2022-04-26 - Strawberries and Slow Dancing

"You. Me. Tomorrow evening. My boat. Bottle of decent wine at anchor, stars overhead, and I'll make up for it. Deal?"

"Deal."

It's the decided-upon time for meeting at the Vagabond. Ravn had declared himself responsible for the decent bottle of wine. Ariadne had come to a conclusion regarding wine-related nibbles in turn. Samwise had, of course, silently judged her for leaving him by himself for a bit -- at least until he was given a frozen Kong toy chock-full of goodies, including his dinner. Thus, Ariadne is ignored as she leaves the Broadleaf apartment for the bay and its marina.

Does she blast some EDM on the car's sound system on the way there? Yes. Does she park and stare at herself in the rearview mirror for a minute? Yes. Is she nervous? Yes. Is it in the best of ways? Yes.

Is this giving her a major case of butterflies? "Ohhhhhhh my god," she mutters at her reflection while she fusses with her hair for what feels like the umpteenth time. "Ari. You helped de-barnacle the damn boat and the man is a delightful motherfucker. Shush already. Go."

As such, at a measured cadence indicating brown low-heeled ankle boots, the barista makes her way down the steps and onto the stretch of docks leading towards the collection of moored sailboats. She wears a nice pair of black leggings and what appears to be a cream-colored sweater dress beneath the peacoat seen earlier in the day, this a number in navy-blue and black plaid. About her waist, a wide brown belt studded in bronze hues. The dress itself sports a turtleneck-collar; this plumps up warmly about her neck and bishop sleeves lend it an air of vintage sophistication. Her hair is pulled half-back in a clip and thus a cascade of deep-auburn centrally down over the celestially-dyed underpanel. Some mascara, a smudging of kohl, a touch of blush, and...what appears to be a small lunch cooler in her hand and? There she is, on approach, visible easily via the lights of the marina around here.

Trust Ravn Abildgaard to miss half the memo in all things romantic. Interior of the Vagabond given a spit-shine and the usual casual scattering of books put into the proper stow box under the seating area in the cabin? Yes. Empty coffee mugs cleaned and returned to cupboards? Yes. Cat convinced to not block access to the boat? Yes. (Required tuna). Bed neatly made because it is also the seating area in the cabin? Yes. Handful of wildflowers acquired and tucked into a 'vase' consisting of an empty can, cleaned and half-filled with water, to sit on the little table in the cabin? Yes.

Himself? Jeans, turtleneck, usual comb-devouring mop of hair? Also yes. Dressing up, to Ravn, means forcing himself into a suit and altering his whole mode of existence back to a part of his life that he's not very fond of. He'll do it if he has to, but he's also well aware that he'd be nothing but stiff and awkward and uncomfortable. Which really wouldn't be great when you're already nervous and excited.

He raises his head upon spotting a familiar hair -- and then pauses because whoah, Nelly, maybe he should have put on something more upscale. Maybe he should have suggested somewhere fancier than a boat. Maybe --

Maybe he shouldn't overthink it. A gloved hand goes up in a wave. "Hey. Need a hand getting on board?"

An ungloved hand goes up in a return wave. "Probably yes, I thought to myself that boots would look nice, but I didn't take into account friction or lack thereof at all." She is, in fact, not blushing about this sudden realization, can't prove it. Smooth, chica, smooth. The barista can be seen to scan the boat for more than likely the presence of Kitty Pryde. Not spotting the cat in question, she ponders if the feline too is being kept occupied somehow, not too unlike Samwise back at the apartment.

Stopping alongside the boat, she gives Ravn a smile showcasing dimples. "I brought some things I thought might go along with the wine too," and she lifts the teal-colored lunch box with the black handle. "Nothing too crazy. I think you'll like it though." God, she hopes he likes it, the redhead thinks to herself as she then starts readying herself to board. It will, indeed, require a hand, and she offers out one of her own given he'd offered one in turn.

A gloved hand extended and assisting; it's just a short step from the pier onto the Vagabond's prow, and then around to the aft; easy enough to hold on to the cabin roof for balance too. "You look like a million bucks," Ravn tells her. "I feel like I should be taking you somewhere to see and get seen. How do you feel about seeing and getting seen by seagulls and cod?"

Her hand gets a little extra squeeze. "I am sure that whatever you've come up with, it's good. I am an omnivore -- with a few exceptions, and I don't think you've brought lutfisk or caramelised funnel web spiders."

A green look from one of the seats in the aft says poot. Kitty Pryde might have liked a funnel web spider. Although she'd probably have preferred to have it served live so she could play with it first. She looks absolutely dainty, sitting there with her little bowl on the seat, nibbling a bit of tuna whenever she feels like. The pretty black cat on the pier who is not afraid to jump onto boats does not go hungry. If she's eaten dinner on four different yachts today, it's been a meager day.

It isn't as daring as she'd expected, walking along the narrow space towards the cockpit and entrance to the cabin, but Ariadne appreciates the helping kidskin-gloved hand nonetheless. Her smile disappears to what are attempted humble dimples instead at the compliment; "Thank you kindly, Ravn. I don't mind being seen by them. The occupants of the marina can be jealous of my lunchbox," the barista proclaims. "I can also confirm that I did not bring any questionable foods we've discussed before."

Questionable foods.

Ravn's hand receives the counter-squeeze not a second later. "Looks like Her Highness has been properly bribed -- excuse me, ameliorated by the offering of tuna." An amused eyebrow for the cat in question. "Her owner looks quite dashing. I bet she'd agree even if she chooses not to simply to be a saucy little thing."

Might somebody be watching from another boat? Might somebody on the pier look this way by chance? Might a seagull circle and look down? Yes, yes, and yes. This is the First Public and so on. Big deal. Try to not faint. Breathe. One Mississippi. Ravn leans in and, carefully, brushes his lips over Ariadne's cheek. "You look like a million bucks," he repeats. "And I don't mean a very large congregation of antlered mammals."

Kitty Pryde looks up. Humans gonna human. She has tuna and late sun. Life is good. Might go hit up the Matthews' on the large Sea Ray for another plate of steak slices later. Cats who are afraid of water miss out on a lot of opportunities. Look at the pretty little cat. Aw, look, she's not afraid of hopping down from the pier to the deck, let's get her something.

Ravn dives into the cabin kitchenette. "I found a quite nice Chilean," he calls out over his shoulder. "Dry but not too dry, and a bit fruity. To tell you the honest truth, I'm not a wine expert. Where I'm from everyone pretends to be, and the waiters get good at explaining things in a way you can parrot to the wife. What sort of plates and the like will we need, if anything?" He's found a couple of wine glasses too -- and being a smart cookie, he's bought a set that's made from hard plastic. They look like glass, and if they fall? They do not break like glass. A feinschmecker would whine about it not being crystal but, too bad, you're on a boat, Steve.

The cheek graced by that passing kiss just happens to turn as equally pink as its other half. Ariadne can't help the little laugh as well. "Duly noted, no big herds." Ravn disappears into the kitchenette and the barista lifts a hand to brush at the lingering echo of the kiss. It means she glances over at Kitty Pryde with her fingertips against her jawline and they exchange a look.

"Hey, I'm not in your spot," she notes drily to the black cat with the score of canned tuna.

Ravn regains her attention and she stoops slightly to see into the cabin, brows lifted. "I can't say I've ever had Chilean wine, so you could have told me something else and I would have believed you entirely," she informs him, her grin now flashing teeth. "I think..." The lunch tote is considered. "Small salad plates? Maybe three. Forks. One knife. A table somewhere. Got one of those in your itty bitty living space?" She peers into the cabin as if she couldn't tell or couldn't find it. Either way, it's somehow a hilariously prim gesture with her booted feet together and lunch tote held against her knees.

"Itty bitty living space, itty bitty powers." Ravn grins back. "You may have to come down in here for a table -- we're on a boat, it's kind of welded to the deck."

The table, as it turns out, is a low, square affair with the seating area slash bunk on one side, and the little kitchenette on the other. This is definitely one of those get to know your friends intimately setups -- like all boats that are genuine boats, and not just floating houses capable of puttering from one pier to another if the current isn't too strong.

He rummages around the kitchen cupboard. "I use the same principle here as we do back on Oak -- if it looks fun on the thrift shop table we get it. Nothing matches. And if something gets lost overboard, I don't need to go buy a new set. I don't usually drop stuff over the railing but you never know, and I refuse to spend my time worrying about mugs or forks."

At least the cabin does not have that mouldy smells they sometimes have; this one is aired out on a regular basis by simply leaving the cabin door open. Ravn is a bit of a neat freak, and he likes cleaning; wherever he sleeps needs to have certain standards and when you live in a backpack, that means learning to operate soap and detergent yourself.

Down into the cabin space the barista goes, hand on a wall for balance in the heels. This may suggest, alternatively, that her experience in walking in heels is questionable and then lead to further extrapolations about an inability to run into them. The idea of the Running in Heels for charity marathon just got more interesting.

