2022-04-23 - Serenades in Lavender

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : Hey. Listen. Hey. Listen. Hey. Listen. Hey. Listen. Okay, I'm done now, pop culture referenced. I need to borrow what god gave you -- your height. Can you be my token tall friend, pleeeeeease? I'm painting some of the rooms and I don't have a step ladder and I'd rather have company than go scrounge around ether borrowing or buying on.

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : I'll have that terrible beer you like~

(TXT to Ariadne) Ravn : Are you telling me you only want me for my six foot three? I see how it is.

(TXT to Ariadne) Ravn : Take it you mean now? Anything I need to pick up on the way? I'm not doing anything I wouldn't happily trade in for painting ceilings. Want to grade an essay on early Norse missionaries for me?

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : I mean, I also want to kill two birds with one stone and get more of my place painted while I watch your face screw up after I make yet another bad Little Mermaid joke.

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : And I'll pass on the essay grading. Just tell the kids you had Other Things To Do. Or something. As far as picking stuff up...hmm. Munchies? Munchies. Use your imagination.

(TXT to Ariadne) Ravn : Ordering a sushi bar. Check. Be there in twenty.

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : Works for me~

Of all the days Ariadne decided to paint, she thinks to herself as she loiters in the kitchen. She should have more windows open. Not the case: the weather isn't cooperating. Winter decided to make another appearance in a steady, mild drizzle with enough volume to make the grass outside squishy and puddles form. Samwise the sighthound lingers by the open sliding glass door regardless, sitting sentinel while his dark nose sniffs the incoming whufts of air through the screen door in turn. No wildlife is out, not in this weather, but he watches nonetheless.

The apartment smells of coffee and paint. Already smudged in one or two places on her old black sweatshirt and on the simplest of navy-blue sweatpants, white tie-cord and all, the barista grumbles as she makes another pour-over for herself. "Just want to air the place out, but nooooooooooo...have to lose some brain cells first. Where are those anyways -- seriously, Ari, picking today to paint." She glances up at hearing someone at the front door. "Gimme a tic!" comes the holler. Samwise looks over his shoulder, triangle-flop ears perked and then towards the door, all without moving from his spot.

There could be a squirrel at any second, can't give those furry little fuckers a chance.

"Actually, just open the door, Ravn, it's unlocked," Ariadne amends loudly down the hallway with a laugh. She uses her wrist to brush deeply-red hair out of her face; it's pulled mostly up and gathered into a clip, showcasing the celestial gradient underneath. Must not smudge 'English Lavender' paint all over her face.

Ravn could probably open it anyhow -- but it doesn't hurt to not have to give a practical demonstration of his less than savoury talents. He saunters in, jeans and an old shirt -- plaid, as it happens. Stop the presses -- oh right, painting was mentioned. He probably just doesn't want to ruin a perfectly good turtleneck. Here's to hoping Aidan allowed him to take this old thing from their shared walk-in wardrobe (in which a war is being perpetually fought over shelf space and colour coordination).

He's got a couple of styrofoam boxes on one arm. Mm, smells like fresh fries.

"I decided against sushi," he announces upon entering the kitchen. "Figured we might not want to eat right away. Fries and chicken wings can be microwaved -- sushi can't. And I got a bucket of nuggets in case Samwise gets to have some too -- bird bones are bad for dogs, right?"

"Bird bones are, in fact, bad for dogs, so I appreciate you thinking of Sam in this. He needs his shots updated, but I'd rather go in for those instead of raging indigestion. Right, you furry little scuzzball?" the barista asks rhetorically over the counter. Lo and behold, here comes Samwise, all gracile prance and wag of feathery tail because A: someone said his name and, B: they have what smells to be fried chicken so, C: be still his little canine heart. Ravn gets such a brown doe-eyed look of wistfulness -- hey, are YOU a sucker today?

And a sniff-over from knee to shoes, though not one that might have lingered like a retriever or tracking hound might have indulged.

"He can have a nugget. One nugget, buddy," and she points at the dog. His ears lift. Who, me, what? "Because we can't ruin dinner. I can stash the rest for later." She then offers out open palms to take anything which needs to be taken and put away -- though this doesn't mean Ravn can't do it himself. The fridge is right there. "Coffee's hot and ready unless you want a beer. Those're chilled," the redhead adds.

Ravn digs into one of the styrofoam boxes in order to fish out one (1) nugget. "Are you my new best friend?" he asks of Samwise. "I think you are. Here, buddy, enjoy."

Then he tucks the remaining stash away in the fridge because indeed, he can tell a fridge from a dishwasher, and if he can't, that food is going to taste soapy later on. "How about a mug of coffee first, and then a cold beer later? We pretend to be serious first, at least. What rooms are we doing, and how rainbow coloured should I expect to get?"

That bag there? That contains something as wildly exotic as paper hats. Aidan is a mural painter. Ravn knows which garage to mug for safety gear.

One (1) nugget is delicately taken by Samwise's front teeth and zoom: there he goes, over by the screen door, to turn three times before plopping down to set the nugget down between his front paws. Now, it gets an appreciative lick-over. The dog has licked it. It's clearly his now. Ariadne snorts in amusement before she rifles around in a cupboard for a coffee mug. Despite inclinations, she's unpacked more since the Dane was last in the apartment and it looks like someone lives here now even if a few brown boxes are shoved into and stacked in corners still.

"It's only the guest bedroom right now, the smaller of the two," explains the barista as she pours out a second cup for Ravn. "And like I said, I need to borrow your height." He gets a cheeky grin in passing as she then goes to the fridge to fish out some coffee creamer for her own mug. "It's only one color right now. The baseboard lining is already white. I'm painting the walls with lavender. Pale purple. The paint is called 'English Lavender' and it's quite charming if I do say so myself." She sip-tests her coffee. Yes, good. Away the creamer goes. "A sample is on my sleeve," she also notes drolly, twisting her arm to display the color there on the black fabric.

"Oh, let me see." Ravn reaches out with gloved fingers and gently takes hold of a sleeve, pretending to read it like a colour fan at the paint shop. "Yes, I see -- a smidgen more blue than English Rose, still has never seen an actual lavender in bloom." Cue wide, lopsided smirk. "It is a nice range for a bedroom. I've never been able to decide whether I think a bedroom should be a dark, warm colour, or something cool and calm. Science seems to favour the latter, but I'll still paint my bedroom wine red some day."

He hitches a shoulder. "And then change my mind a week later and paint it all over again." With that, at least he lets go of the sleeve. "You know I'm happy to help. Expect awkward jokes about where you keep the honey, though."

"Pfft." A quiet sound and smirk for the smart-assery about English roses. She doesn't note that she had thought about this particular shade as well. Instead, Ariadne leaves her arm up until the paint splotch's perusal is complete. Thus finished, she takes up her coffee cup and bubbles a snort into it.

"Oh my god," comes the cough and then squeaky laughter. Are her cheeks slightly pink? Yes. This is unexpected. "You're safe for now, bud, there's no honey on the premises. Besides, how are either of us supposed to paint if we're wrapped up in sweet, sticky comfort? Not very productive for the task." How coy, her grin at him, as she swans past the Dane with her mug now. If he happens to get a Look through dark lashes by golden-hazel eyes, then it's a strafing one.

"There's nothing wrong with wine-red, though I'd go warmer in hue. Something more towards...terra cotta. It's intimate and cozy somehow without being too...small? Light colors are supposed to make a room feel airy," she says over her shoulder as she leads the way into the guest bedroom.

Not airy in here, though she's stubbornly cracked the window the tiniest bit despite the drizzle. Two walls are painted to a certain height and old sheets are laid down tucked tight to the floorboards. Two rollers, one already used and sitting in a still-wet tray, sit off to one side.

It's probably a good thing that the burger place does not sell honey in jars. Ravn might have brought one otherwise, just for the joke. As it is, he settles for failing entirely to come up with a come-back as Ariadne swans past and strafes him with that honey-coloured gaze.

Right. Colours. Paint. It's what we were here for. Yes. Focus. Hearing every word you said. Honest.

He tucks one of the paper hats on; perhaps English Lavender is not the shade he'd want if he did decide to try something else for that mop he calls a haircut. (And when he was nineteen, dark plum was not a success, either). "I suppose we'll have to make do with ranch sauce later. But then, to be fair, I'm not convinced honey is great for dipping nuggets, either."

"Oh, hey now, no dissing the dipping honey just because you haven't tried it. Chicken tenders dipped in plum-honey-red pepper sauce are amazeballs." Ariadne seems to be considering the paper hat with an amusement bourne by the novelty of it. She's never seen one of those before in her life and, apparently, is just going to scrub out any lavender paint from her own hair if it gets there. Self-confidence in her ability to avoid spatter? In spades. "Something about the sweet countering the savory saltiness."

A finger then shakes at Ravn while she smirks and stoops to grab up the already-wet roller and palette. "I still think ranch dressing is for dipping carrots and not bodies, thank you very much. Nope. Just..." She starts laughing -- nay, giggling loudly. "Noooooooooo, I can't not -- " Visibly biting the knuckles of her fist while she fails to not chortle, she walks over to a bare wall. "Awful. Ahem. No. No ranch dressing." Finding at least temporary composure, her fist uncurls to gesture at the second palette and roller alongside the open paint can. "Have at thee, tall one."

Ravn is smirking at least a little as he picks up the palette and can, and transfers paint from one to the other before picking up the roller. He's not going to make a big deal out of this -- but it does please him that at least he's not the only one who's going to look at ranch sauce and honey in a funny way from now on.

"There's a Malay way of preparing mushrooms I think you might like," he says instead. "You let large mushrooms marinate in a mix of honey and soy sauce, before filling them with vegetables and baking them in the oven. The marinade is very simple -- three spoons of soy sauce to one spoon honey. It's surprisingly good. They use honey a lot as a cooking ingredient, rather than as a spread."

Making a thoughtful sound from where she bends over to wet the roller again, back facing Ravn, Ariadne glances past her legs. "I'm not a mushroom fan, but that might convince me," she admits as she straightens with the ease of someone long-used to activity. "I assume they don't wrap the mushrooms in sheets before they get cooked though."

And by her smirk, she's note quite done bantering about this.

"Any other things you can think which go well with honey? It's an academic interest on my part, truly." Copious amounts of laughter limn this statement like frost on a windowpane. Her roller presses to the wall and she gets working, still sporting her faint smile; by the subtle turn of her head, thus an ear towards Ravn, she indicates she's listening despite her focus.

"I've been told that white meat is good. Tender thigh, that sort of thing." Ravn focuses his gaze on the broad stripe of lavender that his roller draws along the ceiling; make sure it doesn't drip or you'd better be putting on those safety goggles too. "It's my understanding that they have to lie longer, though -- something about absorbing the spices slower, but worth it over time."

He glances at Ariadne. "And no, no sheets. Place the mushrooms bottom up, filled, in the oven, bake them at low heat so they don't go dry. It's surprisingly tasty. I'm not really big on them either but portobellos prepared this way become absolutely delicious. More so with a bit of bacon."

Dip, draaaaaaag. "Of course, most things do get better with a slight taste of salt, don't they?"

