngest to try to measure up to the oldest, and of the oldest to envy the youngest for getting spoiled."

Overhead, a couple of hopeful seagulls circle, following the Vagabond's wake. Not a fishing boat but that doesn't exclude picnic baskets or fishing rods. Never too late to dream, and a seagull is never ever full.

"Somebody told me once there are families, particularly in the South, who are much the same, really. They don't have archaic titles to pass around but the rest? Business as usual. Hell, even in Gray Harbor, we call Hyacinth the Lumber Baroness for a reason. I think it's human nature -- some people have an instinct to claw their way to the top, others have an instinct to follow and be awed by them. I also think it's all rather silly because if history's proved one thing it's that the whole idea of God-given leadership is ridiculous. A railroad baron can fuck up at the poker table and ruin himself; you need European royalty to start a hundred years war." Ravn shrugs. He's a historian. He can't help it.

"Yep. Nothing like power getting abused." A disappointed shake of red-haired head. "But yeah, I know about the families in the South. Old money. I had a friend in college whose family was from there. You could see it in how she acted, but she was actually trying to get away from it all too. She did a pretty good job, but I still had to remind her sometimes that this is not how the world works, no, you can't go spend this money and have people think you're not spoiled."

One of the gulls doing a low fly-by gains the barista's attention. Ariadne watches the bird then skim the grey waters for a distance before it lifts higher into the air again.

"I'm fine being where I am in the pecking order. I just...do my own thing and I'm happy for it. Like wear delightfully-colored socks. Or eat caramel corn until I'm sick while watching terrible Netflix movies. Or burping in public. What other awful examples of bad etiquette can I come up with here," she then laughs. "Oh, right, slouching, can't forget slouching."

"When I first arrived in town I had a strict deal with myself," Ravn admits. "I didn't spend money I didn't earn. Worked my way down through Europe and across the US, busking, doing odd jobs, hell, even lifting pocket change. That's how I ended up cleaning tables at the Twofer, and renting a boat to live on because it was affordable. I stuck by it pretty hard. Only after I'd lived here for some time and no one honestly gave a flying fuck where I'm from, did I start to relax it a bit, allow myself decent whiskey at least, that sort of thing. Then we lost those twelve weeks and I found I'd bought a house in the decent end of town. That's when I decided to go fuck it, if I want a vintage motorcycle I'll have one. I still think my household budget is lower than most middle class families' but, I'm not sticking to the every penny rule anymore. It was all because of that thing your college friend also must have experienced: You end up feeling it's about your self worth. Are you worth something? Or is it just winning the birth lottery that makes you worth something? There's only one way to really find out."

Giving speeches. Obviously.

"Right. Only one way to find out, and that's seeing if you can stand on your own two feet. She still is. I check in on her now and then; sometimes, she needs a listening ear and a dose of reality slash sanity." Those sharp golden-hazel eyes continue to rest on Ravn's face. "I'm glad you made that deal with yourself and I'm glad you've got more of a sense of peace for it, even if that time-skip fucked up your plans a bit. I do like that motorcycle, I'll have you know," Ariadne then admits with a quiet laugh. Her glance briefly skirts over to Kitty Pryde and back. "I just haven't been brave enough to ask about riding in the side car because that seems to be her spot and I know better than to try anything." A tilt of her head indicates the cat at the prow.

"Anyways... I get wanting to prove that you can stand on your own two feet. It's validating and it makes you stronger." She gives Ravn a softer smile now.

Ravn laughs and glances at Kitty Pryde. Yes. He can see why. Then he shakes his head. "Might have to ride behind me instead. Or wait for a day Kitty Pryde does not feel like riding. If you bring her a bribe, she may feel benevolent. Or at least distracted long enough for us to grab the bike and run."

He smiles and stretches those long legs, and perhaps quite casually manages to bump the tip of a sandaled (and socked) foot against a sneaker, very lightly. "The lady may have to accept some changes in her lifestyle. I suggest you ally with her. She seems to like the idea that I exist to be a servant. The human she likes best is a woman who treats everyone like they're toys for her amusement, Gina Castro. Maybe we can find some middle ground where I have to make coffee for you too and you bring her the occasional tin of salmon."

It is with marked innocence in the look Ariadne shoots Kitty Pryde that the young woman decides to pick a can or two of tuna off the shelf the next time she does a Safeway run. If that's how to get in with the cat? So be it.

She's still considering the black cat at the prow when she feels the lightest bump at her sneaker-toe. Oh, is something rolling loose in the cockpit? A glance down proves it to be a sock-covered toe. Ravn's foot. Her eyes quickly travel up to his face and she blinks before her close-lipped smile appears again, somehow soft and a little shy. A nod nonetheless for his thoughts and a laughing shake of head at where they lead.

"I...don't think I can treat others like toys, but...hey, if you want to make a coffee barista a cuppa -- and you're brave enough to try it -- and it counts in her estimation?" The barista in question thumbs towards Kitty Pryde without looking over. "I'm good for bringing tins of flaked fish. Happy middle. I have ridden on a motorcycle before, so if I have to ride behind you, no big. As long as it's comfortable for you."

Her toe oonches to a more present touch in return and wiggles just hard enough for the sneaker-fabric to move in turn. Footsie a la sailboat it is.

Ravn chuckles. "As long as I know you're back there, your touch wouldn't be a surprise. I've had people on before. It's the difference between weirdly wired nerve system and genuine chronic pain: It only hurts when my brain fails to parse what's going on."

Toe to toe they are. It seems a good enough way to communicate a little more than simply sitting there, without making things too awkward. "As for making coffee for a barista? I'm going to have to learn to make a decent cup, aren't I? Unless I want to insist that you always get to be the one who makes coffee, and then I have to be concerned about what duty I always get. It's going to be the laundry, isn't it?"

He doesn't like doing laundry very much. Given his penchant for making it simple by having everything be the same colour, who'da thunk.

The black cat at the prow settles down into a cat loaf; paws are getting cold, perhaps. She still does not deign as much as a look for the couple in the aft. Whatever humans do, is a human problem. She just wants to sail.

Ariadne can't help the tilt of her head as well as her smile; now her teeth show just slightly.

"Oh man, what's the lesser of two evils then? Attempting to make coffee for a barista or doing the laundry? I warn you, I don't have much in the way of black clothing." Ravn's seen it before, the multitude of colored t-shirts and hell -- the socks just recently, with their pastel stars. "And, no, you wouldn't be allowed to put in the darks with the lights, I want to keep my brights brighter, thank-you-very-much." A waggle of a finger off of the red ale bottle while she grins now.

Ravn shakes his head, laughing. "That's the whole point. I do not wish to spend my life sorting through different colours to make sure none of my shirts ruin my underwear or my other shirts. When I first moved away from home for the university -- heavens, it was a disaster. Not only did I ruin a lot of shirts. I also had my mother calling to gloat that she told me so, and there are ways around this, you can pay people to do your laundry. I got so mad I went out that very same day and bought a whole new wardrobe in the same damn colour, and I've worn it since."