She ends up over by the short height of the table and ends up settling down upon the bunk area. While Ravn rifles for mismatched utensils, the barista unzips the lunch tote she'd brought. Firstly out is...a square cooling block, this bright green, still a frozen brick. Next? What appears to be a small Tupperware container of crackers, something multigrain by the various flecks in them. After this? A smaller Tupperware of what appears to be a...spreadable cheese, boursin with what scents as light garlic as well as other herbs, perhaps Provincial. Another Tupperware (are we sensing a trend?) comes out with what appears to be...whipped cream? No, it's thicker than whipped cream, finely speckled with...cinnamon? And then (not Tupperware, fooled you) a clear plastic container of strawberries, still damp from being washed.

With ankles crossed politely, back straight, the barista then arranges the collection on the table and looks down at it, head tilted. One can almost see it on her face: is it enough?

Ravn's face lights in up a grin as he sees the menu. "Did you actually make rice pudding?"

He rootles about in the cupboard long enough to find plates, butter knives and spoons -- because crackers are finger food and pudding is spoon food. Judging from the smile that lingers, 'enough' is not a matter of how much, or how expensive, or how exotic. 'Enough' is, oh my God, she remembered what we talked about, this is now one of Our Things.

From the seating area outside, Kitty Pryde pokes her face in the door. Was this an offering for her? No? Fuck you all, going back to roost on her tuna, then.

Ravn settles and looks up. "I am thinking -- we can take the boat out but if we plan to share a bottle of wine, we should do that first and then drop anchor. Or we should just stay at berth, and if anyone does decide to play loud music later, we either go up on deck and dance to it, or quietly move their batteries out of reach. Sailing drunk is not a good idea. I am positive I can sail a boat just fine with a few glasses of wine in me, but most drunk drivers are positive they can drive safely too, and accidents still happen."

Ariadne glances over at the question, her expression hysterically surprised. Called out! Called out? Caught? Is it being caught...?

Sheepish, her little grin and chuckle. "I might have made rice pudding, yes," she reveals, gesturing at the medium-sized Tupperware with its cinnamon-flecked contents. Movement at the cabin door makes her catch sight of Kitty Pryde. Her smile goes wry. That...was definitely feline dismissal. Sam would be all over everyone for the crackers at the very least, not even to mention the cheese spread.

"And for now, since Sam's back at the apartment, I was thinking of staying at berth...? I kind of...dressed for staying at berth. I'd rather be in sneakers and, like...more prepared if we go out onto the water?" Her shrug contains an odd note of apology, as if she knew she might be messing up plans somehow. "Also, dancing is the first answer followed by pulling the batteries if it gets tiresome."

"It's surprisingly private," Ravn agrees. "I mean, anything you do in the open aft area, people can see from the pier, of course. Down here, though? The ocean makes noise, the rigging makes noise, no one standing up there actually can hear much of a conversation below decks even if they wanted to. People come and go a lot, but it's not like sitting in a front yard right up to the street."

Then he allows himself an appreciative glance. "Honestly, woman, you're dressed so I feel like I should be taking you somewhere. I'm almost tempted to find my own radio so we can dance on the pier after."

And embarrass Kitty Pryde into never acknowledging either of them again ever, no doubt.

The barista's grin appears, gaining that surely-familiar (or gaining familiarity) cheeky twist.

"I think you'll find that I'm pretty shameless about dancing, so I'm not stymied by the idea of needing to find a radio if no one else is going to provide any sultry backdrop of tunes." A beat. "Mind, the beats probably won't be too sultry, but hey, I can get down to just about anything." She claims. Not knowing how to waltz or do any fancy dances. "But don't worry about the going anywhere," Ariadne adds, then chiming a little laugh once more. "I just...felt like dressing up a little." Granted, the cream-hued sweater-dress does cling like a dream and provides a classy counter-shade to the black leggings. She shrugs out of her peacoat now that they're out of the night air; it better reveals both fit and the bishop sleeves in turn, with their longer cuffs and vintage mild puffing of sleeves.

"When I break out the jewel toned stuff? That's the real deal," she winks. Granted, her hair already contains jewel tones.

"I haven't danced in years. I might be digging my own grave here," Ravn murmurs and reaches for the corkscrew. Speaking of jewel tones; ruby and crimson, poured into bulb glasses that may be made from plexiglass but don't look it. The light finds its way in from the cabin door to cause a sparkle; because no red wine with any kind of self respect is not going to glow in promises of taste and bouquet when poured. This one, a robust Chilean that might go as well with steak as with cheese, is no exception. Ravn did not know what food to expect, and he specifically asked for an all-round wine, not too dry, not too sweet, but with a lot of body. There's a bottle of sangria in the fridge as well, in case later on creates a craving for something lighter and sweeter.

He looks up again. It dawns on him that that is a very nice dress, and so's the filling. "You're beautiful." Most coherent and eloquent compliment ever, from the bloke who never knows when to shut up. "We're dancing in the moonlight. Even if it kills me."

It probably will. He's pretty shy about those things. Worth it.

If he survives, she might break out the jewel tones next time, for the killing blow. God have mercy on a man's soul.

The folklorist carefully places one wine glass in front of Ariadne, and the other in front of himself. "Here's to dancing on the pier. To things working out, turning magical and wonderful. And to nothing interfering." Not a joke, that one -- the terror of ghostly intervention is real, very real. "And maybe the courage I need to play my violin for you tonight, at least a little. I want to play for you, even if the idea makes me sweat. Because it's the one thing I have that I gave to myself -- that I wasn't born with, or made to do. It's the one thing that's me all the way through. And I want you to have that."

Ariadne is surely watching as the bottle of wine is opened and both glass-bulbs fill with their swirling liquids. She has a simple appreciation for the color play, especially the way the lower curve of the glasses themselves bring out that pure and translucent hue of the wine itself. It means it's far too easy to meet those baby-blues when Ravn looks up again. Brows lift. Curse you, cheeks: another dusting of light pink fills them as he not only compliments, but informs her of near-future plans involving a celestial spotlight and perhaps only the rhythm of their heartbeats.

"Might kill me too, you never know," the barista jokes back lightly -- and a little airlessly because...it's dancing in the moonlight, oh god.

After her wine glass is placed down, she takes it up by the stem and holds both it and the Dane's gaze as he speaks. It's impossible to look anything less than pleased and sheepish for how pleased. It means bold Ariadne tucks her chin enough to be observed and tries not to smile. She eventually fails, her entire posture melting about its edges as it's done before. "Oh...geez, Ravn," she says firstly, softly. "I would be honored to listen," comes the gentle emphasis. "Absolutely honored -- and proud to see the wonderful thing you've given yourself. To...dancing on the pier." Another little sheepish laugh; it's an echo of his own words, after all, nothing spectacularly clever. "To things working out, yes, and..."

Her open mouth purses up into a bud before she can't help the little laugh. Ahem. Throat clearing. Look at her gather composure a little more, still pinked at the cheeks. "As a very good friend of mine used to toast, 'To you -- the gentleman, the scholar, and the good judge of bad liquor.' In this case, I mean 'beer'." Shots fired -- and the little American tart then smirks as she reaches to clink plexiglass to glass. "This wine is going to be far better."

And really just to see about making Ravn blush, she leans in to press a light kiss to his cheek in turn.

Some people blush easy. Ravn is not one of them. That smirk, though, and then Ariadne leaning in? That'll do it; a faint dusting of pink and what's more, a lopsided little smile that's outright giddy-silly. He puts his glass down carefully and then reaches to rest gloved fingertips on her arm a moment; enjoying the closeness, the intimacy of the gesture.

"If it kills us both, you know what they say. Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse. Let's try to make sure to collapse on the pier and not fall into the water, because nobody leaves a beautiful corpse around fish." He smiles again, and then picks up his glass for a salute back. "To you -- the lady, the scientist, the colour that my life seems to need."

Sorry. He didn't have a funny line there. Sappy is what you get.

Leave a beautiful corpse. "Oh god," laughs Ariadne under her breath, unable to help smiling regardless. Ravn's expression is infectious because of its honesty in turn. This is no clever suaveness on display. It's plain appreciation. It makes her stomach do odd fluttery things. This must be the legendary butterflies everyone talks about.

His salute makes her cant her head to one side and fret her lip against what's going to be a positively foolish smile if she allows it to bloom. It still makes an appearance like the moon from behind the clouds. "Making me want to show up here one time in red, bud," the Dane is thus informed. Sounds like an inclination, not a plan...yet. "Well said." It's with unspoken tease that she ends up shifting on the bunk in order to lean a knee against his in turn: footsie to the next level.

"Now." Lifting the glass to her mouth, she sips and then mulls her tongue-tip over her upper lip slowly while she looks down into the wine. "...that's damn good," the barista murmurs. "Wow. That'll be killer with the rice pudding, I'm going to guess." A glance to this dish in particular and then at Ravn, brows lifted. "Feel free to eat whatever you'd like. Save some of that cheese and crackers for me though, I love the boursin. And!"

Finger lifts. "I'd like to hear a story. A story about a young Ravn -- and it has to be a positive one," she then challenges with a sweet if knowing gleam in her eyes. "Something like...one time, you clambered over the garden wall to find the pony loose there and rode it out of the garden again."