Ariadne closes her eyes and rolls her lips at the wall before her with its newly-laid swipe of lavender-hued paint. Don't smile -- don't smile -- you'll end up giggling like a high schooler --

Also, stop blushing. Stop, inner visual-spatial nature. You stop right now. RIGHT NOW.

Her inner monologue doesn't make the light heat leave her cheeks, unfortunately. Fortunately? Compliment to Ravn, surely, as she glances over her shoulder at him with a gleam in her darkly-lashed eyes. "I've heard these things, yes, something about the contrast in taste with the salt. Savory indeed." Roller must be dipped again, so she bends to do this. "Though it seems to me that you'd want the meat by itself." A beat. "I mean, Portobello mushrooms are substituted in vegan dishes for it, I've heard?"

To wit: The calm of an aristocrat grifter who's spent a substantial part of his life learning how to keep a stiff upper lip and look unaffected. Ravn continues to paint with easy, slow strokes that leave no white spots in their wake. "I've heard this. I've never really taken a great interest in vegan cooking but I think the protein fills you up the same way meat protein will? People combine turkey, duck, and chicken though, so at least as far as I am concerned? Bacon and minced meat goes fine with portobellos. Toss in some fried whole asparagus, bit of spinach, green pepper, and you've even done your healthy duty."

He glances back at Ariadne and adds, "Not that I object to the idea of having the meat to myself. Nothing wrong with a good piece of tender, white meat. I am making an innuendo now and I don't know how to stop. Help."

Is she pinking more because it's a blatant innuendo or because Ravn appears to be the kitten who climbed the laundry line and is now hanging there by tiny toebeans, charming in being stuck?

Or rather, the gentleman who is still a gentleman even if he's twisting words to parry back her own in turn.

"Maybe one time, I'll try this mushroom dish. It sounds good with all the veggies, but let's be honest: who can say no to bacon?" Her smile aimed over her shoulder visibly waffles between charmed indeed and the beginnings of that foxy, foxy dimpling seen before. "Do you want to stop...? You're doing well," the barista observes with no mockery in the least.

"I have standards. I may suck at flirting but at least I have standards." Ravn can't resist laughing at his own plight, either. "I'll come up with something. Give me an hour and free wi-fi."

He dips his roller again. "I'm honestly quite useless in a kitchen. I picked up bits and pieces here and there -- such as the soy honey sauce thing -- but the real issue is, I'm not interested enough to learn. Did you meet Gabriella from across the street of me? She came over one evening and wanted to teach me how to cook a chicken. I mean, it worked fine, we cooked a chicken and it did in fact turn out edible -- delicious, even. But I haven't gone out to buy a chicken in order to try again, because I'm just not very interested. Cooking, if I do it, would have to be a social thing. If it's just about eating, anything from the local diner will do. Besides, the local diner's pretty good."

"The internet password is 'StarbucksSux4Ever', capitalized starting S's and it's s-u-x and the number four." Ariadne's grin goes truly foxy for a passing second before she goes back to her quarter-completed wall. Every reaching stretch reaches all but the last three inches and the ceiling itself. Hence, Ravn's presence. She pauses to listen and consider the ceiling he's colored over. Yep. Perfect. An excellent idea, borrowing what god gave him.

A furtive draw of her gaze from the lifted roller down his arm, through his torso, and down to his shoes is quick. Back to her wall.

"The local diner is pretty good, sure. I haven't met Gabriella, no, though I applaud her effort. I'd be equally useless. I cook because I need to eat. If I didn't have to eat? Zero interest. If I cook, it's with the intent for leftovers and the assumption that I'm eating the same thing for three or four nights in a row. Fried rice, for example, is delicious and fairly easy and I love having a few Tupperware's worth of it in the fridge up for grabs," she explains. "I like baking though. It's...somehow easier. I plan on picking Una's brain about it as things stand. There has to be little tips and tricks I don't know about."

"If anyone has tips and tricks on baking it's definitely Irving." Ravn nods his agreement. The Kitchen Cleric is rapidly becoming legend. "But yeah. I could see us cooking some night together as a social thing. Have a good time, have a good chat, coincidentally also stuff the freezer with boxes for other evenings. I can't get into it for its own sake. I'm not very good with food in the first place. I'm sure you've noticed, everyone does. I'm a little better at tossing back junk food on my own -- something snobbish about how it's not real food so it doesn't count goes here."

He draws the roller across the floor again. This is really a somewhat strained position, looking up and working over your head like that, and he's not sorry that it's not a giant apartment of twenty rooms they're doing. At least he doesn't have to stand on a chair; working over your own head like that and wobbling would suck. "She likes you very much. Irving, I mean. Not that I don't applaud her good taste. I think she'd be delighted to bond over baking. The more I see, the more I think she's really very eager for a friend who's neither a lodger nor a bloke."

"I mean, I sort of follow that logic. It's not real food for realsies." Opinion shared as to junk food, Ariadne pauses to roll her shoulder in its socket. She's been at this since the morning and even her joints are wondering about things. She stoops to set down the roller for a long mouthful of her coffee. "And I'm actually ordering Una a shirt which says 'Kitchen Cleric' on it. It has all the stats and buffs listed and everything. I think she'll be pleased."

Barista beam.

"I don't know what class you are yet, but when I figure it out, you'll get something too," Ravn is thus informed. "Good taste. You're a sweetheart." Another grin. "I like her a lot too. She's a doll through and through. I'm happy to be the friend who bumbles through making snickerdoodles and giving her a gentle ration of shit. Though, honestly, let her make the snickerdoodles. Those are to die for. I'll settle for learning how to make a good cake. Or petit-fours. Those wee little icing-covered tidbits of heaven. Mmm." She pops an OK-gesture off her mouth in gourmand appreciation. Ravn is then considered. "Do you have a favorite simple food? You know, one of those things that's a comfort food?"

"Rogue," Ravn returns with a grin over his shoulder. "How can I be anything but? Maybe bard since I play the violin, but without the whole humps everything in sight aspect. Charisma is my dump stat, right after Constitution."

He ponders, and pauses to add a bit more paint to his palette. "I don't think I do, actually. I'm trying hard but when things like 'oreos' pop into my mind it's more in a capacity of right there in the cupboard, grab and eat, don't think about it. To be a favourite or a comfort food it has to be something you want for its own sake, right? I have had plenty food I liked, but it's always been about who I had it with -- not so much what it was."

Beat. "I suppose I could learn to like honey cake."

By the manner of how Ariadne tilts her head back and forth, she's weighing the assignment of 'rogue' against what she's observed. Another sip of coffee; the creamer has notes of chocolate without being too overwhelming and lives up to its claim about bringing out further related notes in the blend itself.

But...honey cake. Eyebrows lift. Was that the littlest bottom lip fret?

"Well." Nobody should sound this thoughtful, like they've stumbled upon a hidden cache all for themselves. "Looks like I'll have to see about honey cake. I might even let you lick the spoon...you never know." Stooping to set aside her coffee, the barista adds, "Toasted cheese and tomato soup for me. Or rice soup. Rice pudding, actually, I guess it is. Boil rice in milk and add sugar and cinnamon."

"What you call rice pudding is a traditional Christmas dish where I' from. Rice boiled in milk and cream, until it's a thick mass. Served with sugar and cinnamon, and a lump of butter in the middle. Leftovers are saved for the day after, and mixed in with whipped cream and vanilla, for a cold dessert called rice a la mande. It's very good, I have to admit." Ravn smiles. "And in spite of the French name, entirely Danish. Invented by a chef who had too many leftovers, sometime back at the start of the 20th century."

He draws the roller across more white space, turning it lavender in the process. "I suppose I could be talked into doing some of the cleaning up in cat fashion. Did we get lost in the innuendos again?"

More of the wall continues to get painted. Halfway done at this point and the barista is glad for it. Only one more wall after this and then her shoulder can hate her for a day or two.

"So if it's Danish," one can almost hear the fond eyeroll at the claim -- so many things are Danish and Ariadne barely avoids giggling for it. "What's this rice pudding dish called in the not-French sense?" She pauses to glance over her shoulder again; it affords that half-blocked cut of her face, showcasing cheekbones and those honey-hued eyes. A loose strand of hair has fallen, inevitably and accursedly, out of the clip holding it back. "And...I suppose you'd rather be lost somewhere else?"

That must be a dimple as the young woman turns back to painting, perhaps to allow Ravn a moment to consider how to respond. This is her favorite banter, she'd readily admit.

"Rice pudding is a perfectly fine translation. The dessert variety is called rice a la mande because there's supposed to be an almond hidden in it. Get the almond, you win a chocolate prize. It's a traditional game. I'm pretty sure we don't own rice pudding though -- I mean, for one, rice is not a native crop." Ravn shrugs and dips his roller.

It's a well tested and tried tactic. If in doubt as to how to respond, talk about something else while you quietly panic on the inside. Right. Attempting to engage Flirt Mode, again. (May Day, May Day). "I suppose I'm already lost in your bedroom. There are worse places?"

Roller lays down another layer of the pale purple paint. Ariadne presses fingers to her lips with her other hand and briefly closes her eyes against giggling, glad her back is to the man right now. God. It's all so charming and she's honored for the effort. Time and time again, he's said this isn't his forte.

"There are definitely worse places, though I think the master bedroom's more inviting than this fume-soaked place. It has got to stop raining so I can air this place out. Samwise is by the back door because of his poor nose." The dog doesn't appear for the iteration of his name. The intense scent of the paint must indeed be keeping his curiosity at bay. "Also, if I do rice pudding, there won't be any almond. Blech. Not my favorite. Walnuts or pecans, please." A pause. "...okay, I amend that I don't mind the taste of almond in a baked good sense, but raw almonds are too bitter. Salted makes them worse. Bleh-bleh-bleh."

"You're not supposed to eat the almond. You're supposed to hold it up, do a victory yell, and claim your chocolate prize." Ravn grins back at her. "That said, you wouldn't be the first to substitute a walnut. Almond isn't everyone's taste."

Then he ponders as he dips the roller again. "I suppose you do make a valid point. Although on some level it's ridiculously appropriate, isn't it? The brave Sir Ravn, questing for his lady's favours, ends up in the wrong and empty bedroom, spends the night being very confused, and high on paint fumes. I mean, I feel like this is somehow on theme for my life in general."

Ravn does get his giggle this time. It's a high-pitched chime of defeat. What he's just gone and said is charmingly absurd.

"If the theme of your life is high on paint fumes, there is a point of mild concern here, bud," Ariadne replies before giggling yet again. "Oh my god," she then sighs, letting the paint roller hang down at her side. Almost done. One more quarter of this wall left. "I really appreciate this help, Ravn. I was thinking it would be way less effort than this, but oy. I have no victory almond for you, but like I said, beers are waiting in the fridge. And the chicken you brought."

A look over her shoulder at him and a dimpled grin, cheeky. "And my undying gratitude of course, Sir Ravn." She turns to face the Dane before she plucks up invisible hemlines of a skirt and curtseys in the most tart-like, American way possible. Cue auntie pearl-clutching.