Men getting stubborn. Solutions happen. Not always the smartest solutions in the long term, but solutions.

"Ravn. Your logic is flawless...in a weird way," Ariadne notes with a smirk, " -- but I would not be changing my wardrobe to be entirely black in order to preserve your patience with folding laundry. Or separating it out first. I hope you at least check the pockets of your jeans before you just throw them in, willy-nilly. However, I might pay someone in coffee to do my laundry for me in the sense of folding it. I dunno. I find that infuriating for some reason, but hey. It must be done."

Another sip of her red ale. "Imagine me in all black anyways. Nope. I have other colors to wear. The jewel tones, man! The violet and the greens, the tans, the burgundy-reds. Delightful hues. For this? I separate my clothes."

"I don't mind folding clothes. That's fine. Good time to listen to a podcast, think about the day, whatever. But sorting it and keeping track of which goes together, and if I wash the new blue shirt with the old black jeans, will they get a touch-up where they have faded, and so on -- no, just, no." Ravn can't quite stop smiling; the discussion is on some level absurd -- a relationship so much in its infancy that at its wildest, toes are touching toes, and already arguing about who has to do the laundry.

Then he points out, "You are beautiful in your jewel tones. But that's also something I want to avoid. I don't want people to look at me and see a playful, free spirit. For most of my adult life I've wanted people to look my way and not really notice me at all because whether you're picking pockets or trying to not get swamped as a TA, you want people to not pay attention to you."

"I mean...I guess if you want to fade into the background, all black works. Unless you want to be spotted as a goth. Or someone out of the Matrix. Or a would-be vampire. Or insert-whatever-awkward-you-want-involving-black-gloves here." Shrug; it's an unapologetic little behavior accompanied by a droll half-smile. "But it apparently works despite my misgivings because here you are, in Grey Harbor, and you're you -- not some rich, hoity-toity...European ponce, I think you said. Magic." This accompanied by a twinkly-fingered wave of one hand in an arc like an invisible rainbow.

"But thank you kindly," Ariadne then adds somehow humbly, " -- about the jewel tones. I think so too now and then. I don't like too much attention, but knowing that one looks good is always an ego boost, y'know?"

"Nothing wrong whatsoever in playing with what you have, and enjoying it. Life is good. The whole point of life is to find out what makes you happy, and then do that." Ravn nods and the amused smile lingers. "Although I feel called out on the vampire bit. I mean, all I'm missing is the actually being a vampire."

Then he laughs. "Remind me sometime to show you pictures from Egeskov Castle. Count Michael does exactly that -- he's turned a late medieval castle into a combined museum, resort, garden park and theme park. And one of the things you can do there is dinner with the vampire count. I've never gone. I've thought about going, just to sit at the far end of the table and laugh my backside off at his fake Romanian accent. Because that's the other thing about those manors and castles? They're fucking expensive to maintain."

Ariadne is not laughing. At all. Inside. Not at all. One can't see how amusing she finds Ravn claiming being called out save for in her eyes which twinkle. A sip of her beer is not a cover at all for her inability to work down a cough-laugh otherwise.

"I can't even imagine how expensive those would be, yeah. I've never owned a castle. I like how that guy thinks though. It's just grandiose enough to play in theme and be trite enough to attract people just wanting to have a good time and laugh at his antics. Clever," she nods. Another wiggle of her toes in her sneaker shifts the fabric against sock-covered toes in turn.

"But you don't sparkle enough to be a vampire, bud. You're missing all of your glitter," Ariadne then informs Ravn with the falsest solemnity this side of Las Vegas.

"I suppose I need an American to tell me," Ravn returns with a small grin; lopsided, of course, and showing a bit of teeth. "Next you'll tell me that I should have gone to Forks, but I got a little lost along the way." His tone does not suggest a fondness for so-called modern vampire literature. "I guess I forgot to sign up for high school too, when I got here. Who doesn't want to take the same classes over and over while trying to work up the courage to ask the seventeen year olds out?"

Sock toe nudge. "Most of those castles and large manors are institutions of some kind today. The ones who aren't, are owned by the state, for the royal family. They're from a time when you owned the land for miles around them and the people who worked it. They can't just be private homes unless you're willing to spend insane amounts of money just to live in style."

"I mean..."

Ariadne lets the word's vowels and final consonant linger in one of those deliberate mannerisms of playfully pretending to consider whether or not Ravn is correct. She's distracted by that little nudge-back and can be seen to glance down. Her smile goes quieter and pleased. Another glance towards Kitty Pryde in passing.

"It makes sense though, that you'd want to have assistance in keeping the building functional if not just standing. I guess I'd be more inclined to wonder about whether or not the institution is worried about things being haunted or someone messing the place up and making the state or management group responsible for restoring an older building. Not impossible, sure, but...well, hey." A tilt of her head at Ravn, golden-hazel eyes brightly curious. "What did you say you did with your place again?"

"Rented it out long term. It's an art and music school now." Ravn's own smile lingers. "Everything that belongs to the family is in storage. Place is officially on record as being haunted as all hell, but given how most people never see anything, those stories are just part of its charm, you know? I know better, but I also know that almost no one else ever sees or hears anything. All those old places have ghost stories."

He hitches a shoulder. "The alternative would be turning it into a high end destination hotel or conference centre, and honestly? I don't like that, and I think the actual ghosts wouldn't either. The whole idea of a private school is quite prestigious to the ears of a 16th century ear, and they don't really manage to keep up much better with the living than the living do with the dead. This way, the buildings are preserved, and that's the only thing that really matters as far as our most powerful ghost is concerned."

Another wiggle of her sneakered toe against sock-covered toes in turn and Ariadne hips off the railing. She wanders over to the pizza box and seems to consider it, as if weighing whether or not to get into it now or when they find the wind-free shelter of the lee of the sandbar/island.

"I think it's clever of you to appease the ghosts with a decision like that. More humanitarian than most people. I can see more enterprising -- in the sense of money -- folks going for the destination hotel aspect and saying, screw it, ghosts are dead, who cares. I remember what you told me about that powerful ghost though. Definitely a wisdom, bud." There's a manner in which she considers him in passing where her smile appears again, a little crooked and a little more sweet, before she seems to catch herself. Her attention goes out towards the prow and the loafing Kitty Pryde again.

"Not too much farther to the island, yeah? My stomach has suddenly decided it's pizza time. I'd feel badly eating while you drive though," she explains as she reaches up to tuck loose celestially-dyed hair behind her ear again; even a baseball cap doesn't save all from the wind, apparently.

"Nah, go ahead and divide the spoils. All I need to do is have an elbow on the steering pin. I can definitely eat pizza at the same time. Hell, I've played poker that way, though I think we lost a few cards into the drink. We were too drunk to care at the time, though." Ravn leans a little on the pin, shifting the boat slightly starboard as he aims for the leewards side of Goose Island, where Pacific winds hopefully don't get too much say in matters.

He remains fascinated by the display of colour in Ariadne's hair as the wind makes a mess of it. It's not that he's never seen people with non-natural hair colours before -- but after all these years, all this time, they never lose the fascination that stems from being a very young teen and being told a firm no, no, you can absolutely not dye your hair, we don't do that thing in this family. And then he did anyway, and bloody hell, that was an interesting week.