In red. Ravn envisions this in exactly the spirit it was offered, and for a moment he does a pretty picture perfect goldfish impersonation. It's not just the colour red; that can be a lot of things, from a dusty jewel shade to deep, bleeding crimson. It's the cultural significance, and the low key aggression; that kind of showing up in red that Ariadne is hinting at, translates to, I'm going to gobble you up, boy.

He can think of worse ways to go. He could. If he wasn't distracted thinking about this way.

Change course, pilot, or this plane is going to crash. "A story about me, as a kid?" He cants his head and thinks. "Some of my first happy memories are from the garden, actually. I used to play with the gardener's kids. We'd run around in the woods and play Cowboys and Indians. Sometimes, the biggest boy would take us out on the lake in his dinghy. Those are my first memories of going sailing, and they're probably why I love it. It's a freedom, away from adults. We played out that scene from Peter Pan where they are tied up in the skull cave as the tide comes in, and it'd be pretty funny because for one, an inland lake does not have a tide. I'd always come home looking a right mess and my mother would sigh about it, but she couldn't say anything. My father thought playing rough in the woods like that would make me a real man, you see."

He reaches for a cracker. "And I hope you'll forgive me for not doing everything full justice. I am not very good at this whole eating thing."

It's quite worth the gape-mouthed blink, at least in Ariadne's personal opinion, to have dropped the tidbit about 'red'. She's beginning to wonder just how visual-spatial the gentleman is. Variables must be manipulated.

Most of the machination hides away with another sip of her wine. All of it disappears once Ravn tells his tale. Starting with a little grin, the barista is wearing a bright smile by the end of the story; the addendum about the Dane's father makes her roll her eyes and not attempt to hide the reaction in the least. Ugh. "No, no, no apologizing for eating what you want, okay? It's nibbles for a reason. I'm not a cook, remember?" A shrug for Ravn before she too reaches for a cracker. Thank god this kind is sturdy enough to swipe through the boursin spread without breaking; always a travesty when this happens, edible gravestones jutting up haphazardly.

"I played in the woods a lot too, actually, back in Colorado," she shares after collecting some spread on a cracker. "I was always up in the trees when we were in the mountains. We had a tree in our yard too, but it was harder to climb until my dad built a treehouse in it. Of course I fell out of it more than once, but I never broke a limb or finger or toe. I was lucky that way. He'd hung a knotted rope down from a sturdy branch, you see, and I'd swing on it pretending to be Tarzan and then...y'know, either fall off or back-swing into the tree trunk, whack. If I wasn't there, I was either off chasing lizards or trying to catch fish with my bare hands in the river."

Ravn nibbles on his cracker; he can absolutely picture this, the ripples of sunlight in a shallow river, water creating crystalline patterns as it makes its way over pebbles and rocks. Shafts of sunshine down through the bright green foliage. The buzz of summer insects. A childhood paradise.

"Colorado is actually somewhere I wanted to visit," he says softly. "I have this idea it is the perfect climate. In winter, you get proper winter -- snow, freezing temperatures, days to hunker down in front of the fire and wear ugly sweaters. In summer, proper summer, but not arid and scorched. I think I may be basing my ideas of what it's like somewhat on the interior of Europe -- inland climate means the seasons are more extreme. Our coastal climate means it never gets really hot or cold. Although the Faroes have the ultimate coastal climate, it's five to ten degrees Celsius all year round no matter what because Atlantic Ocean."

He shifts a little, settling in so that knee to knee contact is properly aligned. Maybe it's also about constant touch not becoming a surprise.

Ariadne can't help but glance down as the knee-to-knee touch becomes more solidified and established. It's tempting to scoot close enough to be aligned from knee to hip, but arms must move, so she decides against it -- even if the general atmosphere of the boat's interior is cozy-sized enough to inspire inclinations.

After she's finished her spread-lumped cracker with a soft sound of appreciation, this again made after a sip of the wine: "I mean, looking back as an adult, I can say Colorado did have a solid case of four distinguishable seasons. The snow would pile up and then melt just as fast, depending on where you were. Closer to the mountains meant that it lingered, like where we were. Out on the plains, more towards Oklahoma, it would melt a day later. The plains got the extreme summer weather though. Tornados. I remember being flabbergasted back in middle school when a tornado touched down about ten miles out from us on the open fields. You'd think Colorado, not in 'Tornado Alley', wouldn't have them. I do miss the seasons," she says on a fond sigh. Another sip of wine. "Tell me about the Faroes though. Islands locked in eternal maritime cloud cover?"

"Pretty much. I only visited once, and we did not stay for more than a day. But that's what it looked like, sailing up to them. There's a cloud bank on an otherwise blue horizon, and suddenly you realise that those are islands with cloud caps. It's very foggy, and very windy. Not a whole lot of growth, either -- trees, bushes, only in some places. And yet it has this strange, wild beauty. Tall cliffs, steep edges full of seabirds. I saw a duck get taken by a gust of wind and blown right off an island, right out to sea. Ducks have wings so I doubt that it was more than inconvenienced, but still."

He adds cheese to his cracker and nibbles on it with appreciation; garlic is his friend in spite of his dress code. "I've never seen a tornado. And I struggle to wrap my mind around the distances here, still. I do want to see the prairie sometime -- or the badlands. That you can be somewhere and not see a single house or building in any direction, it blows my very European mind. There are many less than a handful of places in Denmark where that is possible, and it will be because of something obscuring the view."

In her mind's eye, as Ravn describes this ineffably wild place she's never seen, imagery unfolds. "Wow," she breathes especially after hearing of the duck so rudely plucked up by the wind. Having been around during the summer thunderstorms of the southwestern U.S., she's unfortunately familiar with the near-slap power of a good sheer wind-gust. Another sip of wine to clear her palate before the barista actually goes for one the strawberries. Half of the fruit disappears in a bite and she chews as she smiles to herself.

"Mmm...god, try a strawberry after you sip the wine, what a great flavor combo," she suggests to Ravn. "And...you know, it's odd to me to think of spaces that small. Where something's in the way of seeing the mountains or the Sound, but...yeah, I guess that's what it would be like for you over there in Europe. Huh." Absently, she makes the wine swirl about in her glass before glancing over at Ravn again. "I mean...if you're good for a drive and some hiking, nothing too crazy, I can think of a place where there's no houses or buildings in any direction for many miles. The view is...pretty breathtaking as a whole?"

Ravn reaches for a strawberry; let no experiment in flavour go untested. "It depends on where in Europe. Denmark is a very densely populated country. Not all of Europe is."

Then he lights up in a small grin. "You're describing a picnic basket in the wild kind of trip, aren't you? You, me, Lola Bianca, pre-packed lunch, and then off to somewhere that we have to walk a while to get to? I'm not a mountain hiker type -- but I walk for hours every day, so I can definitely handle stomping down some forest path for a bit. Seeing a breath-taking view is fantastic. Seeing it with someone who takes your breath away can only be better."

One point for smooth delivery; it's almost painfully plain to see how he mentally congratulates himself. Whatever grifts Ravn has worked in the past required stepping into the mindset of the role he was playing. Now, not playing a role, he is really not very difficult to read. Whether that's a good thing is up for debate; beats stonewalling at least.

Her own strawberry eaten, Ariadne places the green leafy top in the removed inversion of the fruits' container lid; it'll serve as the depository for now, apparently. She can't help the slightly sheepish little smile at the flirt.

"As long as there's still breath to give back, right?" Look, she's trying to be clever here. The redhead recovers with, "But yes. Something in a pick-a-nick basket and a nice ride to boot? Twist my arm. It might have to wait until the weather is nicer and I am going to recommend going during the week because the weekends are nuts with the tourists, but let's have it be a plan for the future? You'll want to bring your camera, that's for sure." Her grin is absolutely one sported by a local who seems to know all the best places, it might be said.

It also can't be helped. A little shimmy of her shoulders follows, "And ooh, a ride on Lola Bianca. Now you're spoiling me something good." Another sip of wine is smiled into while her eyes twinkle at Ravn.

Ravn sips his own wine and savours the taste; yes, he will agree, this is a truly excellent mix -- the sweetness of the berries and the full body of the Chilean, and the combination thereof is sublime. He's never been one for strawberries dipped in champagne -- the bubbles tend to be either too dry, or too sweet; for him, if it's going to be sugary and candy-like, go all the way and have something with a silly paper umbrella in, at a quarter of the price. Not that he needs money -- it just annoys him to throw money out the window for the single purpose of trying to impress the world. Maybe it's just old money prejudice; only new money needs to advertise.

He lets the thought go and flashes a bright grin at Ariadne. "Let me think about it. Sunlight, gorgeous scenery, the arms of a special someone around my waist, the open road -- and then lunch in a beautiful place, and taking photos of it and the special someone. Where do I sign up?"

"Gosh, funny you should ask!" Ariadne wafts her wine glass off to one side and then presses a hand against her collarbones, looking mock-suave. "For only one payment of..."

A moment here.

"...look, just insert something appropriate," she demurs with a snort-laugh before continuing, "You too can appreciate the visual wonders of the Pacific Northwest. Just dress warmly in case of sudden rain showers and pray no black bears come after that pick-a-nick basket. Or grizzlies. Definitely no grizzles, please. I note, in complete seriousness, that there won't really be any bears in this area. Too many people. Same with cougars." She plucks another strawberry because she can and the flavor combo was delightful.