"More the sensation of walking into the wrong room a lot, and then not realising it until it dawns on me that this is not the bus stop, it's someone's bathroom." Ravn laughs softly -- and then his blue-greys widen at that curtsey, and he manages to bite back a laugh. If anyone has seen actual, old-fashioned curtseys for real -- it's probably him. And at least from where he's standing, that was adorable and hilarious, and yes, it would probably have cost his mother a necklace or three.

Then he returns a simpler smile. "I like to help. I'm no handyman but I do maintain a boat. Which you helped me get ready for the season so this is fair payback, and even if it wasn't, I'd still be happy to help. I like doing things with people I like. See above, social cooking. There's honestly not a whole lot of things I can't get into if I like the people I am getting into it with. Now tell me how much I can cash your undying gratitude in for, and where."

Ravn's expression was worth the badly-crafted display a dozen times over. Grinning, Ariadne straightens again, paint roller held hanging down at her side. She tilts her head, other hand on her hip, and then her grin goes...yes, somewhat foxy.

"Sounds like we're doing karaoke again," she then singsongs because, well, karaoke. "If you want." A laugh. "I'm not going to make you, but you did just say there's not a lot of things you can't get into if you like the people you're getting into it with. My undying gratitude has some serious worth though." Her expression goes theatrically contemplating. "You might want to save up these brownie points and not spend 'em all at once. They're sweeter than honey." Her pointer finger then idly circles in Ravn's direction.

She might be aiming for a blush.

Ravn slips the roller onto the palette, and then holds both in his left hand while reaching out with his right, to touch a finger to a finger; manual dexterity and ambidexterity are his friends. "Maybe I'm saving them up for that day I actually manage to find your bedroom?"

Pause. Fine. Have your blush. The man's cheekbones dust pink as he coughs and says, "All right, maybe that was pushing it a bit. One step at a time. But, this is kind of fun. I'm not used to -- well, being quite so up front. Let me know before I get creepy, all right?"

Boop. Fingertips touch. As always, it makes Ariadne dimple up -- and the faint blush makes those dimples deepen all the more. She's practically twinkling now.

"I promise I'll let you know if you ever get creepy." She does mean it by the tone, kindly as it is without losing a hint of that cheek. "As you might be learning, I kind of call it like I see it. But I can also be overmuch, so you have every right to tell me to take it down a few notches, okay? I can get...like, I mean well, but you know how golden retrievers get too friendly and jump all over people? That." A little laugh and she shrugs. A little ludicrously, she stretches to set down her paint roller in the pan with a marked extension of limbs, as not to break fingertip-contact. Once accomplished, she straightens and then takes a step in to better wrap a gentle hold about the Dane's gloved fingers.

"And save those brownie points, okay? It's not about tit-for-tat, not that I've seen. It's about enjoying the company, like you said," she continues more quietly, looking up into his eyes.

Roller and palette in one hand, Ariadne's hand in the other. Better not get them mixed up. Ravn smiles a little, looking down into those gold-hazels in return. "I had not noticed," he says, quite earnestly. "About you being too much, I mean. Maybe it's because I like when people are genuine. People who tell me what they think don't make me have to guess. I overthink, a lot. It's so much easier when I don't have to. It's part of what I like about you -- that you're not afraid to smack me down, or banter at me, or just have an honest to God genuine discussion."

He glances at his left hand and then -- lets go. Such a nice palette; it drifts neatly down to sit on the sheeted-off areas where it can do no harm. Saves a man from having to reach down. Then he reaches over, and hoping to God and any other kindly entities that Rosencrantz knows what the hell he's on about, rests that hand on Ariadne's elbow. "I enjoy this company a lot. I'm also nervous as hell but every time I think now I've gone and said something so stupid you'll roll your eyes and tell me to stuff a sock in it, you laugh and return something worse. So somewhere along the line, something must be working."

Ariadne echoes that little smile in turn. When Ravn looks at the palette -- and then simply releases it -- there's a moment where the barista clearly fears gravity. But no need. His powers allow the tray to land softly as thistle-down upon the sheets. A little sigh --

-- which then turns into yet another when his hand gently cups her elbow. She eyes find his again and her smile is...admittedly a touch moonstruck now. Watch her own blush bloom across her cheeks. It's crystal-clear that she's pleased and there's no way in hell she's able to hide it...or the little bottom lip-fret. "I kind of feel like I should say something smart here, but maybe it's my turn to say something stupid so you roll your eyes at me. Since turn-about's fair play and all and y'know. Clever shit. Insert something clever here."

She then rotates the hand on the same side as the elbow to rest it nearly upon Ravn's bicep in turn.

And then the barista does an honest-to-god foot scuff. "...funny enough, my brain was like, hey, this is like a waltz set-up and then I was like, gurl, you don't know how to fancy-dance at all, don't be silly. Y'know." More pinking as she laughs and looks off to one side. Ahem.

Ravn can't help a small laugh; maybe he's secretly pleased that he's not the only one who's a little out of his depth. A man has some pride, even if he knows full well he's an incompetent in some regards. "There's something I can teach you, then. I'm not a good dancer -- I hated every lesson because unexpected touch. But I do know how, and I think I'll find it considerably less objectionable when the person I'm leading is not someone who's being paid by the hour to put up with my shit."

The smile grows a little lopsided. "Hell, perhaps I'll finally understand what the fuss is all about. People waltzed for two hundred years and if you ask me, the late medieval line dances look a lot more fun. And so does watching paint dry. Interesting shades and shapes in the patterns when the hot air dries out the paint; you can almost picture little landscapes in the texture changes. My life has sometimes been very boring."

It is, in fact, a blurt-laugh which leaves Ariadne after the explanation of paint drying in comparison to dancing.

"Oh dear god, Ravn. No. I'd rather fumble through dancing than watch paint dry, good lord," the barista says, brave enough to look up into his face again. "And there, mystery resolved: you spend your brownie points teaching me how to dance, yeah? Look at that. Easy conclusion. I super-fantastically promise to not step on your toes. Extra super promise. With whipped cream on top." Look, if we're going to be stuck with pinked cheeks for a while, turn-about is, in fact, fair play -- insert ridiculous eyebrow waggle here. "Glad to hear I'm not objectionable though, thank you kindly," she then teases with a grin.

Grin returned. "I thought we were going for honey?"

Grin deepens.

"Gosh and golly, little old me, forgetting all about that honey." Ariadne clears her throat and then, ever so daintily, amends, "With honey on top." Fingertips are squeezed and the barista might have just settled into the tiniest bit of contrapposto poise with a deliberate tilt of head to better showcase her neckline. Body language. Ever important.

Ravn swallows. He's used to faking indifference. He's used to keeping a stiff upper lip. Rolling with the blows. Catching the curve balls. Dealing with the fact that no plan survives contact with the enemy. He's not used to weaponised charm being directed at him like that. He's definitely not used to not defaulting to oblivious ignore-everything mode, either.

"You're doing it on purpose," he murmurs, with the appreciation of someone who's pulled a grift or two, most of them along the lines of distracting an audience while someone else picked pockets -- or picking pockets while someone distracted the audience. That poise, that look, that little twist of a neck? Fantastically effective on most gents.

Himself included, apparently.

"I can't dip you like a Hollywood movie," the folklorist murmurs. "But I'm certainly starting to see why anyone might want to."

Those golden-hazel eyes search through the Dane's face as he talks. If Ariadne looks mildly surprised, it shows in the minor lift of brows and quirk of the corners of her mouth.

Her head tilts the other direction. "I appreciate that compliment, Ravn. Like a Hollywood movie -- that I'm worthy of that. As far as on purpose...eh." Melodious, the short little acknowledgement of sound. "I mean, not at first. Maybe now, yeah. I just...apparently find you quite attractive too and my brain went and said, let's showcase it whether you're aware of it or not. 'You' being me, in this instance. I mean...the body language rarely lies at base, yeah?" Now she looks a little sheepish too. "But here I am distracting us from painting. How about this, since I'm just painfully pragmatic sometimes," the redhead funs of herself in turn. "We finish painting the room and then go eat French fries and I can make moony eyes at you across the table?"

Flutter-flutter, eyelashes, flutter.

Thank you, straw in the well, come here and let me grasp you. Ravn nods his agreement, still smiling, and withdraws his hands -- preferably before those eyelashes leave fatal injuries. "First we paint. Then we embarrass ourselves in ways that hopefully, some day we'll look back at and laugh strangely at, while everyone else in the room wonders what's so bloody funny about honey. That seems like a good order for getting things done. Priorities. Yes. Hi, I ramble when I'm nervous."

He's still chuckling as he bends to pick up his palette and roller. A bit of fresh paint and up we go -- better get this ceiling finished. Or maybe take a lifetime. The jury is out on which we prefer, because what comes after may end up being both mortifying and miraculous at once.

"Hey, I ramble too, you heard me." Ariadne's sure to give those gloved fingers another squeeze before they separate and go back to their painting trays. "And honey is hysterical, everybody knows that. We won't have to explain a thing."

Ravn gets shot a wink over the barista's shoulder. "Besides, my arm needed a break, so thank you for that. One more wall. Whew." A roll of her head and limbs in their sockets both. "One more wall. You mind helping me with the last wall when you're done with the ceiling? Things get done faster when two people are involved."

And her brows lift at herself. Word choice, Ari. Word choice. Look, we're painting this last quarter of wall, look at us go.

Ravn coughs. Yes. They sure do. Hopefully not too fast. Oh lordy, mind, get back on the other track, please. Paint, paint, paint, it's a day job. "Happy to. Also, looking forward to seeing moon eyes. You promised me moon eyes. That's a wonderful literary trope, and I have no idea what moon eyes actually look like. I've always pictured that they looked like someone'd gone to sleep with a tiny wheel of cheese on each eyelid."

His arms ache a bit. For a moment he contemplates just moving the damn brush with his mind. That'd be something, coming from the bloke who's always warning others against frivolous use of power. It's just so -- easy, now, compared to what it used to be like.

Unable to help laughing at herself, Ariadne lets her head drop and the paint roller linger on the wall for a second. "Moon calf eyes. The ones you make when...y'know. The literary trope, you mentioned it," she says over her shoulder drolly. "You make that little crooked smile of yours and we'll see how moony I get then. Don't abuse your superpower!" Back to painting she goes and if this last quarter gets finished a bit more hastily than usual, surely no one will notice.

With a sigh, she scoots over to the last wall.

"I've always wanted to do this." Stooping down, she dips her palm in the paint and then just...squishes her hand on the wall. Tah-dah: handprint. "That's so pleasing, I have no idea why," the redhead then laughs.

"Getting to deface something and not even get scolded for it?" Ravn grins. "I live with a guy who does this for a living, you realise? Man's a mural artist. Spray cans, colours. I think on some level, everyone gets a secret little thrill out of leaving their mark. Even if they know it's going to get painted over in a bit."

Swish, swish, swish. Several seconds of silence pass.

Then, "What exactly do you mean my crooked smile?"

Because once you got somebody on her heels like that, pursue. As Perdita Leontes is prone to saying, you can take the girl out of the grift but not the grift out of the girl. Man. Whatever.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Temporary vandalism, whoooooooooo." Having laughed at herself again, Ariadne then picks up the paint roller with her other hand in order to swipe over it. It was still gratifying. Maybe the second or two of silence after Ravn's question is as well.

On her heels indeed.