Lost a few cards? Ariadne laughs brightly. "Aw, bummer, can't even play gin rummy like that." Tipping up her red ale again for a mouthful, she then tucks it aside between seat-cushions in order to open the pizza box. Ambient air temperature has gotten to it, so it's certainly not steaming as she flicks up the lid, but room-temperature is going to seem warm enough out here on open water. Her smile is part critical-smirk at the pineapple (despair fruit that it is, she thinks to herself).

"Here you are," she then says, handing off one of the thinner-portion slices of pineapple-covered slices towards Ravn. "All for you." A napkin comes with, fished out of a windbreaker pocket. Ariadne then gets her own slice and firmly pushes the box lid down again. Her half of the pizza is liberally colorful vegetables sprinkled with cooked sausage and thinner slices of salami. She balances it on her hand and herself carefully against sudden lurch and takes a bite. "Mmm, fuck yes," comes the mumble. "I didn't think I was this hungry. A run in the morning after breakfast will do that, I guess."

"Sea air makes you hungry," Ravn agrees and rearranges his hands so that he can handle napkin and pizza slice with them, and the elbow on the steering pin. Vagabond is a light handle in mild weather such as this, and she flits along with the wind and the current without much effort on his behalf. "But now that you mention it -- we should have brought a cow, so we could eat it."

Says the man whose idea of eating tends to largely involve taking food apart and leaving its sad remains on the plate, much to the consternation of Una Irving and Vyv Vydal alike. Even now he picks at a piece of pepperoni rather than just chomping into his food. Maybe it's the European way of doing things, reducing food to atoms and uptaking the nourishment through osmosis.

"And stash the cow where on this boat, bud?" Shaking her head knocks loose a few more cobalt-to-iris strands. Ariadne eyes the one bouncing off her cheek and ends up sighing in consternation at the lock. "Besides, a cow small enough to fit in the cockpit is a cow that's adorable as all hell and we'd never want to eat it. Seriously. Ever seen a Scottish Highland cow? Like bovine muppets. Way too cute to eat." That being said, she has to set aside her slice of pizza on the lid of the box itself and takes a moment to carefully fish out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Some of this, some cleaning of her fingers with a napkin, and she then plucks the baseball cap off of her head.

It takes turning into the wind for her hair to all align again and the boat's speed means deep-auburn and celestially-hued locks entangle quite a bit. Oh well. Hairbrushing is for later; right now is for holding the octopus clip in her teeth and baseball cap between her knees while she gathers it all back again. "Fwickin' haiw, gwen everwherr," mumbles the barista around the hair clip. There, clipped up again, all caught away, and baseball cap back. "Better," she announces, then retrieving her slice of pizza again.

"I've seen them," Ravn confirms, laughing. "I've seen Jersey cows too, and if their sad eyes under long lashes cannot make you go vegan, nothing can. They taste absolutely delicious."

His mop of hair is just that bit shorter that he can probably just run a hand through it later, and pretend it was meant to look like that. Maybe that's the whole idea; short in the back and the sides, longer in top, without sinking into the mire that is the mullet. Permanent bedhead. Probably another practical decision on his behalf, like only owning one colour of clothing.

A bit of pepperoni goes down the hatch, accompanied by a bite of green pepper. "This is really quite good. Good company does of course help. I'd eat cardboard in the right company."

"It is good, isn't it?"

And by Ariadne's noticeably if understated coy twist of smile, she's not intending to define which element precisely is agreeable good, the pizza or company.

"Like you said, hunger and some brisk ocean air does encourage an appetite. But okay, now I have to know, since you've been to a few more continents than I have." A daubing at her mouth with her napkin and she then asks, "What is the hands-down weirdest thing you've ever eaten?"

Ravn can't help a chuckle -- and a glance down at the pizza which is not about to disappear at a fast pace. "Been offered -- or actually eaten? Because Chinese hundred year eggs and Cambodian caramelised funnel spiders are both on one of those lists, and not on the other."

The dismay on the barista's face is nearly legendary. Such disgust, much wow, very disturbed.

Ariadne can't help but then laugh in an upper register and commit to a wiggling of heebie-jeebies. "Oh dear fuck, noooooooo," she drawls. "Oh my god, I know about the eggs, but the spiders! No! Nope. Me, noping out. Nope nope nope." She walks fingers quickly across the empty air before herself. "Gone. Outta there. No way. You win, hands-down." More laughter. "I was going to say something about lutefisk, but that's not going to meet in comparison. Waugh."

Another shudder and she far more happily takes a bite of her pizza. Apparently, she's not one to be thrown off of her food by such a discussion.

"To be fair, I have also not eaten lutefisk -- or surströmming. I like being alive." Ravn laughs softly. "I have been offered all four, and I have happily declined, one of the times by throwing up on my father's shoes." Pause. "I wish I'd done that all four times, mind."

He hitches a shoulder. "Out of the four, though, if I had to -- I'd pick the spiders. At least they are just meat glazed in sugar. If you can forget for a moment where it comes from, it's supposedly just like eating sweet kebab. The rest -- I don't actually want to eat things that have been fermented in urine or left to rot, you know? If I want to eat that sort of thing, sauerkraut and kimchi is as far as I'll go."

Ariadne's lips twist up in mild sympathy. Yikes -- that more puking was the wished-for option in that situation. Still chewing her bite of pizza, she's left to wait until he's done speaking in order to reply.

"You've got a point about the spiders. If it isn't what your brain thinks it is, it's just sugary meat, yeah. Blugh." The shudder is practically un-helped still. "The other stuff, yeeeeeeeeeah. That's either a straight-up attempt to troll someone or the remnants of some desperate attempt to excuse something less-than-palatable as passable because the folks in that culture at that time period were starving. I don't care if it's considered a delicacy somewhere else; if the prep process is questionable? Somebody was starving and reaching and I have a choice, so no thank you." Her fingers crinkle up the napkin in an idle fidget as she stands there, moving with the boat in her stance. "Don't get me wrong, this is not me attempting to sound first-world. If I had to eat an egg like that? Or a spider? I would not flinch. But I have a choice and today, it's pizza."

"Even if it was, I'm perhaps not the right person to lecture on privilege, hmm?" Ravn can't help a sheepish grin. "I'm the embodiment of first world white, male privilege, I think."

He picks thoughtfully at a bit of pepper and actually sticks a piece in his mouth. "You're not wrong, though. It's all about desperately trying to find or preserve food. I was told no one ate spiders in Cambodia until the country was wrecked by civil war, for one. And controlled fermentation is a way to preserve food -- fish or cabbage -- because the right kind of fermentation kills the wrong kind."

"I think I've heard that, yeah, something about the acid levels present making it difficult for the nasty stuff to grow while stuff which either won't hurt us or actually helps us can grow instead. There's another example floating around in my brain somewhere, but it's something I'll remember at 3am when it's not useful or the topic at hand. Watch me text you at 3am about it," Ariadne notes with a smirk and a fingergun. She's to the crust portion of her pizza now as definite proof of hunger and very furtively counting what's disappearing from Ravn's piece in turn. Good -- good indeed that he's eating more than she's seen before.