But then? The strawberry is offered out for Ravn to nibble on with a lip-fretted smile of cheek.

A single glance towards something on the wall is Ravn's one micro-tell, about fears that are not unfounded in reality; it's a dream catcher, a small one, and not quite as colourful as the ones you'd find in a tourist shop -- it might actually be genuine.

It's also not on fire.

"Yes," he murmurs and finds the cheek somewhere to look Ariadne up and down. It is a very flattering dress. "I can indeed appreciate the visual wonders of the Pacific Northwest."

Then he leans in and, keeping eye contact, plucks the berry from her fingers, with his teeth. For him, an insanely daring move. He must be pretty damned serious about 'not fucking it up this time'.

Subtly, Ariadne flicks one brow; she'd caught the down-and-up but not the glance over at the dreamcatcher. She's not noticed the item, not just yet, perhaps having glanced and marked it as part of the decor rather than something significant -- yet more proof of how new she ultimately is to the sheer weirdness that is Grey Harbor and its spread of Veil.

Offering taken, her own teeth can be seen to dimple the plush of her bottom lip harder in passing before she sighs the tiniest amount. Had someone been holding their breath? Perhaps. "Look at me go. I am provider. I have given food and after we dance, I will have enacted the perfect courtship. I am not, however, going to do any bird of paradise jigging about, thank-you-very-much."

Okay, biologist, sure. She can make fun of herself and giggles while she grabs another strawberry, this time, truly for her own enjoyment.

Ravn nibbles on the strawberry before reaching over to deposit the green bit in the tupperware lid as well. Then he glances at Ariadne and sends her one of these you said a hilarious thing and I'm going to point it out now looks that sparkle with blue-grey amusement. "Does this mean that when we take our relationship to the next step, you will guard this nest while I lie on our eggs? Because there is one part of this plan that I'm not on board with."

It's probably the one that requires him to lay eggs. Men tend to be kind of whiny about those things.

Thank god she's not drinking wine when Ravn speaks of nesting and eggs.

Because Ariadne had paused in bringing her wine to her lips after setting down her next strawberry-top on the growing pile of greenery. It was that look, that particular look, the glimmering in those glacial-blues, which made her pause. She could blame twitterpation, but there's also curiosity about what he's about to say.

She outright titters, having to bring fingertips to her mouth again. "Oh god," slips free between growing laughter. "You know what, bud? There's a species of ducks where not only is the female more colorful, the male sits on the eggs, so! What part of this plan are you not on-board with? Not good for regurgitating food for the hatchlings?" Unashamedly, she went there. Flying merrily across that line. Gleefully dimpling as she did so.

Ravn laughs softly and sips his wine. "The laying eggs part. Although I suppose it could be worse. At least birds lay eggs through their cloaca, and I do have one of those. I'm absolutely flat out not on board with any couplings that require me to birth live young. Let's get that on record right now." Mild, unabashed smile. "I could get on board with the whole part where I just lie on our eggs while you have to run around, defend the nest, gather food, and keep competitors away. I mean, at least until I ran out of crosswords."

He cants his head and pretends to think. "I suppose we should practise the rest." Yoink, strawberry taken from the tray and put in his mouth -- halfway. Eyebrow wiggle. Hmm? Hmm?

That the normally-reserved Dane ran with her absurdity is no end of amusement to Ariadne. She's laughing almost helplessly behind her hand now, face scrunched up in honest humor -- and he'd even gone so far as to use terminology!

"Crosswords," she echoes airily before laughing again, holding her wine glass out to one side against spill. It's certainly not filled enough to slosh easily, but then again, she's human and even somewhat leaning in her hilarity. Clearing her throat pointedly, as if to remind herself about manners, she then realizes there's a strawberry up for offer. The eyebrow wiggle truly cements the light blush on her cheeks, but never let it be said that she stood down from a challenge like this.

Leaning in, she holds those glacial-blues until it's too difficult to do so (and cross-eyed is not sexy) and closes her eyes in turn. Lips meet in passing while she takes just about half for herself with a careful snip of teeth. "Mmm," a soft hum. "I accept your food offering, Sir Ravn. Looks like a successful courtship so far," the redhead murmurs at a distance still fairly close, having not yet swayed back out to her own space yet. Again, her eyes meet his.

Ravn at least manages to close his mouth over his half strawberry rather than let it drop from his lips in a display of slackjawed admiration. He swallows -- and manages to not choke, because you're supposed to chew those things, not swallow them whole. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs. "Achievement unlocked: Successfully courted a greater Danish warbler."

He can almost hear Itzhak Rosencrantz' voice at the back of his skull: Boychik. Ravhska. Don't waste the moment.

His emotional support violinist is rarely wrong. He keeps saying he does everything wrong, but he doesn't. He's probably right here too, even if he only exists as a disembodied voice in Ravn's imagination.

Ravn leans in and very carefully closes his lips over Ariadne's; easy enough for her to draw back or pull away if he's moving too fast. He can't not. Those eyes have him -- hook, line and sinker. His fingers slip up to rest lightly on her forearm, silently pleading. Please be pleased. Don't let me fuck this up.

Too distracted at the lack of space between them, Ariadne doesn't notice how the strawberry gullups its way down. She'd remembered to chew, at least, though it's never a thing of actual dedicated thought unless necessary. She only has eyes for, well, Ravn's eyes in turn. They're so open; how do people not understand the translucency of a beautiful pair of eyes?

There, yes, what she wanted. Mouths meet and again, her lashes shutter. Melting in against his side, her forearm rotates the better to spread a palm lightly across his own arm in turn. Inhale, exhale, as the contact lingers, and she then breaks it because she's getting very light-headed -- and it's not all the wine's doing.

"I've been meaning to tell you that I'm stupidly charmed by how you called me 'honey warbler'," she murmurs, seeming to have forgotten she's holding a glass out to one side. "And if you want to call me that, you can." Oh, look, she's found his baby-blues again, glorious color and all; Itzhak wouldn't miss the nature of the little sigh to leave her.

Who's playing the drums?

... Oh. It's Ravn's pulse in his ears. His forehead comes to rest a moment against Ariadne's because he's sure as hell not about to pull away, either. He squirms in his seat and fights the urge to wrap his arms around her (and clean up the wine spill later). Easy there, boy -- you're the one who's going to end up screaming if you surprise her, and she flails, and hits you by accident.

He swallows. "Honey warbler. It suits you. Honey for the eyes. Your eyes are almost golden sometimes. They change colour with your mood, have you noticed?"

"I have, actually." While she wishes she sounded less giddy, Ariadne's more than aware of the fact that playing it cool is just not going to happen right now. At least it's still English leaving her mouth. "Noticed that they change colors, yes. I've been told they look like cat-eyes when I'm outside at sunset and green when I'm sad."

She'd certainly noted the Dane's shifting about on the seat as well; she herself is still melted up against his side, her palm still rested on his arm in turn. What wine?

"Do your eyes change color too then?" It feels like a dumb question the very second it spills from her lips, but can't take it back now. She simply indulges in the static tingle of being so close to the man and yet far enough away for coherent conversation to continue. If he kisses her again? It might be Hungarian as the next thing out of her mouth because every kiss thus far has sent her standard state of logical mind flying away as fast as a racket player's overhand return across the court.

"I'm told my eyes get colder if I get angry, but I haven't really noticed it myself," Ravn murmurs. It seems plausible enough; blue-grey tends to resemble steel, and steel is a good shade for cold fury. "I've been told I should never wear warm pastels because they clash with blue."

He remembers who said. He glances at the dream catcher. Still not on fire.

Bloody hell, no. A glimpse of steel in grey, indeed, as he leans in an attempt to recapture Ariadne's lips with his own. This is the woman he wants. His fear of another woman, half a decade dead, is not going to win. He is not going to retreat and make interested but detached conversation for the rest of the evening. He is not going to bury the way he feels under six feet of rationalisations and precautions. If it must, let the ship go down in flames, at least he's been on it.

"I haven't seen you in pastels," the barista both admits and observes -- but never mind. There's intent in how he leans in and now their lips collide again and she's molded herself against his side all the more. Her mouth tastes of the strawberries and the wine. Or maybe it's Ravn who tastes of strawberries and wine. Either way, her sweater-dress and frame is softness with a cyclist's muscling included. Each inhale brings a teasing whift of the perfume scented back in the apartment through the newly-laid paint: vanilla, sandalwood, nectarine, wood oud, the barest hint of jasmine.

As such, guess what? Not English when she speaks again, words close enough to brush against his lips. <<Maybe you let me wear the pastels?>> Hungarian, fluid and full of aspirated sounds and humming consonants.

"I have no idea what you're saying but I like the way you say it," Ravn murmurs, almost into the redhead's mouth. His head is spinning; a feeling like plunging from a tall bridge into water far, far below, and on the way down you have plenty time to realise that this may end up quite the trip, and maybe it's actually kind of dangerous, but wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee --

Don't be pushy. Maybe don't tell her that you're thinking about how quickly you'd be able to gnaw through the fabric of that sweater dress in order to find out if she smells just as gorgeous under it. He swallows, hard. And somehow, he's shifted his weight around just enough on his hip to be sitting side to side but leaning chest to chest.