"Well..." Listen to that thoughtful little lilt. "A...crooked smile is...it has somewhat of a dimple, but it's only on one side and it's...really charming because it's both...a smile, which tend to be honest, and cheeky, which is...fun and playful. Rakish, if you want to romanticize it. Roguish, even," the barista adds, attempting to sound innocent and not even the tiniest bit flustered. It barely works. Barely. She aims a knowing look over her shoulder in Ravn's direction. "Rogue."

"Well, there's a first." Ravn laughs softly as he paints towards the last corner. "I don't think I've ever been called rakish before. Suave a few times, by people who were obviously trying to butter me up."

He's still smiling. There's something absolutely delightful about this whole conversation. He's not the only one to be nervous. He's not managed to fuck it up so far. He's not talked himself into a corner yet, either. Chicken wings and fries aren't going to be the exciting dinner proposal to sweep a girl off her proverbial glass slippers, and this too is fine. It's a strange feeling, like a stomach full of butterflies. Except that a stomach full of butterflies would leave a weird aftertaste and probably cause heartburn.

"Well, I'm not trying to butter you up. It's honey, remember?" Tart little smirk to go with that reminder. Back to the wall, she goes, working through the first quarter of it. "I mean, unless you're talking, like, whipped honey, which has butter in it, so that's covering all your bases, right?"

Another innocent glance at Ravn. "But if you want my plain opinion, it's a crooked grin which is just shy of a smolder that's truly wicked. So. You figure out how to do that? You watch out. Like I said, superpower." Bending over to rewet her roller just happens to coincide with the Dane glancing over. That subconscious mission regarding body language is apparently opinionated.

"I think the word 'smolder' and I are fundamentally opposed on a religious level." Ravn eventually reaches his corner, and walks over to join Ariadne on that last wall. "And frankly, honey with butter? I'm not sure whether I think that sounds like a very practical way to save time over breakfast, or profoundly scary. But I shall keep it in mind -- smear you in honey, check, leave butter in the kitchen, check."

Those moments when your mouth says what your mind is thinking, and then back pedal, rewind, oh crap.

He laughs. And shrugs helplessly. At once. "You know. Some day. Stepping out of my head a moment to scream into the void. Your normal broadcast will resume in a minute."

"Pfft." Somebody doesn't believe in this religious opposition, apparently. Or maybe Ariadne was blowing a strand of hair out of her face, even odds. "Profoundly scary," she then murmurs through a laugh under her breath --

-- before Freudian slips occur like banana peels. While her smirk might be furtive, her glittering side-glance is not.

"Sounds good. I'll wait for the signal to come back before I say 'some day' applies," she informs the Dane lightly, focused rather deviously on the wall painting to perhaps allow him a moment indeed.

Ravn opens his mouth, and then shuts it. And then opens it again. "Okay, but didn't you want to finish this wall before we go shopping?"

"I did want to finish the wall before any sort of shopping," Ariadne replies in that same pleased, light tone of voice, continuing to paint as she speaks. She still doesn't look at Ravn, in honor of continuing to allow him a moment or three free of the weight of her visual attention as he needs it. "But there was also chicken and fries to have because all this painting is making me quite hungry. No shopping on an empty stomach, haven't you heard the rule?"

A glance over at Ravn now along with a cheeky grin. "Gotta treat a girl to some food first, right? And then, some day, we go shopping." That blush just never really went away; it lingers as she adds, stooping to wet the roller, "You're just really damn cute, you know that? You are. Geez."

"I'm not cute," Ravn murmurs, faking a hurt tone with eyes that glitter grey with amusement. "I'm manly man, and manly man is not cute. Honeystly, though? Oh god. I didn't just say that. Seriously, though? Food sounds good. Wine and dine 'em first, and all, and well, I forgot the wine."

Another long brush-stroke, and remembering something else Rosencrantz said -- to say to her, not him. "You're beautiful, you know that? The way the light plays in your hair -- it's hypnotising. And I'm making a complete idiot of myself, and somehow, that's all right. It's quite amazing."

Honeystly.

Ariadne decides then and there that Ravn Abildgaard is never living it down. How she smiles to herself in that quite puckish way, still visually focused on moving the roller along the wall. The room is almost lavender'd. Almost. She still nods agreement; wine and dine, yes, even if it's coffee or beer and not wine. Still, yet again, the Dane manages to nearly entirely disarm her with his next thought. Looking over at him, she seems entirely surprised to hear this. Her lips remain parted in brow-lifted silence before, well, the blush returns with a vengeance.

"Oh, well, geez." Look at her tuck chin and glance to one side. "I'm just...flattered as all hell, thank you, Ravn. I...I really like it myself. It's..." Pausing, she uses a finger to carefully thread one of the dyed locks around in a coil, looking at it against the black fabric of her sweatshirt. "I didn't get to do much fun stuff like this. My parents were sweet if old-school about it. Why dye your hair when it's pretty anyways? Maybe I wanted more color, hmm? It was impulsive, but...I think it was a good decision." Letting the strand of hair go, she glances up at Ravn again. "I mean, you're calling it hypnotizing. That's a helluva compliment. Thank you," the young woman reiterates more quietly if no less humbly.

Her regard flicks between his eyes. "And...I gotta tell you, Ravn. Between that crooked smile and the way it makes it way into those baby-blues now and then? Dear god, have mercy. It's...really kind of dashing, damnit," she says airily.

That reaction is probably not entirely what one would hope for. Say something like that, and there should be blushing. Looking away, flustered mumbling? Coughing, even attempts to restore one's dignity after that wide-eyed look? Hell, even a smooth recovery, and a fast compliment right back atcha?

What there is, is a hurried look, first at Ariadne, and then behind her, as if something could turn up any moment. It's a strange mix of delight and terror. The excitement of hearing that someone you're fond of likes something about you -- and the terror that someone else might have heard. A learned helplessness, the kind that made him lash out on instinct and ruin the interior of a karaoke bar, turning on the sprinkler system when somebody tried a harmless flirt in his direction. A deeply rooted fear of his undead pursuer.

He catches himself at it at least, and lowers the roller a moment to lean a hand against a section of the wall that isn't wet yet, and take a few quick breaths. The ghost did not appear. She's not there, screaming bloody murder, or throwing things at Ariadne. Does that mean she accepts the redhead? No, it means that least right now, she wasn't paying attention. She isn't, most of the time. But when she is, she is dangerous.

And dead. Maybe? He does not dare trust it. Not in a town where mysterious forces bring back anything they like, anytime they like. He has not seen Benedikte since she died again, at the hands of Roen, Castro, and Rosencrantz. He has also made very sure to avoid any interaction that might cause her to manifest.

"I'm sorry," the Dane says after a moment. "That really wasn't the reaction you were hoping for. It's -- hard, when you've been afraid for a very long time. Like a dog that's been kicked too often, it flinches every time somebody moves toward it too fast. Please don't -- please don't stop. I mean, don't think you can't say what you want. I'll get over it. I promise. You make me want to get it over it."

Confusion blots Ariadne's expression at first. What had she said wrong? Had it been wrong? Why is he looking behind her? It makes her want to reflexively double-check, but at the same time, she knows nothing is there -- how she knows this, she could never qualify, but it's true as gravity. Nothing is there.

And now Ravn's leaning against the wall as if his knees went uncertain on him and he found them again. Her brows deeply knit as she looks at his face, listens, and quickly skims the rest of his body. That's panic. She's seen panic before. Hell, she's seen panic in her own mirrors.

"Hey, it's...it's alright," she then says gently. By the way her mouth pulls to one side, the barista is deeply wishing she had an immediate solution to this -- right away, snap, done. "I'm not here to force you to deal with it. Or make you flinch. How can I help? Because I want to help you get over it. You said keep going, right? I want to make sure I heard you correctly." Pointer finger is lifted and offered out towards the Dane. It's turning into a thing, it appears, in the manner of a litmus test.

Ravn musters up a smile that is weak at first and then gains a bit of spine of its own. He nods. "Yes. Please. I'm afraid because for a long time -- it was real. Somebody'd look at me and say something that could be interpreted as a come-on, and she would happen. The only way to make that not happen was to stay ahead of her, because she could not get on a bus. It's why I started running. All the way down through Europe, and then over here. To stay ahead of her, so no one was assaulted for paying a compliment to some stranger in passing."

He takes a deep breath. "When you've been afraid of something long enough, seen it happen enough times, it becomes a part of you." Then he straightens up and reaches out with the empty hand -- fingertip, E.T. makes a lot of calls here. "She doesn't own me. She doesn't get to decide who I want to have feelings for. I am terribly sad about what happened to her, but it was her own choice to get in her car drunk because she was mad at me. And if she does manage to appear -- she can be put down. It's been done."

"It has been done," the redhead echoes, a strength of her own in the words -- a firmness indicating she believes that since the ghost has been banished once? It can be done again. "And she doesn't own you. That's exactly right. You are you, Ravn, and there's only one of you. You are the captain of your own ship, sailing for your own star." Fingertip becomes a gentle wrapping of a hand-hold yet again; well, it does with three fingers, at least. The paint roller still needs to be held and her other palm is damp with paint from the print she's now glossed over.

"It isn't that it wasn't real and it isn't that it didn't happen. It is that it's in the past. It's okay to be sad and to grieve. I'm sorry that it went down like that, but it was her choice. You've suffered enough." Holding his gaze, she nods again almost curtly. "And you know what? You do have pretty baby-blues, damnit, and they make my breath catch a little when they hold your smile too." Her own lips pull up to one side in a dimple which grows, after a second, to approximately one-point-five-eight (1.58) hopeful dimples.

"I'm a walking banquet of anxieties," Ravn murmurs, and there is a bit of amused sparkle in those blue-greys as he says it; Ariadne's steely optimism is a powerful shield. "But I feel like maybe it will be all right, anyhow. Because you know. That I'm not a broken bird who needs to be rescued. Just a bloke with a lot of baggage, and sometimes, I lose it for a moment. I'll always pick it back up. I deal. Because that's what we do, we fall down, we pick ourselves back up, we brush our jeans off, and we keep walking."

The little smile turns wry. "And I think I better help you finish this wall because if we don't? I'm going to get lost in the fact that you're here, and you see me at my worst and most neurotic, and you stay. I suppose it does help that it's your apartment but you know what I mean."

Ariadne can't help the muted laugh. "I know what you mean, yeah." Another squeeze of his fingers before she has to let go or accidentally drop the paint roller; it had been slowly slipping out of her grip as they'd talked. Adjusting her grip, she then glances back up at Ravn again. "And yeah, I know. You've got a few scars, a few pockmarks and a few dings where somebody decided they'd go golfing nearby even though you were parked too close to the green."

A beat. "...I actually don't golf at all, that just made sense in my head." Eye roll at herself.

"Anyways. Like I don't have my own baggage, right? But like you said: I tie my own sandals and everything." Disney reference for the win. "Get up, brush off the dust, spitefully continue on with life. Spite. Defiance. Some sort of noble stand. Same difference," she shrugs, smirking a little. "Let's finish the wall and see about reheating some chicken though. I really am hungry."