Napkin crinkles again before she reaches for her bottle, plucking it from between the seats. "I can't really think of anything else exceptionally odd for me. Ostrich, once. Kangaroo, yeah, that was a lot like elk. Uh. Grizzly bear, that was an odd one -- a friend from Alaska whose father has a hunting license," she explains before a sip of red ale. "Made for great stroganoff, actually."

"Never had bear." Ravn looks as if he's mentally adding it to his list. "Kangaroo, yes. It was a bit of a fashion thing for a while -- emu, too."

The pizza slice is going. Just, slowly. Glacially, even. And how the man manages to not spoil those kidskin gloves with the grease is anyone's guess; he never does seem to end up with stains and spots on them. "Also, if you text me at 3am remember that that's noon for my students, so don't be too surprised if I'm awake and responding."

"If I am awake at 3am, I don't want to be and something's up, I'll have you know." Now that Ravn is thus informed, Ariadne finishes the rest of her pizza in neat, quick bites. Sure, it means a mild chipmunking of one cheek momentarily and as her napkin crinkles, she considers the box. Another piece? Maybe. Let things sit a minute, there's a beer to finish, though not much of it left. "Haven't had emu. I bet it's like ostrich. I struggle with duck, it's too oily."

A glance up at the prow. "Can Kitty Pryde have a tiny bit of salami? Would that win her over at all?"

"You can certainly try to offer it to her. Whether she will take it -- is anyone's guess. She eats salami. The issue will be whether you are approved to feed her salami." Ravn laughs softly. Then he cants his head. "Duck is a traditional Christmas dish back home. I love the skin -- crispy, salty. The meat is -- well, it depends. If it's a high end free-range duck with a lot of muscle, it can be good. If it's a fat bird that spent its entire life sitting down because it didn't have room for anything else, it's like biting into a tallow candle, yes."

The cat looks back over her shoulder at the mention of her name. If the salt spray up there bothers her at all, she does not let it show. She also makes no motion to move away from her small square of fibre carpet. There's probably a reason for that, and it's called North Bay is right there.

As to duck? "Blech." It doesn't matter how Ravn frames it: apparently, duck is gross.

Ariadne still gives the black cat yet another considering look and then shrugs. "Fortune favors the bold. If she doesn't want to take it, I won't be offended." Opening the pizza box, she picks a fingernail-sized piece from one of the slices of her pizza and then makes her way up the boat towards the prow. Thus is the small piece offered out to the black cat between fingernails holding just hard enough to not drop the piece to the coconut-fibre carpet. "What d'ya think?" she asks the cat very quietly, trying not to smile lest it curse this entire attempt.

Kitty Pryde's yellow-greens study the salami. They look up and study Ariadne's face. They look back and study the salami some more. The scorn is almost tangible; the sacrifice is not acceptable, and it is insulting that Ariadne even would think it might be.

Joe the sea gull over there, circling just off the starboard bow, he'll take it. Yep. Just throw it, lady, it won't hit the water. If a sea gull had eyelashes to flutter, he would.

Kitty Pryde looks at the seagull. The seagull decides to go vegetarian, somewhere else.

Then she fixes her gaze on the great unknown (read: Ocean Shores) ahead, unperturbed.

Ravn shakes his head. "That cat is a prima donna. She has Important Friends and she knows it."

Snigger-snort from the barista at the sheer mega-wattage of feline disdain.

Poor Joe the seagull. A wise decision by him nonetheless.

"Hey, her loss," singsongs Ariadne as she eats the bit of salami instead. Thus denied, she makes her way back down the boat and drops into the cockpit again with a soft grunt. "More pizza salami for me, no complaints on my part." It turns out her stomach does have room for one more slice. "Canned salmon instead. I was listening earlier."

Ravn offers a lopsided smile and tucks another bite in; look, he's made it almost half-way through this slice now. "At least I can promise you that if there comes such a time you decide to spend the night here on the boat with me, you will not have to worry about taking her space. She does not sleep on people. Absolutely not. Very much beneath her dignity. And if I ever wake up in the middle of the night with a strange weight on my ankles it means I forgot to turn up the heat and she's very disappointed."

Pause. Then Ravn reaches up and drags a gloved hand across a face that's dusting a tad pink at the edges. "Yes. I just said that and didn't think about it. What I meant is, there's plenty bunk space, also without getting up in one another's business. She can sleep six if they're good friends, three comfortably."

Rather than return to the railing, Ariadne finds a way to lean against a surface near to the steering pin. She's in mid-bite of pizza when Ravn seems to slip. Her chewing doesn't slow, but her brows do lift in the relative privacy-shadow of the bill of her baseball cap. Swallowing, she licks her lips and considers that faint dusting of pink.

It's tempting. It's so tempting. And they had touched toes earlier. It's so tempting.

She gives up.

"I tend to get cold at night anyways, so hopefully you don't mind if you wake up in the middle of the night with a good friend next you." Her smile appears again. "If there ever comes a time," she adds, dimpling more now.

"I've slept next to giant bikers tattooed up to their eyebrows who purred and slipped an arm around me in the dark," Ravn returns with some amusement. "I'll admit that once or twice I wondered if I was going to have to defend myself but really, it's just that people tend to snuggle up against something warm when they're sleeping in a cold place. So no, I'd probably just assume that that was what it was. You can usually tell. I mean." He waves a hand in a sort of 'you know' gesture. "People don't sound or breathe or smell the same way. You can tell whether they're genuinely sleeping or trying to sneak something."

The smile turns a little wry. "At least I'm not so prone to jumping and screaming because I will on some level be expecting someone else to be there. It's always when I don't see it coming my nerve system freaks out."

"I admit, I'd probably squeak if some burly, tattooed biker dude cuddled up to me like that, but I've never been in that situation. I...meant, like, in an affectionate kind of way, the...way I was saying about cuddling up to you. If you want. I mean, I'd be cold too, so it doesn't have to be entirely affectionate either -- I mean, like, more than friends affectionate, I've cuddled up with friends when we were cold before, like on camping trips and stuff."

Shut up and eat more pizza, Ariadne. She does this very wisdom and considers the half-pale trail of water left behind the sailboat.

"Well, it's a little early to go to bed anyhow," Ravn points out with much rational logic and a quick rescue before this discussion becomes awkward enough for either of them to decide it's easier to just take a step to the side and swim home. "But if we do go evening sailing sometime? Yes, sleeping over is an option, though I note that the Vagabond does not have a shower. It's the big tub for those things, or waiting until you get back to shore."

He decides to not dwell on what kind of sleepover. Maybe it's a bit early to bring that sort of thing up given that physical relations are still at the I'll nudge your toe if you nudge mine stage.