Forehead to forehead, the Dane murmurs, "You make me forget all about food and wine. I have manners. I just left them in my other blazer."

No idea what --

Oh. Look at the barista pink probably the deepest shade seen since...they've ever looked at one another. Still, she isn't going to retreat, not even after slipping into her cradle-tongue. After all, they're now chest to chest and this seems far too appropriate. God, Ravn smells just as good. She wants another taste of his mouth, but he's talking about -- about --

Ariadne finds English again with effort. "I mean, my manners are on the dock and the seagulls are pecking them slowly to death, so..." she leaves off because there was supposed to be something more clever there, but whatever it was, it was lost when she made eye contact with him again. His own lashes, dark enough, are absurdly unfair. How dare they provide even more contrast for those irises. "You taste good."

Super suave, good job there.

"Do I?" Maybe it's the very fact that Ariadne is not mirror smooth that inspires a little courage in the Dane who knows himself to be smooth like a super craggy landscape of cliffs and rocky mountains. He plucks the wine glass from her fingers and sets it on the little table. Then he rests the fingers of that hand on her elbow, and the fingers of the other on her other elbow, and leans in. It's not quite a close embrace; but it could absolutely be the beginning of one. "You do too."

He wants to wrap his arms around the woman and hold her close, feel her warm, muscular body against his own. He's going to be very careful about it because always, always does he need to keep in mind that a sudden, unexpected flail or squeal may have unfortunate effects. The only way to make sure is to go slow and not surprise her, either, not even when he feels like his skin is on fire and her mouth is the only water that can possibly quench it.

It's starting to dawn on him how oblivious he can be. And somewhere inside, he claims a little victory: At least when a girl shows up on his boat dressed up to the nines and feeding him strawberries, he picks up that she does in fact wish to be kissed. And this, this is a service that the folklorist is very happy to provide. Hell, he'd dress up in a sweater dress and eyeliner himself, for another kiss from that particular girl. Among other things. Name your things.

At least one of them has the cognizance to care for the mostly-forgotten glass of wine. Ariadne gives the retreating glass a vaguely surprised look, as if it were another magic trick, but certainly not for long. His hands are cupping her elbows and it all but invites the counter-lean in turn. "Oh good," she manages to reply. Her own hands find their way to his elbows in turn and somewhere, somehow, she remembers to not squeeze overly hard. It's difficult to resist. Is the boat itself rocking?

Or maybe they're rocking boat. Not yet -- and they can't be because Kitty Pryde isn't complaining about it.

Still, Ravn had turned his torso earlier and with all the affection of a cat, the redhead's gone and oozed up against his chest as much as she can after twisting in turn. It creates a long, graceful arch to her spine. Touch. It's sweet, it's simple, and set to pull a rug right out from beneath her feet. How dare he be so kissable. She tilts her head to deepen the connection of mouths and sighs through her nose with all the unconscious winsomeness her psyche can apparently manage.

How far is too far? It's not far enough when the girl is neither moving away nor saying 'stop' -- but in fact, if anything, she's moving into Ravn's embrace. His hands find their way around, one to her shoulder and one to her waist, and breathing is either optional or through the nose for a while. He's perfectly content to stay just like that for a long time. Wrapped in each other, oblivious to the world.

When he does have to surface for a proper breath of air it's with a protesting sigh. The folklorist rests his forehead against the barista's and is probably not even aware that he's making mewy little sounds almost like a kitten purring.

"We're not doing those strawberries justice," he murmurs because there's such a thing as being too forward and it's the last thing he wants. (The first thing is pretty obvious, she's sitting right there in a very flattering dress).

Not only is Ravn tall enough to manage the lean-twist of kiss, but his arms are long enough to make her feel truly captured up and against him -- for variants of 'captured'. His touch still remains gentle, mindful of them both, and a corner of her heart further melts. Her fingernails curl into the sleeves of his turtleneck rather than into his skin in a betrayal of the checked intensity she's reining in. When their mouths break contact with a soft sound, she too inhales as if she were coming up for air.

A bobbling swallow and lick of her own lips, dried and feeling almost beestung in sensitivity. Breath mingles before their faces, so close to one another. Ariadne leaves her eyes closed perhaps out of wish to bolster her own self-control in turn.

"Ah-hem, y-yes." Words. Words are hard, but there they are, she found some of them. "There's also the rice pudding, though that's...that's good at any temperature, thank god." Her voice is velvety now and no matter how much she quietly tries to clear this soft-roughness away, it's not working.

There's a Jamaican steel drum band playing in Ravn's ears; his pulse booms in his ears at the look on Ariadne's face and the shift in her voice. He does not want to let go. He does not want to lean back and put his hands in his own lap. He wants to hold on lest this fairy woman, this promise of someone who might want him just the way he is, might dissipate and fall apart and disappear like a popped soap bubble or a half-forgotten dream.

He's feeling decidedly asthmatic, too. Oh, right. No, it's just that he's out of breath. Check.

"I suppose we can always re-heat them." It, Ravn. He meant the pudding, not the strawberries. Although at this time, he'd eat frozen pudding and boiling berries and not notice either, because his attention is entirely occupied elsewhere. "I'm so glad you're here," he says, lamely, and knows that those words are trying to convey in just a few syllables what he might need a speaker's podium and four hours to explain in detail.

Ravn's not the only one short on air. Somehow, she still can't find enough of it, though it seems to be easier with each passing second. Reheating pudding. Reheating it, right, this is an option. It's an option, she can formulate this as a coherent idea, well done, brain. Another lick of her lips as he speaks again and she opens her eyes again. They've gone dusky now, more pupil than iris, though the latter has too taken on those honey-hues in earnest.

Somehow, the barista can tell he means much more than the words convey at base. "I'm glad that I'm here too," she murmurs back, her lips then pulling up into a lazy smile. Yes, she puts distance between them, but only to better look into his face; this snuggle-up against the Dane's chest hasn't ceased or decreased in intensity. "Thank you letting me be here." Again, so much more in so few words.

Ravn slips his other hand around Ariadne's back as well and holds her to him; close as a closed thing, chest to chest, not a sheet of paper could be slipped between them. "You have no idea how beautiful you are," he tells her shoulder because he cannot meet those golden eyes; he might fall into them like pools of darkness, and never manage to claw his way back out -- and would he want to? Maybe he would just float forever in the dark-gold.

He brushes his lips along Ariadne's jawline -- in part because he is feeling a little emboldened by those darkening eyes and half-open lips, and in part because he can't not. It's intoxicating -- all of it, the night, the girl, the feeling of connection. "Tell me that I am not going too fast, that I'm not pushing you. Tell me that you wouldn't think twice before coming back."

The other most intoxicating thing about Ravn -- rather, yet another bullet point on the growing list, help -- is how warm he is through his turtleneck. If she had to admit it, Ariadne is drawn to this as a moth to a flame.

She watches his face again and notes with a flicker of fear at the lack of eye contact, at least until muddled common sense catches up with her. Oh. Right, eye contact, intimate to a degree sometimes harrowing. Another centering inhale as she throws her common sense a floatation device.

And throws very, very short of the target as lips find their way to her jawline. "I wouldn't think twice." Leaning harder into him now, check. Showcasing what neck she can showcase given the fashionable rumpling of the collar of her sweater-dress, check. "Not too fast. I'll let you know," the redhead promises with a recognizable thread of presence running through her otherwise velvety tone. The closer the kisses might dapple to her neck, the more intense the scent of her perfume becomes. She must have daubed it beneath and behind her ear, each side, and skin heat broadcasts its beguiling not-too-sweetness in turn.

Whatever cologne or scent Ravn uses has the distinct scent of oud wood; musky without being rancid, sweet without being cloying. There's vanilla in there too somewhere, and probably half a dozen other things; it's a deep, pleasant scent, one of the more successful male scents. Given his general preferences, it's probably not marketed under a macho name or in a novelty bottle shaped like a gun barrel.

He holds Ariadne for a while, trailing little kisses to her jawline and neck, without trying to sneak that collar down; boundaries are a thing, and at least to him, a very important thing. He's been on the other side; too close to people to whom boundaries are at best obstacles to be pushed aside. Better safe than sorry and besides, what is not done tonight promises more beautiful evenings to come. What is it Rosencrantz always says? Oh yes. Leave the audience wanting.

He reaches up and runs slender fingers through auburn and galaxy-coloured hair; such a beautiful display of shades and hues! "I love this. I love your flamboyance. I love your daring."

On an inhale, one deep and slothful and -- yes, one can inform Rosencrantz -- as if she were nearing this mythical status of 'putty', Ariadne decides she needs to figure out what cologne the man wears. His lips press to the angle of her jaw and she thinks to herself about whether or not it's ridiculous to want to steal his turtleneck for the sake of wearing it herself. What if it kept his body warmth as well as the perpetual scent? Nobody would be able to peel her out of it.