Cue stomach gurgle, blurggggrllllllsqueakgurgle. Thanks, stomach, Ariadne is clearly thinking as she squints in the direction of her belly button. "I mean, hell, we'd better hurry up because if you get lost, I'll eat you instead." An innocent look at Ravn. "...it's okay to laugh, I'm trying to be funny," she stage-whispers loudly.

"Oh yes. Food does sound good," says Ravn, and flails on the inside. The slight trace of a flush is a micro-tell; he heard exactly what he thought he heard, and it's inspiring thoughts that have nothing to do with chicken (though quite a bit with tender meat).

Painting. We're painting this wall. Let's paint this wall. Look at all the paint. It goes on the wall. Breathe.

"Spite is not the worst motivator," he adds, once his mind has dug itself back out of the bedroom. "Defiance? Defiance is a big one for me. So many people in my life have tried to tell me where to go, how to act, how to dress, what to do. What's expected, that I owe it to the family name, and so on. My reaction has always been a profound 'no fuck you'. I don't want that to change. Defiance is a good and powerful emotion, because it means you are setting boundaries and saying 'only so far, the rest is mine'."

The wall is nearly done at this point. Only a last third to go. It does mean shuffling down to this last section, which brings Ariadne not necessarily within bumping distance, but elbow brushing distance if chance strikes. Stooping to wet the roller, she sighs and smiles to herself.

"Yes, and boundaries are important. Walls -- like proverbially -- are also important, but not too tall. Claiming space for oneself...nothing more empowering. But don't underestimate spite," the barista notes, shaking a paint-limned finger. "Or...maybe I should rephrase with schadenfreude. Mmm. Not necessarily that either. A degree of it? But with the deserving. Too much schadenfreude is a mental health condition. I don't know where I was going with that, observe my Roomba-like mind. Boop, changed direction. Boop, changed direction." She can laugh at herself. "I'm very, very glad you've found yourself, or at least the majority of it, and you're in a place where you can discover more. That's profoundly validating."

Reaching out slowly, so Ravn is aware of it, the barista gently places her hand on the flat of his shoulder. Gentlest pat. "It's a good thing." Emphasis on the simple word for a far less simple concept.

And, of course, a handprint on the back of Ravn's plaid shirt.

"I think I will go defiance. As you say, Schadenfreude takes you to a place that's a little too dark for my tastes. I love a good karmic smackdown as much as anyone, but it's easy to cross into a bad feeling there." Ravn glances at his shirt. Look? Stealing an old plaid shirt was a good idea. This would have ruined a turtleneck. Now it's ruined an old shirt instead, and that at least is substantially cheaper. Folklorist's mind happily jumps down the road of branding and marking ownership. Five finger discount? I have been marked. He tries to not laugh. His mind really is ten squirrels in a trenchcoat a lot of the time.

Then one squirrel brings up an important point and he sends a slightly searching gaze Ariadne's way. "So, everyone knows a bloke who talks about himself a lot. You demonstrated to me the other day that I talk about myself a hell of a lot more than I thought I did. I feel like I should make sure to say that I find the topic of you a lot more interesting. But I also don't want to push you for stuff. Just, you want to talk about you and not me sometime, I'm very happy to do that. I know what there is to know about me. I'm still learning you."

Ravn glances at his shirt. Ariadne allows herself a plainly-pleased beam, as if she'd snagged the handkerchief in a round of American flag football; hers now, suckers.

Rising onto her toes for a reaching run of the paint roller along the wall, she realizes via her peripheral vision that she's being given a look. A brief pause before she rolls back down to the soles of her slippered feet, her brows lifted in silent question at the Dane. Ah, yes. A soft laugh and roll of lips against them being dry. "It's part of the process, yeah, learning somebody. I know I'm not that communicative about me, but I've always been a better listener. I guess..." A shadow of grieved introspection, rueful in acceptance as well, flickers through her face. "I never felt like anyone was listening, so what did it matter if I wanted to share? It's easier to not to. I could always tell when someone was too busy or distracted. No reason to waste the effort. I'm not saying you're like this, Ravn, and thank god, few people around here are," she's sure to add. "Just...explaining why I'm not good about talking about me."

"Most people are better at talking about themselves than they are at listening, yes." Ravn returns that smile; he's not feeling called out in particular. "I didn't realise how much I was giving away, not going to lie. I used to not talk to anybody a whole lot so maybe I still have a lot of catching up to do."

He draws the roller along the surface, easily, patiently. "You interest me. So obviously, where you came from, what roads you've taken, they interest me as well. But things happen when they are ready to happen. Arguing with you is fun. And honestly? I think people here learn to pay attention because so very often, our lives and well being hinge on us having paid attention. It's good and bad both. Can make you feel like you're under constant scrutiny. Also a good feeling that anyone cares, though." A small smile. "I certainly do. Some day I want to hear how a redhead with a mild Hungarian accent ended up in my path."

"Makes sense," Ariadne agrees of catching up. Her roller works as well and her attention lingers on the wall. It'll be on Ravn to finish the last two feet or so and then...done and her upper body, at least, thanks her for it.

Carefully daubing a sleeve against her forehead and temples, she glances over at Ravn again. "...yeah, it's a good feeling even if it's sometimes like people are being nosy. I'll be up-front about that and confirm what you've probably already suspected in that I slap nosy noses. My business is my own. I'm also...not used to people being interested in me beyond the small talk across the counter. I guess I have walls of my own. I'm not too afraid to admit it." Her roller is placed down in the tray with a sigh.

"But it's easy to start the story of how I ended up right here. When a mommy and daddy love each other verrrry much," Ariadne then drawls, not even attempting to hide her saucy grin.

"They share a bedroom, mummy gets horribly pregnant, daddy loses interest in her because she's whiny about losing her figure, and the kid is handed off to the nannies until he's capable of eating with a knife and fork and being quiet at the dinner table?" Ravn winks. His childhood was probably not that traumatic.

He finishes those last strokes and steps back to look at their handiwork; no white spots that he can see. "People are nosy. Just, it's not always just small-town boredom here. You know how to filter. I can tell, I've seen you do it. And honestly?" Another grey look towards the redhead. "We all have walls. This city is teaching me that I don't have to live all my life alone and transient. We'll see what it teaches you. Maybe it's to open up. Maybe it's something else entirely. Maybe it's to feed your poor, abused labour force."

Thank god Ravn winks. It mollifies the horror bubbling up inside the barista standing beside him. She still blows a hard sigh and has to look away from him briefly to see about schooling her expression; a sleeve-covered wrist runs from forehead and back to aid in this centering process. Self-grooming those loose strands away from her face: check.

"Look, labor force and grateful property management both get fed here," she laughs despite herself. Rolling back by a number of steps, roughly to the center of the room, she carefully scans the walls and rotates as she does. It takes about half a minute or so -- because white spots would be just infuriating after their efforts -- but the curt nod as she faces Ravn again is approval. "Alright, I declare this sucker complete. High-boop." And a single fingertip is offered out since a high-five palm to palm is not only paint-transferring, but might shock nerves. "If you and your handsomely-nosy self want to waltz your way to the kitchen and see about reheating that food, I'll be along shortly? I just want to get the paint stuff organized a bit more and set up the baby gate so I don't end up with Sam-prints all over my carpet."

Ravn returns the high-boop with a grin. It's going to be a thing, isn't it? It is a thing. It's been a thing for a while.

Then he heads kitchen-wards. The kitchen may not be his, but a styrofoam box is a styrofoam box and a microwave is a microwave. He tucks the packs of fries in first and sets the timer before quickly checking his gloves and taking the paper hat off; a few lavender drops on it hint that wearing it was a good idea in the first place.

"I'll do my best," he tells Samwise. "But the lady with the awesome hair is the boss of you. She gets to decide whether you can have another nugget, not me. Don't give me that look. She's the goddess of this house. You and me, buddy, we're just minor deities fluttering about in her orbit. I'll totally sneak you a fry."

Samwise, of course, attends on the reappearance of the tall human from the smelly room. He's there, not necessarily underfoot, but definitely interested in everything food-related. His doe-brown eyes find Ravn's face as the man speaks to him. Swish-swish, goes the feathered tail while those triangle-flop ears perk up. Fry sounds great, mister, hop on it.

It takes a few minutes for Ariadne to reappear. Turns out paint is hard to get off your hands when it's starting to dry. She eyes herself in the master bathroom mirror regardless while she scrubs like a fiend and eventually, her reflection smiles back at herself. An eyeroll, also fond in a way. You gigantic dork, it seems to say while she dries her hands. A check-over of her own hair finds it free of paint drops, thank god, but her cuffs are not without paint. Apparently, neither is the side of her sweatpants; she frowns at the swipe. Alright, clothing swap must happen. It does and the baby gate, fished out from the bedroom, is set up before the open door of the newly-painted room.

"Alright, chaos contained," she announces before lifting up a finger -- and pausing. "I left my coffee, hold on." Going to retrieve this, the barista then returns. She's in a pair of black yoga pants and a baby-pink zip-up sweatshirt now, the latter meant for fall by its thickness of fabric. The empty mug ends up in the sink and she sighs as she then leans against the counter, arms lightly crossed beneath her chest. "Smells like deliciousness. Thank you, Sir Ravn, my bold labor force." He gets a fond grin.

Ravn explores enough cupboards to find a pair of plates upon which to heap fries before sending those burgers into the (not very fiery) flames next. A fry absolutely happened to fall Samwise's way while Ariadne changed; but only the one. Ravn knows better than to fill someone's dog up with junk food; it tends to end with someone having to clean said junk food off the carpet an hour later.

He inspects his jeans before sitting down. Nope, no streaks of wet paint with which to ruin a chair. "Black Bear does a pretty mean fast food game. I like their fries because they re-heat very well. I often find that I have to eat my meal over a few attempts, so that's a nice bonus. Cold fries are a very sad thing, after all."

Behold! A Dane is seated, smiling. "One condition for this feast, my lady? No dipping your fries in honey."

"Well, thank god the condition will be untested given there's no honey on the premises," the barista drolly reassures her bold labor force. "There's actually no ketchup either, so plain fries it is." Samwise is eyed with how he's floated over to sit by Ravn and give the man a dutifully soul-sucking stare. "Sam, you know better."

He looks over at his owner. What.

"Spot, bubby." A point at the bed tucked against the end of the long kitchen counter and, with a sigh, the Sighthound goes over to curl into an impossibly small ball on it. "Who's my good boy," Ariadne coos and then sneaks him another third of a fry herself. Might as well reward with what we want in the location we want. Dog is pleased. Human is pleased. We're all happy here.

"I haven't been to Black Bear yet. I bet they'd have honey there if you asked nicely." Le wink. It's never going to die. It's a thing now, forever more. Ariadne brings a light beer and a darker beer bottle to the table and then sits with a sigh. "I mean, bears and all."

Ravn half-laughs, half-blushes. That wink. It's going to be the death of him. His tombstone will read, she looked at me, like THAT. Time to attempt a misdirection, or at least a redirection. "You Americans and your ketchup. Fries are not made for ketchup. Fries are for remoulade, and you don't even know what that is. In a tight spot, I'll accept salad mayo as a substitute. But ketchup, my dearest honey warbler, is for wieners."