A small smile lingers nonetheless. "Tell you the truth, it was never the big blokes like that who bothered me on the road. Those guys -- they either think you're a fag and you can fuck off. Or they think you're a fag and if you're offering they'll take it, but I'm not offering. The ones who make trouble are always the twitchy blokes. There's a certain kind of twitch that just says, I'm an asshole, I'm going to take anything you give me and somehow make it all about me, and make it all suck."

"Ah, the twitchy blokes. I'll keep an eye out for the twitchy blokes." Grateful for the redirect, Ariadne does add, "I'll remember that and the fact of sleeping over in case the boat's out after sunset, yeah."

More pizza is bitten and enjoyed. If her sneakered foot seems to slide over all nonchalant-like to bump against the outside of a socked foot, then it does. Hello again.

"The...one big motorcyclist I can remember is actually Dave. Dave was great," she then laughs. "A friend of my dad's when I was growing up. See, Dave was this seriously burly dude. Like, shoulders four feet wide, shaved head, and one day? He stops by the house and shows us this little orange kitten he found in a gutter while he was idling at a light. Could we keep it? My sister's allergic, so no, but my mother had a friend who's a vet tech, so they called her up. She taught Dave how to care for the kitten and bam. A few months later? Little orange cat in a little fitted leather vest and helmet, totally Dave's motorcycle buddy. He named the cat Gerald, I think, called him Gerry. Dave and Gerry. God, he was a fun guy. He's still around and I think Gerry is too, though that cat has to be ancient by now."

Ravn must have kept an eye on sneakered feet; at least he doesn't jump half a mile, and nor does he remove his foot. Hi.

"See, that's what I mean," he agrees as the wind starts to die down; Goose Island, in all its flat sandbank glory of nothing, is taking the brunt of it. "Bloke like that is hard on the outside, but as long as you haven't given him any reason to think you're the enemy, he's as gentle as anyone. A warrior kind of guy, a defender. Bloke like that, you're next to him in some bus stop or roach hostel, he's not going to get ideas about your backside. If he does, he'll give you a blush and a whispered question, and then respect your sorry, mate, don't swing that way. I like those blokes. I get along well with those kinds of blokes."

Probably true; the Dane does seem to get on right fine with the lumber mill workers and dockers of Gray Harbor, at least, and a considerable number of them fall into the same archetype.

"Yep, I get along well with them too. I don't know if you've seen him, Louie? He's one of the regulars at the coffee shop actually and god, he's great. I've seen him put one of the out-of-town suit-sharks in his place so fast that the guy's head spun. Guy was ragging on Russ about the amount of milk used and Louie rumbled something at him from my line and the guy shut up and took his coffee like it was an edict from God himself. So vindicating," the barista sighs with a grin.

"But yeah, I think you'd like Louie too. He's good people under his handkerchief and leather jacket." Sneakered foot dares a little wiggle.

"I might have met him at the fighting ring, might not have." Ravn's smile lingers; he moves his foot in a small return wiggle. He's not quite certain whether to laugh about it; they're adults, both aged thirty plus, and here they are, playing footsie and pretending to not notice, like a couple of teenagers who won't quite admit to how they feel.

Appropriate in a way. But also luxurious in that way of not having to make calls and decisions on the spot, of not feeling cornered. He's not good at handling feeling cornered. A few things Ariadne has said previously suggest that she might not be, either.

"If you ever need to -- you know, diffuse a situation like that," the folklorist says instead -- and does not suggest she call on him. "You can move things. People don't see it because people can't do that, you know? Tip something over, accidentally drop a cup of milk in his lap from a direction where no one was standing. Their mind will fill in the blanks. And they'll feel uncomfortable as hell because of that revision happening. Odds are they'll bugger off and leave you alone."

Return wiggle felt. It make Ariadne's grin deepen into something close-lipped in turn. She looks down at her pizza in a way both pleased and somehow still that little bit shy. She plucks a bit of green pepper from her pizza and eats it before glancing up again, almost through her lashes.

"Oh? Oh my god, yeah, that's right," she says with a lift of her face. The physics of Grey Harbor and the powers -- how the city rewrites the memories of the mundane and how most everybody else suffers from the same case of Denial (not the river) she did when she first arrived. "I keep...well, not forgetting, but not thinking I can do those things. Right. Knock something over in a startling manner. That's a really good idea and I feel a little silly not having considered it yet." A small roll of eyes at herself.

Ravn allows himself a smug little grin. Some things come naturally to him at least -- not the big ones, but some of the small tricks are as natural to him as breathing. "You'll get in the habit soon enough. And then you get the opposite issue, having to remind yourself to not throw shine around like confetti lest you attract something's attention."

He can't quite wipe that hint of smugness off. There's a certain satisfaction, a boyish pride, in knowing something, being able to share something, that's really useful, and also, kind of awesome. It's the same instinct that made him become a teacher -- for a value of teacher where he can't stand standing in a classroom with everyone watching him, but he tends to run his mouth about anything to anyone who will listen.

"We can't rely on it," he says all the same. "The Veil rewriting reality, I mean. Don't get cocky with it in some kind of whatever, the Them will clean up kind of way -- they'll use that against you. But small things? They work. People not like us almost always go for the simplest explanation -- and a draft wind somehow throwing a can of milk to the ground is a simpler explanation than the barista has psychic powers."

"Right. Not looking to attract extra attention. I've been working on the little stuff around the apartment anyways. Sam's quite proud of my ability to huck his toy down the hallway." Ariadne's expression goes drily amused. "I know. Phenomenal powers, their use as dog toy flinging. It's helping with my aim though. Somehow, it's less embarrassing to have a bouncy fox-tail ball whop off the wall instead of going down the hallway verses something like a sneaker or a pillow."

She shrugs and takes another bite of pizza. "I haven't broken anything yet. Yet," comes the emphasis around the little cheekful of food as she waggles a finger.

The Look from Kitty Pryde at that; bouncy fox-tail ball, what is the matter with people, have some dignity, chase a garden bird instead. Her dignity, she would never, and Ravn's socks occasionally being crumpled into balls and dragged across the room is something else entirely. Also, no comparison whatsoever to the pleasure of hunting and dispatching a crumply paper bag.

"Infinite cosmic powers, itty bitty living space," Ravn murmurs with a smile and then glances at the open door to the boat's interior. Yes. Itty bitty living space does just about cover it.

He gets up, to take down the sail. Now's the time to just drift like a buoy on the slow current, letting the surface wind gradually push them back into the bay, towards Hoquiam. A pleasant afternoon and eventually, when tiring of it, either putting the sail back up or using the Vagabond's engine to putter back to the marina in Gray Harbor. It's hard to tell where one town begins and the other ends -- all about which side of the Chehalis you're on.

"Itty bitty living space," Ariadne echoes as she holds up a pinched amount of air between thumb and forefinger, squinting to further accent her point. She does move when Ravn gets up to figure out the sail. She's not too proud to remain out of reach of the boom. Dangerous things, booms, especially when not tied down; she's always wondered if they were called 'booms' for the impact of their pole to skulls.