While her skin is mulled over in that no-terrible-hurry, her own fingers absently grip and relax at the turtleneck's sleeves. Quite cat-like of her in turn. Fingers rise and comb and her head seems to move with the motion, her neck muscles loose enough for it to be an easy manipulation. "I figure...you only live once, so...why not have some fun with colors? It could be reversed if I wanted, but..." A faint and somehow heavy laugh, her lashes nearly closed in heated lassitude. "...why would I want to do that? There's only one of me. Why shouldn't I be who I am? But...you haven't seen daring yet." Another laugh, though this ends on the breath of a groan.

"Maybe I will enjoy seeing it," Ravn murmurs, amusement glittering in blue-grey eyes. "I like it. I like the way you approach life. It's given you some bumps and knocks along the way and yet here you are, swan diving into a new life. You make me feel daring. You make me feel like maybe being seen is not such a horrible thing."

'Scuse me, tumbling along blind here, and forgetting entirely that there might be such things as brakes. Who needs them anyway.

"I want to walk along the beach with you. I want to tell nerdy anecdotes no one cares about. I want to hear you talk about strange molluscs and fish with bizarre habits, and I will care because you are passionate about it. I want to secretly spend long nights researching aquatic and oceanic folk tales just so I have something to wow you with."

Another run of breathy chuckles leave the woman still happily lingering within the Dane's arms. Her head is still uplifted and tilted to one side, her jawline and that crucial inch or two of neck on display above the bundling of her collar. It means dark lashes still curtain those honey-hazels and, for the moment, Ravn remains safe from drowning.

"You had me at 'nerdy anecdotes'," she says, her smile languorous now, seen at the angle of her face in turn. Another unconscious fussing at his sleeves as if the rest of her body wanted it off while common sense is still sitting on the lid to the chest this inclination has been bodily thrown into. "And I'd love it if you wow me with these stories, Ravn. I promise to tell you terrible facts about whatever we see on the walks because the way you barely blush makes me want to make you blush more. I want to dare you to do things with me so I can see you twinkle. I want to be seen on your arm."

Uh oh. She's looked at him again, hunting out those glacial-blues. "I want to see you make a goldfish face when I wink at you," the little minx says to him with a truly guiling smile, turning the charm full-wattage on him just in passing.

Gape. Swallow. Swallow again. Yes, that about qualifies for the goldfish face, doesn't it? At least Ravn realises; his cheeks flush slightly and he can't help a small, sheepish laugh -- because yes, he will absolutely do this. Guilty as charged, he has little or no programming for how to handle certain situations, and he knows it.

And then the other half of what she said sinks in. I want to be seen on your arm.

Not the first girl who wanted to. Not a lot of them kept wanting to, upon realising that the man is an introvert bookworm who prefers to live a simple life and not at all sweep anyone away on a private jet plane to a private island of fast cars and solid gold faucets. A historian who decided against getting tenure for a professorhood because it might mean having to share a room with students. This girl knows. And still she wants to.

"I want to hold your hand in public and not worry that you'll be embarrassed," he murmurs softly. "I'm honestly not the possessive type. But I want the world to know that you're mine. Or that at least for now, I've staked some kind of claim. Because I'm not a stalker type either. Please stop me talking before I ruin everything."

The Gratifying Goldfish Gape. The Three-G. Ariadne will forever call it this, alliteration and all, she decides as her smile deepens that knowing touch; silently, it communicates, I am woman and I know precisely what I do.

Stop him talking? So many options. Too many options. Settling on the safe one, she visibly lifts a pointer finger and very gently places it against his lips. "You're not the stalker or possessive type and it's not odd or wrong to want to hold my hand or let the world see. I'm honored and humbled, Ravn. I'll hold your hand or your arm, whatever works, as long as I'm in step beside you. Embarrassed?" Her hand then shifts about to just as gently mold along his jawline; her thumb brushes along his cheek lightly as she looks between his eyes. "No, not that. Be kind to yourself." Another kiss, this time with no less lingering but less fervor, as if she wished to drain some of the heat from him in turn.

"Before I put a tiny dollop of rice pudding at the corner of your mouth so I can simply lick it off," she then 'threatens' with a flick of brows. Such threat, much wow, we still haven't peeled ourselves from against the taller man's chest.

Ravn swallows. Again. "Don't say something like that," he murmurs in a voice that suggests he's now envisioning half a dozen interesting uses for pudding and strawberries, and an expression that confirms it.

He kisses back, gently, wanting to press on but also wanting to simply hold what he has; to savour the moment and make it last. To prove to himself that happiness does not have to be fleeting, and it does not have to be gone almost before you saw it coming.

Warmth, at least, he has aplenty. And black turtlenecks -- though as it may turn out, his number may soon decrease. When that happens? In what way can a man mark a girl his more than watching her steal his clothes and parade them around town? He wants this. He wants all of it. And if the expression of his face is reminicent of a deliriously happy goldfish, well, there are worse expressions.

Another kiss steals some of her returning cleverness. Her palm drops from his jawline to his shoulder and lingers there, a gentle weight. Ariadne, wanting to see more of these fish-mouthed expressions, is the one of break the lip-lock this time. Her sigh breaks upon his cheek as she leaves her eyes closed and swallows carefully.

"I mean...better to say it than to do it, right?" the redhead laughs airily, finding his eyes again. Her own remain eloquently as warmly-darkened topaz. "Otherwise, it might lead to things." One-eyebrow'd quirk and corresponding subtle lift of the corner of her mouth. She relents. Time for some mercy and distraction. "Here, just..."

Can she keep the bodily alignment and find a spoon and scoop up some of the air-cooled rice pudding? Apparently, yes, and she's pleased for it. Open up, Ravn, incoming. At least there's no airplane noises. She wouldn't dare do that. That silliness is for three months into things and foods like coleslaw or spaghetti.

Ravn can't help laugh softly at the ridiculousness of it. He opens up -- and he will get that mouthful down if it kills him because fuck you, eating disorder, this is his chance to impress. Close lips around the spoon. Draw his face back slowly. Keep eye contact. Yes, that's exactly what he's thinking. Consider it a promise for a night to come.

Amusement continues to glitter in darkened eyes as he manages to make himself swallow. "Things would be nice. But maybe a little too soon to do all the things. We have so much time ahead of us, yes?"

"Whether or not you're going to turn into a pile of ashes, Sir Ravn, you're going to find that I'm no terrible hurry to do all the things," the barista confirms with a gentle smile still containing its perpetual teasing edge. Spoon retrieved (and betraying little sigh for the resonance of how he'd visibly appreciated the spoonful), Ariadne then reaches to gather up some for herself.

Needless to say, she makes a show of appreciating it in a mirroring of the Dane's behavior while holding his eyes in turn. Of course. Touché.

"There's no reason to hurry...and nothing wrong with dallying," she murmurs after a lick of her lips, the spoon idly held off to one side now with a theatrically-limp wrist.

There's a wise adage: Don't dish it if you can't take it. Ravn may be regretting that little stunt already. Or patting himself repeatedly on the back. He's not even sure himself which would be the more appropriate. Gosh.

He leans in to capture a faint taste of pudding from ruby lips before murmuring, "You keep calling me that, people are going to think it's my actual title, you realise. I make a very poor knight in shining armour. Maybe I can be your ninja in black pyjamas instead?"

Surely Ariadne's mentally patting herself on the back -- and regretting too this particular endeavor in the same moment. She will, however, be unashamed of savoring the expressions crossing Ravn's face.

At least until he finds the phantasmal taste of milk and cinnamon mingling with the even fainter strawberry-wine. A sigh and the Dane is given one of those lazy, half-curtained looks again. "Absolutely, you can be my ninja in black pajamas. But...isn't there this saying about how a good lie contains elements of the tru -- "

Look, we were trying to talk with the spoon as if it were some directive baton composing spoken thought. There the spoon goes, lost from distracted fingers, to clatter off the table and chime to the floor. Ariadne blurt-snorts and then takes up giggling (and blushing) helplessly, both sets of fingers over her mouth now. Her shoulders nearly end up around her ears. "Oh my godddddd," she titters, then reaching for the lost utensil. "I promise, I'm way more coordinated than this."

Ravn laughs and glances at the table lest something gets shoved off it by accident -- it's a small, cramped space and it would not be that difficult to accidentally elbow a wine glass off the small table area. His laughter is light and heartfelt because he knows this feeling so very well, so very, very well. "I promise that I'm not. I mean, you've met me. I can try my hardest and still screw things up half-way through, and that's just who I am. You've seen me do it enough times that you must have decided it's an acceptable design flaw."

He reaches for a strawberry and holds it out to her. "What was this about feeding and claiming? Open up, my baby bird."

Spoon is returned to the table, off to one side, lest it be accidentally flung again or used after it's touched the floor. Someone's a germaphobe to a quiet extent.

Ariadne then can't help but laugh along a few more times. Oh well. Gravity is what it is -- and now there's a strawberry being offered. Taking a moment to tuck her half-back hair behind one shoulder again, she lifts her chin in mock dignity. "It is 'honey warbler', dear Ravn, and I think you're too hard on yourself." That being said, and accompanied by a little smirk to soften it further, she leans in to accept the offering. Lips brush the Dane's fingertips very deliberately in passing; the feeling of the kidskin leather is fascinating. "That being said, we still have to dance if we're discussing courting, hmm?"