The micro-wave dings. He gets up to magic burgers onto the plates as well. Is he going to eat his? He's going to try, and trying is half the victory, right?

Fine, he's not. But he's going to look at it and tell it that he wishes he could. Business as usual.

"I'm going to develop a nervous reaction to honey," the Dane informs Ariadne instead, holding a fry. "I'll walk into the Patisserie and Daniel will ask if I want to try the honey cake, and I'll run out blushing crimson, leaving Vydal to wonder if I have lost not only my cake eating manners but also my mind."

Wieners.

What a dry look Ravn gets as he goes to fetch the burgers in his magical manner. Ariadne simply leans back in her chair, looking content and coy at once, her manner of chewing through a fry unhurried. Once her burger arrives, she watches him and makes note of how he'll be in no huge hurry himself to eat his own burger. Business as usual indeed. Slowly, another one of those puckish smiles appears.

"I suppose it means that while you're fleeing the bakery and turning such a delightful color, I'll be on your mind you've partially lost. I'm complimented, thank you," she replies mock-primly. "Also, remoulade is like tartar sauce, but more often contains paprika to yellow it, or maybe curry or horseradish sauce." A waggle of a finger still faintly purple on its underside as Ariadne grins challengingly. "Remember: my mother was born in Budapest," singsongs the barista. "Tsk for assuming. You European, you." She then eats her fry after the tease.

A wiener is a dude from Vienna. Ravn will die on this hill, mostly because it never dawns on him to remember that it means something else in American English. Sometimes, he's a little naive like that.

He cants his head though. "Paprika? Curry? Absolutely not. The yellow colour is from bits of carrot. Are you sure we're talking about the same relish? Mayonnaise-based, chopped onions, estragon, carrot? Sounds like there might be more than one variant of this -- and paprika is a big thing in the Hungarian kitchen as far as I am aware, so it wouldn't even surprise me?"

"Uh, it's paprika or curry which colors it yellow, not carrots. Blugh, carrots, how bland." Good-naturedly, Ariadne argues for her own family's twist on the dipping sauce. "It's how my mom always made it. You dip fries in it or pour it over potatoes. Maybe crab cakes depending on how you've done the crab, though I haven't found anywhere around here which does a crab cake right." A coffee and crab cake snob, this one. "But yes, we're talking about the same thing, remoulade."

She then picks up her burger and takes a big bite. "Ohmygod, thank you, Ravn, this's delicious," mumbles the redhead around her bite. "Lemme get napkins, hold on." And by napkins, she means some strips of paper towel by what she gets up and fetches from the counter space. One is handed off to the Dane before she sits again. "Which reminds me. You never really told me what food is a comfort food to you. Anything which tickles your fancy? I'm asking so I can make it in the future." Yes, she looks a little sheepish for the admission, but it's the truth. "The rice pudding, maybe?"

"I don't think I have one," Ravn replies earnestly and nibbles on a fry. "It's been an issue my whole life -- eating, I mean. I don't think of comfort foods as much as comfort people or comfort places. Times when I can relax enough that I can just eat. People I feel relaxed enough around. I've done my therapy over it, and it's certainly not as bad as it has been. But I think comfort food for me is food that I eat with people whom I feel comfortable with."

He picks up another fry and stuffs it in his mouth with a victorious little look. Then, upon chewing, he adds, "I do like rice pudding, mind. I'm really not a very picky eater on the whole. There are a few horrors that gross me out, like we talked about. And I'm really not that keen on the French kitchen's idea of drowning everything in wine. But on the by and by, I'll eat whatever somebody puts in front of me. We could make rice pudding sometime -- and make enough to have leftovers for rice a la mande and also, rice pudding cakes."

"Ah." A quiet sound of understanding. It's not comfort food, it's comfort people and places. Ariadne nods; it makes sense as a whole. Who says comfort need be defined by food? It's not the only critical necessity to living comfortably. She eats a few more fries as she listens and smiles when she sees yet another fry disappear into the Dane. Good. It counts.

"I'm good for rice pudding cakes. No al la mande because again, almonds, blech. Also, walnuts and pecans are expensive." A little sigh. "I'm not to the point of the more frivolous things like that. Maybe one day, a pound of pecans in the freezer just for snacking. God, I miss that. One day!" she declares. "But rice pudding? Easy make. It's a plan. I can pay you for your handiwork with it?" There's a cheeky note in the question, as if she knows there are other options available, but not mentioning them is half the fun.

"Walnuts aren't expensive back home," Ravn muses. "Pecans and almonds? Absolutely. And I'll be the first to admit that I don't really keep track of food prices. I always know the local take-out price ranges. Maybe this will change now, mm?"

He chuckles and tucks away more fries; compared to how he picks at food in some places, this must be a relatively safe space. He did catch that last bit too, because his eyes sparkle with amusement as he adds, "I suppose it's one form of payment I will accept. I mean, in the absence of honey. I do have to eat something."

Cue giggling with mouth full of burger. Ariadne lightly snorts a few times and finds her napkin to cover her mouth as she puts the food down. Must not spray the guest with half-masticated cow-meat.

"It's true, you can't subsist on air even if you wanted to and it'd be easy. Maybe you can photosynthesize if you sit in the sun long enough. Be one with the daisies, ommmmmmmm." She touches thumbs to forefingers and evinces meditation in her chair. Look at that studiously sage expression. "I'd rather eat honey though. No worries. You'll get that payment eventually." The sage expression melts again to coyness before she picks up her burger. "I mean, I can always keep enabling your black coffee fixation. That one's not too difficult."

"Lady, I will paint any room you want as long as you keep sneaking me proper coffee. Every other barista there sneaks me hazelnut roast -- that way, they haven't gone against Della's orders but they also haven't done something they ought to take to confession next Sunday." Ravn half-laughs and eats more fries. "In fact? At some point I'm going to start a rumour that I'm only chasing you around for the coffee."

He ponders a moment. "Hell, it's Gray Harbor and it's me. People will believe it."

How does this man eat fries with his fingers without ruining those kidskin gloves? It's the subtlest manipulation of moving ever -- and one might question whether he ever realised how he was doing it until some day he just realised he had always done it. Who likes dirty gloves? Not Ravn. Who is taking his gloves off to eat? Also not Ravn. Food is dead matter, and it can be kept from the fabric. It's the sort of thing he probably would struggle to do if he actually sat down and thought about it.

Thankfully, Ariadne hadn't taken a bite this time. Her laughter is bright and silvery, unapologetic, and it makes Samwise lift his head from his paws. What's going on? Food?

"Oh god, Ravn, they would actually believe it," she agrees, needing to put her burger down in order to rest knuckles against her cheek in passing. It must be standing in for half a facepalm. "Ari, don't you know? He's only schmoozing on you because you enable his black coffee addiction. How can you not see it?!" Laughing more, excuse her. "I need you to imagine the amount of eye rolling I'd do. Horizon to horizon. They'd just fall out of my skull and bobble merrily along until someone fetched them."

"Can we make it sound like I'm a sad hobo who follows people into alleys to lick up the last dregs from their discarded to-go coffee cups?" Ravn grins and ventures a small bite of burger.

He chews a little and then says, with a little smile, "Of course no one will believe it until the day I muster up the courage to actually kiss you. I have it from a reliable source that women like that sort of thing." Tone of a lecturer discussing the anatomy of third century Chinese porcelain patterns.

More tittering.

"Yes, you are the saddest of the hobos who needs that last little bit of coffee goodness despite the backwash." Ariadne indulges in a little dramatic shiver -- yuck! -- before taking another bite of her burger. When she glances up to see Ravn has done the same, she's yet again pleased. Very good indeed. Daubing at her mouth, she's reaching for a fry when he continues on in that purely academic tone. It makes her pause in pulling the little handful of fries back and giving him a steady look.

Cue the ghost of a sly smirk again and...dare we say, the return of that damn faint blush. "Now you have me curious as to which reliable source this is. They sound like they're fairly wise, whomever they are. Women do tend to like that kind of thing. Can confirm." Her own tone is perfectly academic in turn as she places the fries on her plate, but she can't seem to make eye contact, not just yet. It'll just make the faintest blush worse.

Ravn can't help laugh. "Fine. Rosencrantz told me women turn to putty if you kiss them first. Look, I."

He looks sheepish. "I asked him for advice. Because I really don't want to fuck this up. I did with Hyacinth, you realise. I waited for a long time because I figured, well, if a woman is interested in me, she'll tell me. And she did. And then I waited for her to -- have time? And I shouldn't have. I should have pushed the issue. She probably thought that I wasn't serious about it, or that it wasn't a big deal to me. I don't want you to feel like that, and I'm shit at this. So I went and asked him what to do. How much is too much."

A small smile. "Bloke told me to tell you the lay of the land. Seems to have been right so far."

Somehow, Ariadne manages to convey surprise despite looking up through her lashes at the name dropped. Itzhak, was it? Why is she surprised -- she shouldn't be surprised at all. Her eyes search Ravn's face as she fully looks up now, a fry again paused in being lifted, though this time from her plate. Her mouth parts in a growing smile, this slow and still hesitant.

"Y'know....right so far," she confirms after a second or two. "Like I said...he's fairly wise. Gotta wonder though what would happen if the woman kissed the guy first. Call it scientific curiosity. Does the guy, like...turn into something that's like putty but not putty? Plaster. Maybe the guy turns to plaster." Equal parts playful and pleased, she taps the fry on her plate now. Her chin ends up on the palm of her hand without thinking about it -- the one she'd thankfully cleaned of paint beforehand. Imagine otherwise. "What other wise things did he tell you?"

"He suggested that the same might apply to blokes. And I suppose that Rosencrantz should know, seeing as that he's not one to let the plumbing be the deal breaker." Ravn's smile widens into a small laugh. Maybe he's feeling a bit more daring the longer Ariadne does in fact not seem to write him off as an idiot who has the game of a thirteen-year-old that never left his mum's basement. "I would argue, though, that if you kiss a bloke, you should hope for something more -- well, not putty, more hardwood."

Wow, Ravn. Much risky, such edge. Better hurry and stuff burger into your face.

Adriane lifts her brows. Wise indeed. She can see it, how it wouldn't matter who's got what tackle on the receiving end of the kiss. Nothing like some confidence to settle and spark nerves at the same time. She continues tapping her fry on her plate and now squints. Ravn seems to be leading up to --

Bold indeed. Look at her brows twitch up another centimeter. "I trust your wisdom on matters given you're a bloke and all," she replies in a studiously even tone. "And that has been my experience in the past, yes. Plaster is...not quite the correct term for the density of the reaction. What else did Itzhak tell you...?" This is far too much fun.

". . . That you argued with him over superheroes, and he likes that in a woman." Ravn can't help laughing softly. He's blushing a bit. Yes. 'Density of the reaction'? That scientific approach tone there, it's murder. "Look, it's not like I asked the man for a point by point check list on how to turn a woman into a puddle at my feet. Just needed to -- scream into the void about being afraid of fucking this up as well, and then have the void tell me to grow a pair and not fuck this up as well."

Then he can't help a small, embarrassed chuckle. "Honestly, though? If someone tried to surprise kiss me, I mean -- genuinely surprise me, I'd probably end up screaming. Which might not be the reaction they were looking for. Which would trouble me some if it was."