"And now that song is stuck in my head and I blame you," she adds after she finishes her slice of pizza and cleans off her napkin. "Can your friend do this -- bah-bahdah -- can your friend do that -- dzzz-dzzz -- can your friend pull this - out their little haaaaaaaaat, can your friend go WHOO!" Jazz-hands. This one isn't ashamed to sing in public, apparently. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a Disney fan, not going to lie." Ravn gets another grin, this one quite pleased.

Ravn looks over his shoulder with a laugh. "Why, am I too much of an academic snob to like mundane things?"

He shakes his head as he works, chuckling. "Disney is my field, you realise? It's just another take on the stories we tell. And given the reach of Disney movies, it's an important one. Those movies shape how older stories are passed on to the next generation. This is why we can have Twitter catfights about whether mermaids can possibly be played in people of colour in a live action movie -- while historians like me groan and point out that in medieval art, mermaids were any damn colour the artist wanted, including but not limited to passion fruit orange, bright scarlet or cobalt blue."

The boom is secured; Vagabond swings around as the wind takes her hull instead, and sets it adrift at a slow, leisurely pace, nose pointed towards the Pacific and ass towards Hoquiam. "You don't get to be a literature snob as a folklorist; folklore is folk. Contemporary literature, movies, music, it's all part of the field. You call it pop culture references, I call it perpetuating story telling tropes. I like sending my students off to tvtropes dot com too -- for a joke website, that place is one of the most important indexes we have, of contemporary story telling."

Is Ravn too much of an academic snob? Ariadne's shrug is teasing. Maybe? Maybe not. She still remains out of reach of the boom while he works and talks and smiles to herself. Get him talking, there he goes; it's so true, any claim he makes about being wordy.

"I'm a huge fan of that website, actually. I don't wander through it often, but I do like reading up on the tropes my fav movie and book characters apparently occupy. It's great brain-fodder for those moments where you're just washing dishes and want to let your mind wander. Like, why is Captain America's shield part of the As Lethal as It Needs to Be trope? How does each interpretation of it reflect on the comic book or movie writer in turn? Why does it break the laws of physics sometimes? But I digress -- and I want to know what your fav Disney movie is -- and yes, I'm secretly judging you."

Which is no longer a secret, but it's part of the joke, so she grins anyways.

"Peter Pan. You can laugh. You can cringe. You can wince at the fact that apparently I've met the bloke. It's about rich but neglected kids getting to escape into a world of adventure. How could I not love it? I know it's a racist piece of tripe, but I love it all the same." Ravn makes a face as he sits back down, and then ​cants his head. "Although, I have to confess, that speaking of other Disney movies with cultural appropriation issues -- Mulan has some serious zingers. Dishonour for you, dishonour for your family, dishonour for your cow."

Beat. "Please tell me you did not expect me to say The Little Mermaid." He reaches for the blanket pile. "I will keep all of these to myself if you do. No blanket snuggles for you."

Ariadne nods rueful agreement. Some of them, while charming, retain their errors and heavy-handed cultural appropriations.

She does, however, slowly smile that Prince of Foxes smile while Ravn gathers up the blankets. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she then tells the folklorist. "Why on earth would I assume that you'd say The Little Mermaid? That would be just ridiculous of me, silly American that I am." She spreads a hand across her collarbones hidden away beneath the coral-colored windbreaker. "I'm innocent of this slander you attempt upon me. How very dare you."

Her hand is then held out. "Gimme a blanket, you terrible assuming person, you." That foxy grin lingers.

"Fine." Ravn hands over one of the blankets; heavy woolen affairs, because proper wool is the only fabric that stays warm if wet -- and at sea, that's a very real risk. It makes them a little heavy for this purpose, but that's just too bad. He unfolds the other and slinks into it. All that's missing is a campfire. He probably doesn't want a campfire on his boat.

"I don't hate The Little Mermaid, actually. Just have to keep in mind that like so many other Disney movies, it's as far removed from H. C. Andersen as H. C. Andersen was from the original mermaid myths. Nothing wrong with telling a good story in a new way, to a new audience. Are you aware that when you smile like that, you look like you're contemplating pouring ranch sauce down my shirt and eating me alive, and I don't mean that in a seductive way?"

Ariadne settles down with her newly-acquired blanket and doesn't disappear all of the way into it. It wraps about her waist and covers down to her feet. Sticking her hands in her pockets and slouching into the faux-fur lining of her windbreaker will seem to do along with this.

Her brows lift, however, at both the elucidation and the commentary about her grin. It had come down a few notches in intensity, but it briefly flickers like a flash of light from water into and out of that cast -- there and gone, back to a more simple curl of lips.

"I have been told it looks like I'm about to start trouble when I smile like that, yes. You might learn better what it means...you never know," the barista then shrugs. "Ranch sauce is not seductive, however, because you are not a hot chicken wing. Excellent choice of condiment for the sake of hilarity." A nod to Ravn and some dimples to boot. "Amazing how time changes things, including the myths, yeah. Intent changes so much of an interpretation -- but I'm preaching to the choir on that one. You've got the degree."

"Well, what's the fun of having a degree if you can't get a good argument out of it?" Ravn leans back; he's built himself a veritable cocoon. "Am I supposed to ask what condiments are seductive, or is this a little early in the evening?"

It's not even evening, technically speaking.

"You're a troublemaker," he says, with a small smile. "Most people I find myself liking are, in some capacity or other. It's a respect thing -- I like rebels who rebel against the right things. Being an anti-social asshole does not make you a good person, after all. But making us question everything? This is good and healthy."

Ariadne suddenly peals laughter. Seductive condiments -- it clearly tickles her funny bone. It's not unkind laughter, simply surprised, and she brings her fingertips up to her mouth to try and stifle some of the sound. A cough or two and she then attempts to evince an innocent expression.

"I still have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not a troublemaker in the least. I'll take 'rascal' though." A flick of her brows. "It is good and healthy though to sometimes get that pinch in the ass about one's personal viewpoints. A little double-checking never hurt anybody, even if it stings at first. Now...it is five o' clock somewhere, and you've opened that Pandora's Box, bud. Are condiments seductive at all? Should one's lover be treated like a meal and not enjoyed as is? Why do people try to use honey? It's too sticky, seriously."

Not laughing, not laughing, not laughing.

Not blushing, not blushing, not blushing. Ravn makes a face. Really trying hard to keep this on the scientific level. It was an academic inquiry. Right? Right. Treat it like one. Die crimson, later, alone.

He swallows and ventures, "I suppose there is something to be said for intimacy of a playful nature. Somebody must buy the edible underwear or they would not go on making it. I'm going to be up front and admit that this is not exactly my field of academic expertise. I think I've read somewhere that honey is an aphrodisiac? Given that it's an anti-inflammatory agent, I imagine you could do worse. I also have a hard time not imagining you getting stuck to your bed now."

Still not laughing.

Somehow. Mostly because Ariadne framed it in that academic manner and kept a scientist's tone, if only out of play.

But damned if her smile isn't positively puckish now if still close-lipped.