How tartly does she lifts her brows and do a little shimmy where she sits, having parted from leaning against Ravn in order to fetch the spoon in the first place. "Think the clouds will be nice and we'll have a moon after all?" The question ends up being softer somehow.

"Why don't we go look?" Ravn's smile widens; it's not exactly far, and the cabin door is still open. Kitty Pryde is still out there, so at least it's safe to assume it's not raining. "Maybe some boat nearby will even provide us a bit of music to dance to?"

He hasn't got a transistor radio on board. He's got a solution for that.

The folklorist offers Ariadne his gloved hand -- don't think about leather in those ruby lips, so that's what it's about -- and lights up in another grin. "Shall we find out? Or do we need to fortify ourselves on another glass of wine first? I have to warn you, I'm not a great dancer at all."

Taking the offered gloved hand in a light curl of fingers very lady-like, Ariadne rises with the Dane.

"I don't need any wine to be a good dancer at all. I just get better after one or two glasses." A cheeky wink for Ravn. Dear god. Let this one loose with the girls and a dance floor and see what chaos comes of it. She still looks towards the cabin door. "I can't tell if the moon's out with the dock lights, but hey, maybe there will be some music. Maybe someone will be blasting Backstreet Boys or something." A giggle. "Still. It doesn't matter if you're a great dancer. Anybody can sway back and forth in a two-step, it's nothing crazy or fancy. I didn't ask for a waltz. Remember, you've still got to teach me that in the first place."

And if she looks shyly pleased about the idea, it shows in the way she tucks her chin just the smallest amount and glances off to one side for a second. She finds Ravn's eyes again quickly enough, an excited little gleam in them now.

The aft of the boat certainly does not have space for waltzing; a bit of swaying is what there's room for, and you better watch your step a little or Kitty Pryde is going to claw your backside for getting too close. It's fine. Look at that moon up there -- no ghostly galleon, this, but a warm shade of gold, on a blue sky rapidly darkening, the first stars providing sparkles like party glitter.

The sound of waves lapping against the hull is almost music enough, but what man does not want to show off in front of his honey warbler?

What man does not possess spatial awareness, if not Ravn? Like an unseen tendril, his mind slinks to the next boat over, and twists the knob; a bit of easy rock'n roll, some local band he doesn't even know, just a little louder. It's not the perfect choice of music but he's not going as far as to flicking around for another station; the radio's owner would likely notice.

"I hope you like -- whatever that is," he murmurs and opens his arms. Kitty Pryde, behind him, veritably rolls her eyes. People.

Emerging out onto the deck, Ariadne can't help the long inhale of the burgeoning night air. The ocean itself seems to be cooling from the day and as she looks up, still holding Ravn's hand, she hazards she could scent the emerging stars themselves. What a beautiful moon -- damnit that the marina's tall lights are still all on and will remain all on. A glance about finds Kitty Pryde by her can of tuna and the cat gets a wry smirk. Hello, guardian of the boat, She Who Must Be Given Only The Best.

The barista quickly looks one boat over at the sudden rise of quiet music and then at Ravn, brows lifted. Did he -- he must have, because this man wouldn't pay anyone else to pull that trick. Her chuckle glimmers like light from the waves brushing against the boat. Stepping into his arms, she wraps one about his waist and the other up along the inside of his arm, the better to rest her hand on his shoulder. Her heels give her some height, but not enough; she still has to look up into his face.

"I don't know the band, but the song sounds familiar," she murmurs. "And it'll do. You can hear the two-step, yeah? One...two...one...two..." Sure, she might start off the count, but by the way her rocking steps then lessen in intensity, she expects Ravn to pick up the beat. Might be because he plays an instrument.

Indeed, it's not difficult to do; if anything is difficult it's resisting the urge to pull her close and kiss her until neither part can breathe. Those golden pools below, mirroring the golden moon above, and around them, the darkness and the stars. Blast you, tall lights --

-- and for a moment he is so very tempted to blow them out, he could do that but he doesn't, somebody else will get stuck with the blame and the bill --

-- but next time, he vows, next time he will move this boat to some dark part of the Bay where nothing at all can disturb them or subtract from the mood.

I can't believe this moment has come
It's so incredible that we're alone
There's so much to be said and done
It's impossible to not be overcome

Sometimes, life has a way of dropping Important Hints, doesn't it? Start off the Count, yes.

Start off the Count, yes, and it's easy to follow into the sway of the song itself. It's like it was meant to be taken at this pace, easy, back and forth, in no terrible hurry. Perhaps the theme of the night is, in fact, no terrible hurry.

Looking up into Ravn's face yet, the barista sways in time with the music until it's more than she's got track of the beat and not of the lyricism or the instrumental weavings of the song itself. One...and two...and one...and two...and she's glad she's got a hand on his shoulder because it'd be hilariously easy to lose her balance when she's looking up into the sky. Er, his eyes, not the sky. Unless the stars really are found there after all within it.

"Y'know, if you planned this song, it's a good one and you should get kudos," she murmurs up to the man. It is a pretty song. But the view is more handsome yet and wow, how the world around them melts away with the unimportance of a watercolor painting left to the rain.

Ravn leans forward just a little, enough that he can once again rest his forehead gently against Ariadne's, and try to tread waters in those golden pools. "I didn't pick the program," he admits. "I mean, I could move the dial but I think Mr Edwards would notice if his transistor suddenly started cycling through stations. I just kept an ear on wherever somebody might be playing something useful."

For all he knows, the next tune will be something horrible. Something modern and misery-inducing to a man with a classical music education. My lady humps . . .

He hopes not. He's not up for thinking more about those than he already is. "I'm sure he we look like idiots," he murmurs instead, with amusement. "And if we do, I'll be an idiot any time you want."

"I'll give you half-credit then," replies Ariadne. This is sweet, how he tends to rest temple to temple, and she doesn't mind in the least whilst they do their slow, two-time pivot in their tiny, tiny, space thus threatened by Kitty Pryde's personal bubble in turn. Nobody seems to be paying any attention to them anyways, save for the cat in question. The barista hazards she can feel the disdainful stare -- and doesn't care in the least.

A little nudging up against his forehead as her lips part in a private grin. "The world and its opinions about whether or not we look like idiots can kind of go fuck themselves," the American tart murmurs back oh-so-tartly. "Now, if you're talking about dancing whenever I'd like? Quite the offer there, bud. How about my kitchen one time? Or maybe the living room? Sam probably won't sing." A beat. "...maybe."

"Your kitchen. Your living room. The street. The beach. Anywhere." Ravn's murmur is gentle and amused, but also quite sincere. If you're going to commit, don't go half the mile. He's lived his entire life in shadow or behind masks. It may be one inch at a time but he's going to claw his way out. After all, if he is not willing to do this -- then the right thing to do would be to bid Ariadne farewell now, while emotions are just budding and the bush upon which it grows might recover.

He's not a gardener. He's not going to cut off the buds. He's going to learn to garden and watch them grow into full bloom.

"There's very little I won't do," he says softly. "Not if they are things that matter to you."

Ariadne's pleased and soft laugh is equally truthful in its careful modulation. Mustn't laugh too loudly and draw attention. Who cares about embarrassment? She cares far more about the way they've managed to cocoon themselves in the moment, in this blanket of music and harmony of bodies moving in rocking time. Even the bay waters beneath the boat seem to behave in their general stillness; no sudden lurches to test balance.

"Well...I'll tell you right now, I don't want the world. That's too much. I think I'll start with whatever time you want to share with me because I know how precious it is, your personal time and space. We'll go from there. Maybe see about that movie marathon with vampires and Chinese food, hmm? I promise to snuggle up close at the scary parts," she then tells the sky-eyed man in his fine black turtleneck she wants to steal and wear. Maybe next week. Or month. Somehow. It's going to happen. Her cheeky grin does indeed guarantee the snuggling part spoken aloud; turtleneck-stealing plans remain merely a gleam in her honey-hazel eyes.

Ravn all but purrs; maybe it is the lack of realisation of what his decisions tonight will do to his wardrobe in times to come. Maybe he will eventually realise, and decide that the turtleneck toll is a price worth paying. After all, a woman's curves in a sleek turtleneck made for a man's body is a sight; he'll definitely enjoy the view. And buy more.

Temple to temple; heart to heart; feet not on top of Ariadne's (so far). "Movie marathon sounds delightful. The kind that involves snuggling under a blanket and occasionally having to remind each other we're watching a movie sounds even better. Having to watch the movie again after because you weren't paying attention? Perfection."

"It definitely sounds like a good time," Ariadne murmurs back.

One...two...one...two. Kitty Pryde probably thinks they're boring as hell. Or maybe she's grateful for how quiet they are. It does seem like the world is muffled still. If anyone's walking by on the dock or peering from another boat, the barista has no idea about it.

Continuing to gaze in his oh-so-blue eyes, she teases, "But you're telling me you're going to be able to resist philosophizing about the tropes regarding tuberculosis and repressed Victorian horniness because I'll be snuggled next to you? I'm impressed. I wish my dress had pockets, I might pull out a 1d20 dice and roll for disbelief."