For a split second, Ariadne bites the tip of her tongue through a smile and againt a blurted laugh. She knew it -- impending superhero arguments, thou art existent in the future.

"That's fair though," she interjects casually about the void and shrieking at it. Sometimes, one just has to flail at another trusted individual until sanity steps in. Her brows meet and then quirk at his revelation. A flicker of embarrassment goes through her own expression in turn; it's like at one point she'd considered it and finds herself ruefully relieved to have the plan shot down like a Spitfire over Calais. Quickly enough, she schools her expression back to something more neutral and still vaguely amused.

"I don't think anyone in their right mind would want another person to scream from kissing them. 'Trouble' is a kind word. I'd be freaked out." Fry is then eaten.

"There's something to be said for the long look and the slow leaning in, and the Hollywood dip," Ravn murmurs, half-embarrassed, half-laughing. "For me, for example, it means my skin has time to realise what's coming, so it won't react like somebody pressed a red-hot iron to my face. I'm not good at surprise tackle hugs and kisses. I never will be. And yes, that has been a deal breaker enough times for me as a teenager that I kind of wrote off the whole dating thing pretty early on. Kids are horny, they want to get on with it. And, well, I'm not going to be tackling someone and wrestling them down, however playful."

He looks down. "That said? I do want to get there. It's not very romantic to just say it, I know. But maybe it's better to just say it than to say nothing and let you think meh, he's not even interested enough to make a try for it."

"No, no, I am...really grateful you brought that up, Ravn." Ariadne's quick to reassure the man across the table from this. She cleans her fingers off on her napkin as she then sighs somewhat heavily. "I would have been just...really fucking gutted if I'd forgotten about that and then in a goofball moment, did something like tackling. I mean, I've never been a big tackling person myself, but the surprise kiss thing, yeah, I'm a fan of that. It's not a make-or-break though in any relationship -- or it shouldn't be, I think. One of those halfway points which need to be met. Like..."

She pauses to think, her own eyes downcast briefly. "I hate having my ass or hips pinched, even lightly. Like...it's not amusing. It's too much," she shares as an example, glancing up again. "It's not sexy. It's annoying as hell."

Ravn laughs softly, a little relieved. "I'm glad you tell me that. Because I might absolutely have done that. Do you have any idea how distracting a cute backside on someone you like can be? I think it's instinctive, to try to reach out for it. All you need is a little tail, really, swishing back and forth like it's daring you to grab it. Seen white deer raise their tails to signal to each other? Think that, and make your reptilian brain read it like 'whatcha waiting for, big boy'."

He splays his fingers as if to demonstrate exactly where they are, i.e. nowhere near Ariadne's backside. "Duly noted. No sudden funny pinching. I mean, given how loud I might scream if you returned the favour, it's not much to ask."

Excruciatingly solemnly, kept thespian by her faint smirk, Ariadne informs the Dane, "If I were a really, really mean person? I would try this to see if you could hit the higher notes."

A finger uplifted. "But I am not. Ergo, we are both safe from ass-pinching. A cute backside is much more honored by something like..." Falling into a markedly thoughtful silence, she plucks up another fry. "Well. That's a discussion for another time in the future, perhaps." The fry is bitten into and chewed with that little smile still lingering on her face. Eyebrows are flicked once at Ravn. Let imagination run wild.

Watch a man who's spent most of his life keeping up appearances -- one kind or another. Part of the trick? An ability to switch mental tracks on command. Ravn nods and picks another fry. "There's a time and place for everything. And looking, fortunately, harms no one as long as you don't get creepy about it."

He smiles a little, looking down at his half-eaten burger. "I feel like such an idiot about these things. But it's no different from other forms of disability. There are things I can't do. It doesn't mean I can't do anything at all. It doesn't mean I don't want to try my very best to make you happy. It certainly doesn't mean I don't want to touch you."

"Agreed. Looking is free." Speaking of this. Ravn averts his gaze and the barista doesn't even try to stop her own eyes from wandering over him. Her attention inevitably lands on his plate; good, good, half the burger gone. Another two fries are captured up and nibbled upon as she considers. Reaching for her beer, she finally takes a sip of it after having ignored it for quite some time.

A happy sound leaves her. Mmm, dark and rich, foamed atop. "And believe me, it goes both ways," the barista finally says, her faint smile a patient one. "It's more...I have no idea when I'm going to cause you pain or not. I wish I had a better idea of the logistics. But this doesn't mean that I'll be hesitating all of the time. I guess...does asking work? Or warning?"

"Just let me see it coming." Ravn smiles a little, lopsided, a little more self-conscious than he likes, but, it is what it is, and he can't change it. "That's it, that's the whole secret. If I know? My nerve system doesn't decide that whatever happened was probably Mr Freeze or a laser beam. It's mis-communication. If I know that the thing that's making its way into my shirt is your hand? All is good."

He studies his fries and picks out one -- yes, that one, the one with the slight curl that's perfect for picking up a bit of ketchup on its way, for all his protestations about ketchup as a condiment for fries. "It's kind of funny. I've consulted specialists about it, of course -- somatic and psychiatric. No one can tell me what the issue really is. A failure to compute right, in my brain somewhere. But the people who understand are my veterans. It's one of the reasons I like working for that government program. Those people know what it means to be jumpy about sudden movements, things you don't see coming. It's different issues for them, but their brains make the same mistakes. A sudden movement at the corner of an eye becomes a sniper, and they're on the floor reaching for their own firearm -- in the supermarket, surrounded by other people."

Into the shirt. Hand making its way into the shirt. Ariadne nods yet again thoughtfully, appearing as if she were partially distracted. Let the man see it coming. Good to know.

"Huh. I wouldn't have considered that, but...yeah, you're right. My friend out in Montana, the guy from the Army, he'd probably say the same thing. His brain misinterprets sensations too, things he sees, sounds. Fourth of July is hard for him. It's cool that you have your veterans to talk to and work this. God, just...that connection where someone else really does understand, or understands very closely too. It's priceless, sweet and simple. It's not feeling alone," she agrees while she picks up her burger again.

"It's when you realise -- that this is a thing. That you're not just plain crazy." Ravn nods his agreement, quietly, fervently. "I always tell them -- at first, I mean, when we start working together. Part of the reason they're in that government program, after all, is that they can't function in a normal learning environment. They don't feel heard or understood by people who weren't there. I didn't go to Afghanistan, but this is common ground. It's different causes and reactions, but it's the same feeling of being broken, and of being helpless. They can't stop flinching and breaking into a nervous sweat at sudden noise, I can't stop flinching and whimpering at unexpected touch."

"Hey, it's an easy thing to keep an eye-out on. I mean, relatively easy," Ariadne amends after wiping her mouth off with her napkin again. "I walk and talk more obviously around my friend in Montana. It wouldn't be hard to get into the habit of warning or gesturing or like you said, letting you see the approach. I think it's more than fair." A little roll of eyes at herself. "Not that this is some weird negotiation or anything, but you know what I mean. Like, it shouldn't be an issue because it's too important to be taken lightly. If that makes sense?"

A wave of her hand and the barista reaches for her beer again. "Did this turn into some weird negotiation? Because I'm going to laugh really, really hard if it turned into some negotiation." She's almost there anyways; look at the restrained twinkle in those golden-hazel eyes.

Ravn's lip twitches. "I think in some strange fashion it did. A very subtle discussion about boundaries. And about knowing what you're getting -- and not getting. I'm sorry, it's just that this has in fact been a deal breaker for me, several times. Some women want a man who can throw them around a bit. I'm not a gorilla. Besides, gorillas are very gentle lovers."

Watch the trivia master race off in random directions. He stops himself at it and laughs, shaking his head. "I'm an embarrassment to the male species, aren't I? Anyhow, what you see is what you get. And if what I see is what I get, I think I am going to be a very happy boy on Christmas morning."

Betrayal -- the tiniest giggle escapes Ariadne at confirmation. It has been a weird negotiation, if a subtle one, and she nods agreement. Boundaries are critical. Ravn gets a look like she can't decide whether or not to laugh louder when he mentions gorillas.

Gorillas? Gorillas.

It seems Ravn laughing at himself grants her permission in turn. Her chuckle is louder now, partially hidden behind her napkin. Not but one or two bites left of the burger and she's getting quite full if she must be honest with herself. The Dane does score himself a noticeable darker pinking of his hostess's cheeks across the way. Ariadne slides her eyes to one side and can be heard to mutter, "Aw, geez." while smiling as if she were set to beam but doesn't want to be too overt about it.

"You say the best things," she admits, doing a shifting-about in her chair indicating satisfaction nonetheless. "And you're not an embarrassment. I need to ask you one thing though, okay?" Setting aside her napkin, she then reaches out to lay her hand palm-up on the table. Holding his eyes, she says with a sweet, entreating solemnity: "I need you to be kinder to yourself, okay? I don't want to hear anything like 'embarrassment to the male species'. No more putting yourself down...please? It's okay to have those down days. Hell, even I have those, and I'm going to listen no matter what -- but it makes me sad to hear you diminish yourself. You shine, Ravn, as you. Remember? There's only one of you. You gotta be kind to the one of you. Yeah?"

Ravn smiles a bit and frets ever so slightly at his lip. "All right. I'll keep it in mind. It's a bit of a habit -- might as well go there myself before somebody else does. My one long term relationship was," he pauses and then hitches a shoulder. "I didn't think of it that way until Rosencrantz spelled it out to me, but he's right. It was an abusive relationship. I don't hate myself. I hate the person people expect me to be, sometimes. But that's not whom you're getting, either. I'll try."

He cants his head a little. "Although I reserve the right to make fun of certain parts of being male. Because toxic masculinity is absolutely a thing, and one I've seen aplenty. I still get to point and laugh at that. You can join me."

"Oh, believe me, I'll gleefully join you in pointing and laughing. You're getting involved in someone who takes zero bullshit regarding that." Ariadne's smile is gem-like in passing: bright and hard as a diamond. Looks like it's a critical pet peeve and woe betide anyone who deliberately crosses the line there. She leaves her hand out on the table in offering as she reaches for her beer with the other. "And I'm not too proud to not make fun of some of the parts of being female. It's part of being human, damnit, and we're hilariously inept sometimes. Thumbs? Big brains? People still shoot firecrackers at one another and think it's acceptable risk." Sigh.

"But thank you, for keeping it in mind. Habits are hard to break. I'll probably gently remind though, just to warn you." A sip of her beer and a little lick of lips.

Ravn eyes his burger. Yes. The rest of that is not going to happen. Not because of anxieties -- but because the Black Bear Diner serves a solid meal, and he's a light eater even when he's at his most comfortable. He inspects his gloves quickly -- nope, no grease stains. Then he reaches over across the table and puts his fingers atop Ariadne's on her beer bottle.

"Your not taking shit is part of what I like about you. I am far more comfortable with people who will call me an asshole if I act like one. I'm not that great at subtle hints and things I ought to know. Tell it to me straight and I'll deal with it. Expect me to remember your mother's birthday? I forget my own damn birthday. Which reminds me to warn you that Una has sniffed out yours, just in case that's an issue."