"Maybe I just really like wearing my sheets around all day long. Nice and warm, like this blanket." She slouches further down into the woolen wrap in question which covers hips to toes. "Honey is, in fact, touted to be an aphrodisiac, yes, along with things like oysters and strawberries. Nothing like a little clotted cream to go with those. Delicious. But you're not wrong. Edible underwear exists simply because someone will eat it. Weird how that works, in a way." Canting her head slightly, Ariadne doesn't finish her thought; she merely smiles again. Nothing like seeding ideas and watching them grow behind someone else's eyes.

"I am just going to say two things on that." Ravn manages to find a bit of detachment somewhere, long enough to get a little cheeky. "One, oysters and strawberries together sounds like something your boss would run through a blender and serve to me on a hot summer's day. And second, if you're aroused by over-expensive little slime balls in their own shell, you really should consider therapy. I assume you meant clotted cream for the strawberries, too. I hope you did."

He's going to quietly picture Ariadne walking around in a sheet for a week because she can't get it off now, yes. Super bee glue at its finest.

Ravn breaks her composure and, again, there's a peal of bright laughter.

"Oh god, eeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww," she squeals, shoulders up around her ears. "Fuck no -- oysters alone, no clotted cream, and god, I find them edible, not arousing. I think someone's just wanting to make people spend more money on dates with that claim about oysters, yeah. Clotted cream for the strawberries." Ariadne shakes her head, her cheeks pink. "Della would never stoop to mixing oysters and fruit together, Ravn, oh my god, yuck. We wouldn't let her as staff. Uggggggh, whyyyyyyy, that's so gross!"

Her golden-hazel eyes still twinkle. "But at least I'd have a superhero cape if my sheets were stuck to me. It'd be majestic."

Ravn laughs and sinks further into his blanket cocoon. "At least I can have faith that there are limits to what attempts Della gets to make on my life."

Then he cants his head because the idea, the mental pictures of this whole discussion are something else. "I suppose, if it's just stuck to your shoulders. I was thinking more -- Egyptian mummy. Have to peel it off you, one layer at a time. But instead of Nefertiti, I find a very grumpy barista who really, really wants a shower."

But aren't the mental pictures something else? It's almost like Ariadne can tell what's being entertained. The Dane's words certainly aid in this supposition.

"I mean, I'd really only be grumpy if I was cold by the time all the layers get peeled off. Turn up the heat in the room and I'd be just dandy," she shares. "Though it would take a lot of scrubbing, that's for sure. Lots and lots of scrubbing." She looks honestly introspective for a second, brows faintly knitted. The logistics are indeed being considered. "I'd be an adorable mummy, let's be honest here," the barista then decides with a laugh. "And honey was considered sacred by the ancient Egyptians."

A beat, and really just because she can't help it: "I'd need help getting between my shoulderblades though, honey stuck there would be a task."

It's starting to dawn on Ravn that Ariadne may be circling this subject on purpose. He doubts she means to insinuate that he should go under deck, grab the honey, and throw it over her head to see what happens. Flirting, right. This is what people do. He knows this. Theoretically. So maybe he's a little slow on the uptake. If by a little you mean, say, a lot.

"I suppose you'd have to call Dita," he returns, because if we're doing this, we're doing this; deploy the shield of obfuscating obliviousness but with a sparkle in steel grey eyes. "Ask her if she knows some handsome pool boy you can rent for half an hour. Maybe one of her firefighters. Or you could go sit in the yard and see if any of the local wildlife volunteers to lick you clean. Or, I suppose that if you asked very nicely, I could give you a backrub once you emerged from the shower. I have it on at least one person's authority I do in fact give decent backrubs."

Observe, the return of the puckish little pursing of lips.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeeally," drawls the barista. "You with backrubs? I honestly, not unkindly, wouldn't have guessed. I'll have to keep that in mind in case I ever have a kink in it."

Word choice, Ariadne.

"You never know. I might ask. It could happen." Her eyes fall towards where she supposes his hands are and then rise back to his face. "You do seem to have strong hands. Those are important for good backrubs."

A purrito is a cat wrapped in a towel. A Ravnito is similar, except substitute Ravn and blanket. He's not emerging at this time, and if Ariadne is going to continue to discuss kinks and backrubs he might stay in there for a while. That feeling when you're happily paddling along in the pool and then you dip down to reach the bottom only to realise that there is no bottom because you've accidentally swam way past the shallow area -- yep, that's about how he feels at the moment.

It's not a bad feeling per se. But it's the kind of feeling that, in the past, have lead him to say things he ended up regretting because they in turn provoked other things into happening. The ghost is gone -- supposedly. And yet something that girl, Gabby, said, sticks with him -- and so does the fear, out of sheer habit. So much of his fear is pure habit.

"I have strong hands," the folklorist confirms nonetheless. "I play the violin. It's difficult if you don't."

"Piano fingers. I understand." Her own hands emerge and wiggle the fingers in question in a jazzy little display just off of her pockets. Ariadne then slips them away; her little smile doesn't lessen but by a degree or two. "It takes some skill and lots of practice. Such is the art of the instrument. I'd love to hear you play sometime. Didn't you say there was also a piano in the house somewhere? Or am I mis-remembering and I'm crazy?"

A little shrug of redheaded shoulders. "I ask because turnabout is fair and all. I'll play for you if you play for me?"

Ravn hesitates a moment in answering. When he does, it's with an almost awkward little laugh. "Would you believe me if I say that Rosencrantz is the only person in Gray Harbor who has watched me play? Kinney has heard, of course -- we share a rehearsing garage, after all."

He picks at something under his blanket and shuffles about a little. "I want to say yes. But I have to warn you that I will probably make forty excuses to dodge actually doing it. Playing with an audience is -- unsettling."

Those golden-hazel eyes linger on Ravn and while they don't lose their twinkle of amusement, they somehow also sharpen.

"I think what I'm hearing is it depends on the audience, given you've played for someone else before...and someone else has heard you. That's still fair though. I'm not going to make you do anything. It's a gift when someone plays for you, y'know? A sharing of talent. It should be given freely and without pressure. I don't mind playing because I'm used to recitals and kind of...not necessarily gigging. But you mentioned the casino before during the summer and I mean to pad my wallet with playing there now and then if I can. I also don't have a piano to practice on, so...I have to practice somehow. Do you guys actually have a piano in that house? Or maybe Una does?"

"We don't. I think Una does? We can find one. I mean, you may not need a grand piano?" Ravn chuckles. His cheeks are a tad pink now -- his own anxiety embarrasses the hell out of him. "It's not -- Rosencrantz caught me at a moment I couldn't quite wiggle out of playing. And I forgot to pretend. I mean, I usually do that. I pretend I'm just starting. No one wants to hear cat torture twice."

He looks out at the sea. "So he figured me out, and he kept making me come over and play with him. I enjoy it. And I would like to play for you. It's just -- I am so used to it being my quiet thing, that I don't talk to people about. I busked my way down Europe -- it's not that I can't perform. It's that usually, I don't know the people I'm playing to, and I'll never see them again. This was my refuge as a child. The one thing I could do which my parents hated, but they did not stop me from pursuing. I think I'm terrified that you will -- well, not like what you hear."