Kidskin leather lands on her hand and after a moment, Ariadne lets go of the beer bottle in order to gently wrap her fingers about the softness of the fabric covering Danish digits. She rests their hands on the table itself, the better to give arm muscles a break. Painting is work, no matter how fit one is.

"I'm...actually not too surprised Una has sniffed out my birthday," the barista then admits, looking sheepish. "She's a good listener. But remember too that we had this discussion during hair dyeing and your birthday happens to be awfully near to mine." Her spare hand circles a finger twice at Ravn. "You won't be spared either, bud. I mean...I won't spare you." Look at her smile gain those elements of friendly coyness yet again.

"I don't want to let go of your hand. But feel free to imagine me sticking my fingers in my ears and going la, la, la, just about now." Ravn grins slightly. No one who knows him will be surprised in the slightest to discover he's the sort of man whose idea of celebrating his birthday is an extra glass of whiskey and a good book that evening.

He smiles a bit. "One other thing Rosencrantz told me? Tell you that your hair hypnotises me. Not him. You are beautiful. I'm looking up and seeing you smile, and there's a part of me that wants to turn around to see who's behind me beacuse a woman like that does not pay attention to a bloke like me. It's not just looks either -- I'm not trying to put my own light under a bucket here, I know I've got cheekbones from heaven. It's how you feel, the way you shine in the middle of a room. Me, I disappear into a dark corner and no one notices me. Least of all the woman who burns like the brightest star in the galaxy."

Ariadne's grin deepens. She's clearly envisioning fingers in ears and it's humorous, to say the least. La-la-la indeed.

She again, however, blushes a shade more deeply. At this point, it's also obvious how flattered and a little flustered she is at the compliments. "Geez, Ravn...thank you again." It might become more apparent as time goes by that she's not as used to fielding these compliments as one might assume. "I...guess I don't mind being myself and if I shine in a room? I guess that's what I do. I mean...you do like to have your privacy, so...it's not too much, right? You with your cheekbones from heaven and all." Her smile goes fond.

"It's not too much at all. I need some light in my life." Ravn's smile is equally fond. "I may not shout very loudly at parties, but that doesn't mean I don't like to have fun. I'm just quieter about it, I suppose."

He stands up and then walks around the kitchen table until he's standing in front of Ariadne, still holding her hand. "I am very glad I met you. I am very glad you want to give this a chance. Look, I'm sitting here trying to second, third, and fourth-guess myself on what's the proper move at this point, lest I end up talking you to death. May I hug you?"

"Hey, nothing wrong with quiet fun. Despite the impression I give, I know I was very quiet as a teenager. Wasn't until college that I came out of my shell, if you will."

And then, there he is, standing before her and still holding her hand. Ariadne blinks up -- way up -- at the Dane and then rises to her feet, looking bemused as if she weren't sure what he was fourth-guessing himself on. Well, at least until the what is revealed. She melts about her edges visibly. "Absolutely, Ravn. You may hug me. I'm going to hug you back, you are forewarned." Stepping into his space, the shorter barista then wraps her arms about him as gently as possible. Her cheek ends up rested lightly against the plaid of his shirt, as if she weren't completely certain of her welcome just yet.

Slender hands slip around Ariadne's waist in turn, closing the space with them. Ravn rests his chin against the woman's forehead. His touch is as gentle as in all things he does -- but the muscle tone beneath his shirt is firm enough, in the way of a man who walks for hours a day to keep his asthma at a manageable level (and also, it clears his head). He breathes out, slowly, as if on some subconscious level he'd been holding his breath in anticipation.

"I would have been very disappointed if you didn't," he murmurs with a small smile. "Talk about misreading the room in that case."

"Nah. You read the room right." Ariadne's voice is equally quiet. More of her weight comes to rest against him. How nice, how tall he is, a delightful backdrop against which to rest indeed. She tightens and loosens her arms in a squeeze similar to that of their on-and-off held hands. A sigh of her own holds both released anticipation and relief both. Perhaps she'd been more lonely than she'd been claiming after all.

But now Sam is staring, head lifted.

"...shut up, dog, I don't need your input," she grouses lovingly at him without moving an inch. Cue sighthound head tilt.

Ravn glances towards the sighthound as well. "You got your nugget. And your fry. I've bribed you. Stay bribed. I'm not arm wrestling you over kissing rights."

Another sighthound head tilt in the other direction. The tall human is speaking at me. What? What do you want, tall human?

"Yeah...he still might stick his tongue up your nose in an attempt to clean your brain," Ariadne informs the Dane she continues to linger against, given his arms haven't gone anywhere and neither have hers. Sam is still eyed from where she leans her cheek against Ravn's sternum with comfortable ease now. "It's like he thinks he's a butterfly and your nose is a flower or something."

"I'm a pretty, pretty flower, please don't suck out my brain." Ravn nods at the poor canine who has not a damned clue what the humans are on about.

He stands for a moment, just savouring the feeling of closeness; the scent of Ariadne's auburn-and-indigo hair, the warmth of her face against his shirt, the whole being this close to somebody and not wanting to scream. Everything in its time, everything at its pace. Enjoy those rare moments of bliss in life, they're gone before you realise.

Then he lowers his head a bit and brushes his lips over her forehead because caution be damned, he's fucked up once by not acting, and he's not going to do it a second time. "Thank you for being patient."

Cue head tilt in other other direction. Sam blinks. You humans are bizarre.

Ariadne laughs, jouncing slightly against the taller Dane in turn. In her hair lingers the scent of orange blossom and coconut as well as a little jojoba oil in an attempt to keep the brilliance of the dye. There's a hint of vanilla and sandalwood otherwise, perhaps her perfume lingering on her skin despite the work of painting. When his lips touch her forehead? Her breath can be felt to catch just the slightest. Oh -- oh geez, what a move.

"Of course, Ravn. I think it'd be very unfair of me to be heavy-handed and impatient after everything I've learned and what's happened in the past. I might be...what, a little impulsive? -- sometimes, but...I'd like to think I have more common sense than the average person on the block. My Wisdom stat's a little up there," she adds, now looking up into his face with a soft, cheeky smile.

"I like impulsive," Ravn tells Ariadne's forehead; it's right there, in front of his mouth. "I know I don't come across that way. I'm honestly not as reserved as I look. I just -- pick up slow. I'm far too used to keeping my thoughts on the inside. I talk a lot, but a lot of the time, it's to keep people from listening to what I'm really thinking."

He looks down. So much hazel-golden. Don't mind if he steps out for a moment to take a swim in all that hazel-golden. Amber and flint, and a hint of jade. Warmth and cold. Soft and hard. Women are mysterious creatures.

His smile turns a little crooked. "Your Wisdom regularly gets dragged out back and hogtied by your need to cause trouble, doesn't it?"

"I mean, I tie the knots pretty loosely, but...yeah. So much for me thinking I'm an opaque and unpredictable little creature."

Pardon her while she too looks up into those baby-blues. Not so much the term if only out of tease. They're far more glacial in comparison, cool and calm, ringed by a darker hue to bring out even more of the contrast. Framed by those brows and cheekbones and general color scheme of his very person, and, well? Can anyone blame the barista for a little sigh of pure appreciation?

"Probably a good thing I can't read your mind then, huh?" Ariadne adds, sounding as if she might be trying to do this very thing despite her inability. Her own smile is slack about its edges as if she's truly distracted.

"It's a bad habit," Ravn murmurs. And then, miraculously, resists the temptation to extemporise. Seriously, somebody circle the date in the calendar.

He leans in, instead. Drown or die trying. The girl is in his arms, sure as hell not trying to get away, and she looks -- all right, mister, get to it, don't just stand there and gape like a goldfish. C'mon. You can do it.

The internal monologue almost plays out on his face, along with a nervous glance to Samwise. The sighthound is calm. Dogs are not calm in the presence of angry ghosts. Be our ghost alarm, Samwise.

Time to try for that kiss.

Samwise is not alerting to any ghost.

But he is judging like all hell. Humans, what are you doing. Dog stare.

But what is -- oh god, is this -- it is, should she --

Fuck it. Ariadne leans up in turn, mouth softening in expectation and dark lashes equally curtaining her honey-hued eyes in turn.

A brush of lips over lips; nothing deep and intrusive. Ravn does not have the kind of confidence it takes to do a Hollywood dip and explore tonsils, at least not yet. Such a small touch, fleeting in nature, and yet so significant. The final step of negotiations. How the hell can something be so warm and soft, and make a man's head spin like that?

He should say something. Something smooth, preferably. Texting Rosencrantz to ask for a tip is probably the embodiment of bad timing. "Your lips are very red," is all that he manages.

"They tend to be that way, yeah," is all Ariadne can really muster about her lips. How can his lips be so soft and warm in turn? A little dry and so very attractive -- what a hit of endorphins, help.

Leaning up a little further, onto her slippered toes, she hunts after a kiss which ends up being firmer without turning into something too much. Lingering there, she then sighs back down onto the soles of her feet --

-- and realizes Samwise is crooning one long, continuous inquisitive note. He stops immediately when she looks over, ears perked. What.

"...motherfucker, if you start singing every time I kiss this man," she warns the dog with helpless laughter in her words.

"We hire him to be the singer in our band," Ravn concludes, mirth and relief bubbling up in his voice. "Now where were we."

Something a little firmer, yes. Not too much. Just enough to satisfy himself that the woman in his arms is real, she intends to stay right where she is, and she wants him to do this. And maybe a little tiny bit to see if Samwise is really going to sing every time. Because on some level, that'd just be bloody hilarious.

"We were..."

Doesn't matter. Samwise can croon away all he wants. His owner sways in again because indeed, they were doing this and it's making her light-headed to the point of stupidity. Help? Maybe 'help' because if this is twitterpation a la Disney? She's got it bad.

...wooooooooooooooo-woooooo-wooooooooooooo?

"GODDAMNIT, DOG." Nope, can't do it, blushing too hard and now laughing too. Shit.

Ravn can't hold back his laughter, either. He shoots Samwise a look of gratitude -- not for interrupting, but for interrupting. Not for breaking it up but for making it all less awkward. For taking the severity out of the moment. This is very serious business, absolutely -- but it's also supposed to be very pleasant and desirable business, so he'd much rather be laughing his arse off at a dog's insisting on providing a romantic soundtrack, than fidgeting and worrying that he's doing it wrong.

"Sing to us, Pavarotti," he murmurs, eyes sparkling blue, and dives in again.

Cue butterflies and violins, and Disney birds canting their little heads, going awww, and holding wings on the window sill. It's not that Ravn is a particularly great kisser. It's more the enthusiasm once he gets over himself. He's wanted this pretty badly after all.

Which leads to the obvious next cue: Phone. He ignores it for a while. It rings again. Samwise sings. "Fine," the Dane murmurs at last. "I'll give your neighbours a break and see what it is."

He digs out the phone in its sparkly pink Hello Kitty casing and scans his texts. Then he frowns. "I should probably go and deal with this. Life is a raging bitch, and I will piss and moan all the way down to HOPE." Blue eyes look back up and try to capture Ariadne's. "You. Me. Tomorrow evening. My boat. Bottle of decent wine at anchor, stars overhead, and I'll make up for it. Deal?"

"Deal."