"Aw." A sound of absolute empathy. "Geez, do I understand that feeling. Nothing like a discordant note to ruin an entire piece. I don't think it's any more obvious on a piano than a violin, but I really do get it. I do. If you want to play for me, then you can. If you don't want to, I will not offended in the least. It's a gift. If you want to share it, you share," Ariadne quietly insists, her smile kind.

She then follows the man's gaze out along the waters. Some gulls have landed nearby and paddle at a safe distance. They know Kitty Pryde is there.

"I'll ask Una about the piano though. It'll be nice to get back into it. It's been a year or two. My parents keep one around the house and put up with me sitting down to figure things out by ear."

Ravn swallows. "I want to. It'll take me a while to find the guts. But I do want to. I hate that I have to be like this. I'm the bloke who won't play for people, won't eat the food they give me, won't dance, won't sing, won't anything. I try, I really do. I'm terribly broken in some ways. I find ways around it but sometimes, I do feel like I am some kind of prima donna. Always some excuse for having to be different."

Then he looks back. "We can almost definitely find an electric piano if nothing else. Room for one of those in the garage, easy. Or an old living room piano -- one of those that don't take up half a room and come featuring a scantily clad lounge singer to lie on top."

Ariadne squints. Drily, she notes, "I can't decide if I can better see you or me sprawling on an old living room piano all scantily clad like. Or what your roommate would think of it. Mind exercise," she then singsongs before she laughs. Apparently, that was ridiculous enough to require a palm to her own cheek.

"Annnnnnnyways. It's not an excuse and you're not a prima donna. It's a comfort thing. I'm not somebody who gets off on making someone else uncomfortable. Any little gesture can be a gift when it's beyond a comfort zone. Like...y'know." She then reaches out with a pointer finger after a second, her smile quirked in a shy question. ET phone home?

It takes a bit of wriggling for Ravn to get a hand back out of his cocoon fortress. When he does, though? That gloved finger gently bops Ariadne's, and then attempts to sneak a little further; holding hands is nice. "Kinney'd fight us both for a sparkly, colourful dress full of rhinestones," he notes, smiling. "Particularly if any of those patterns look like pineapples. He likes pineapples."

Of course he does. Half Aidan Kinney's shirts have pineapples on. Almost like there's a theme.

"And I know you're not. Think we'd have this conversation if I thought you were? I've been in one abusive relationship. I don't need another." A small smile goes with that, but beneath it, there's a choice: Better to live by yourself, alone, and need no one ever again, than to depend on people who are not worthy of your trust.

Boop. Ariadne visibly frets her lip against what was surely going to be a goofy smile and then gives the Dane's gloved hand a gentle squeeze. It's a little awkward between the seat bench and the captain's chair, so the barista scoots down the way until it's less of a stretch and both of a lazy bridge of connected arms. Seems appropriate.

"Pineapples. I'll keep that in mind if I ever need to score points with him," she grins. "And I don't think anybody needs or deserves an abusive relationship. Fuck those entirely." Another soothing squeeze of fingers with no terrible pressure. "I'm glad you have the confidence and self-love to make sure it's healthy for you too. That's important as hell. There's only one of you, y'know? Kindness to oneself is not overrated. It's not selfish, not a lot of the time...or at least, that's what I figure. Me under a blanket on a couch watching bad vampire movies with Chinese doesn't sound selfish. It just sounds...nice."

"That sounds kind of good when you put it that way, actually." Ravn returns the smile and makes a bit of space; the aft of the Vagabond is U-spaced, and adrift as she is, it's not strictly necessary for him to sit right at the centre with the steering pin. "Can I invite myself? I'll not promise to not moan and groan about the violence done to perfectly innocent embodiments of tuberculosis and antisemitism, though."

He cants his head a little and looks at those hopeful seagulls -- smart enough to stay out of range of his cat. The loaf up there in the prow hasn't moved. Ravn sometimes wonders if it's normal for cats to lie still for hours. Nothing really is normal for Kitty Pryde. Nothing is abnormal. She just is. "I told Rosencrantz this once. I'm not a victim. Sure, I'm broken and scarred in some ways. But however broken I may be, I'm not a broken bird who needs to be rescued. And I appreciate very much that neither are you. Life leaves scars."

"You can invite yourself." Confirmation given, Ariadne nods and gives another squeeze of gloved hand to accent it. "Just bring something good to drink and it'll be a party."

Following the man's gaze again in passing, the young woman can be heard to let out a thoughtful sigh through her nose. "I refuse to be a broken bird, yeah. My...dignity? -- just can't handle it. Scars are proof of survival anyways. It means something tried to take you out and you won. You persevered and you healed. Same with getting older, I figure. It means you're still alive, sometimes against impossible odds. Who's the badass now, y'know?" Her gaze returns to Ravn's face and her smile blossoms again, tilted higher to one side with closed lips. "Scars are honorable if you want to romanticize them. Unless it's the scar on my left elbow from slamming it too hard against the wooden furniture at my parents' house when I was seven. Then they're just proof of youthful ineptitude."

Ravn nods his agreement, smiling; those blue-grey eyes can be surprisingly warm when he lets his guard down a bit. "Exactly. Scars makes us who we are. Some of us have had it rough, but the fact we're still standing means we came out on top. It always freaks me out when somebody tries to -- make me play the white knight? How can you trust someone you don't know very, very well, to save you? Maybe it's because I made that mistake myself once, trusting someone I thought I knew. Thought that she could help me be normal."

He squeezes Ariadne's fingers lightly. "There's no such thing as normal. And there's no such thing as letting someone else save you, or mould you, or shape you. We are who we are. We own it. And sometimes we're lucky enough to meet others who match our brand of strange."

Such blue in those eyes. Ariadne looks between them and muses about whether or not the color is there or transference from the bay waters around the boat. She still nods; yes, how to trust someone with something as delicate as a heart and especially with the expectation to better achieve harmony of existence in relative society. Another shadow of empathy, something almost grief, goes through her gaze.

Sometimes, life is so incredibly unfair.

Ravn squeezes her fingers and it seems to shift her out of half of a thought. Her smiles reappears again, a quiet iteration of it. "Or match just enough of it to make it work. There's always got to be room to grow...and besides, what's normal anyways? Normal is overrated. Humanity is just so..." She falls to silence to think. Her gaze lingers on those curious if cautious gulls. "Vast and...varied. And somehow, you're the only you -- and I'm the only me -- and how that works is just...magical to me. We are who we are," the barista agrees, meeting his eyes once more; "So why not own it?"

"Heaven knows I've spent a considerable part of my life not owning it and trying to run from it instead." Ravn makes a wry little smile; that too is part of owning who you are -- to own that once you were not brave enough to do that. That it was easier to simply stay transient, always going, always gone before anything started to matter.

And look where that got him. It got to him to a boat under a brilliantly blue spring sun, with a couple of seagulls circling lazily (and safely out of Kitty Pryde reach), comfortably snuggled up in a blanket next to a woman whose company is delightful. At a time like this, hard to not think that maybe he kept running because he needed to get to a place and to a person.

At a time like this, one can be almost optimistic.