"I might end up un-repressing some of it," Ravn murmurs and stubbornly ignores the fact that he's raised better than to make such crude jokes. "Maybe a practical demonstration will be in place, and then we can do the Q&A after?"

And then, because he's a historian and historians gotta history, he turns his head slightly, and lip-to-ear, whispers, "I might insist on seeing your whole ankle."

Pardon her rosebud lips. They practically dance against a smile because un-repressing sounds like a task and an amusing one at that. There the Dane goes, running merrily with the tease, and Ariadne can't help but fret the bottom half of those rosebud lips. Do not giggle. Do not giggle because this is so charming, no.

It is, apparently, to both inhale and exhale at the same time while goosebumps rush out over you. Hot breath curling near to one's ear will do that. Her steps stutter noticeably, lagging for a beat or two behind before catching up. But since the first flash of the verbal fence went to Ravn, the parry goes to Ariadne: "You might even get to follow up past my whole ankle and beneath my petticoats, Sir Ravn," she murmurs back, her own breath brushing past the line of his jaw. Maybe he can feel the way her mouth has dimpled up. Just keep dancing, one-two-one-two, even if the song has changed to something else she doesn't recognize.

Ask Ravn a week from now what they danced to, and he will stare blankly and then protest that he can't be expected to keep up with modern pop music, damnit. The truth is, he has no idea. He is not paying attention to a whole lot of things besides the sounds of the ocean, the golden light from above reflected in gold pools below, and the warm body nestled against his as they move in that slow little rhythm. Who wants tonight to end? Not him.

"My heart might not survive such incursion," he murmurs back because the ex-grifter is anything if not alert to such little micro-tells as a step slightly out of place, and a hitch of breath. Micro-tells of his own that he doesn't even bother to hide; the way he bites his lip at the sensation of hot breath on his jaw and the smile that sparkles in those laughing eyes. "I have spent my life in terror of finding out that it is true that women do not exist between knees and shoulders."

"Well, goodness," murmurs Ariadne back, sounding still teasing and yet fond somehow. "I suppose you could honor the Age of Exploration and see where those petticoats led if you felt so inclined. But then again, if we're under a blanket, you'd be going by feel alone." Trust a scientist to get systematic in humor. "How are you supposed to take notes? Though...maybe that'd be part of the fun, discovering that, in fact, something does exist there after all but that damn blanket's in the way."

Again, she leans in while she funs at frustration with a dimpled half-smirk just wide enough to flash some teeth. Trust those honey-hazel eyes still meeting his own to hold a good portion of that troublemaker gleam she'd claimed not so long ago.

Ravn pretends to think hard about it. (No, that was absolutely not a pun and if confronted, he'll deny everything). "Maybe I should hire a secretary for the occasion. I could dictate my findings. Also, if I should get lost, there would be somebody able to call for help."

He grins slightly; giddily, even, because he feels silly-happy, and it's a very good feeling. This is happiness. This is what partnership should feel like -- no rush, no worrying about the things you haven't told her, no quiet terror that you're not meeting expectations. Those eyes, growing warmer as the moon rises, tells him he's doing fine on that account. And the mischief in them?

The mischief is good. Because a person who cannot laugh at themselves is prone to laugh at others. The folklorist leans in and brushes his lips over Ariadne's, and takes a mental snapshot: This is what a good time looks like, signed, R.C.A., amateur photographer.

Her own chuckle is self-stifled in order to return the kiss. The barista keeps it sweet even if the rest of her is still clamoring to turn this two-step into something the neighbors are going to talk about for days while giving Ravn enterprising looks and waggled brows.

"I'm sure Sam would be happy to bark at you until you emerged from beneath the blanket and as such, were no longer pleasantly lost -- though if that dog goes this, I swear to god, he's getting a time-out in the bedroom," Ariadne promises with a blush. The sighthound has already proven to provide operatic background noise (read as: croon relentlessly) while they kiss at the redhead's apartment. She has no doubt he'd take it to the next level if he felt so inclined. She diverts: "Are you like a bird of prey then? If I threw a towel over you, you'd stand there and be very still because it's dark?"

"Maybe I am," Ravn murmurs and allows a little smugness to seep into his voice. "Or maybe I'm a former cat burglar who knows how to find his way around clothing without sight."

Think about those long, slender fingers for a bit, why don't you? It takes a certain manual dexterity to pick a pocket. You may thank him later for that visual and any dreams it might inspire. (If they're dreams of tentacle monsters, he will decline credit).

"Now all I need to figure out is what to bribe Sam so that he will grant me an hour or two's worth of your attention. He's got quite the singing voice, doesn't he?" Ravn has not forgotten that croon, either. He's known enough dogs to have a sneaking suspicion that of all the males in Gray Harbor, the one who's going to give him the hardest run of competition is going to be the one with four legs.

One can see that particular insinuation slap Ariadne upside the head like a rogue wave. Well-played, grifter: watch the results in how her breath catches and he might find himself better reflected in pupils gone wide and dark for a flashing second. Tiniest quiver, pay attention to what the man's saying, pay attention to foot placement. Absolutely no stepping on toes.

Flicker of tongue to wet dried lips and then a soft laugh. "He thinks he has a good singing voice...and let me do the bribing in the sense of prepping the bribe. You can hand over the bribe and given the order of chain of evidence, you're the one who gets the credit in his eyes." Though speaking of the doe-eyed sighthound. "That being said...I should probably get back to that furry little lunatic. He's still getting used to me being gone and I should make sure he hasn't gotten curious." Her hand at the Dane's shoulder squeezes gently. "Why don't you keep the food? Stash it in the fridge, you can pick at it as you like. I'll have to come back for the Tupperware anyways if you do keep it," she notes so pragmatically, slowly and slowly smiling more because why come back for Tupperware?

They both know it's not the Tupperware she'd be coming back for.

"That lunch tote is necessary for my work lunch though, so I'll be taking that," the redhead further informs Ravn.

"Or I could bring the Tupperware to you. Maybe with a few dog bribes inside." Ravn's lopsided smile is a bit silly, but then, he's in a silly happy mood and nothing gets to disrupt it. There's no hint of disappointment -- they accomplished most of what they set out to do, and if violin playing got pushed aside in favour of slow dancing under the moon? He's good. He'd like a little more time to find his courage as it is. And a hell of a lot more time just existing like this, face to face, temple to temple, savouring the moment.

Tonight bodes well for more of those moments to savour.

He brushes his lips across Ariadne's forehead. "Unless you'd rather be here. I mean, I don't expect to get invited to spend the night until you want me to spend the night. But I'll fight Sam for your attention if I have to."

Softly, the barista hums to herself as she closes her eyes and leans in slightly to the kiss to her forehead.

"You won't have to fight Sam. He's a big boy. He can handle it...and why don't you bring that Tupperware back to me, yes. It'll give you a good excuse to show up at my door and for me to go, oh, man, you gentleman, please, come inside." She does not say that this sounds like the beginning to many an adult film, but the thought sure as hell cartwheels merrily across her mind to herald a light pinking of cheeks. Brain, DAMNIT. "I have the suspicion you'll be able to spend the night as you'd like sooner than later."

Then pulling her face back, Ariadne looks up fully into his own. "This has been absolutely wonderful, Ravn. Thank you. The wildflowers were a nice touch," she shares, smiling in a manner equally that little bit silly.

"It's been fantastic." Quiet, genuine, from the heart. "And I do mean it, Ariadne. Whenever we both feel ready. No rushing into things. I want to get to know you without either of us worrying that we are doing something wrong. Whatever we do together? It must be good. No regrets, because there will be nothing to regret."

Not that he's not going to try for one last kiss. One for the road, so to speak. Something to fall asleep on, the taste of Ariadne still lingering on his lips. (Or technically, the taste of Ariadne's lip gloss, but let's not hang ourselves in details when you can buy perfectly good rope).

One to linger sleepless about, depending on inclinations -- not that Ariadne is going to complain. She tilts her head to deepen it to something holding promise; molding her body fully up against him again seems entirely too appropriate. Enjoy the show, neighbors, and fuck you too while you're at it.

"Yes, no regrets and no hurry," the young woman says eventually when air becomes important. "Even though you're making it very difficult to depart, mister. Let me get the tote real quick before you make me forget about it." It's not half-bad timing anyways. The radio program one boat over is shifting gear into a late-night dance party theme which might not appeal to anyone with an inclination towards classical music in turn. Ariadne throws a grinning look over her shoulder regardless as she briefly disappears into the cabin to retrieve the lunch tote (and her coat) in question. Emerging again, there's a decided if subtle sashay to her walk across the short distance to Ravn.

This time, it's she leaning up to capture his lips with something containing more spice -- just a pinch of a kick. "Sweet dreams, Sir Ravn," the redhead tells his lips while her eyes communicate something else entirely. Apparently, departing the boat is far more easy than getting onto it and somehow, she doesn't wobble her way off the dock. Her heart's up in her throat in the best of ways as she shoots him one last truly gleaming look. Now, now, the sashay intensifies from she wearing the fitted sweater-dress and black leggings meant to make legs look a proverbial mile long. Those hips.

After a while Ravn remembers that you're not supposed to stand up in a boat. He plonks himself down. After yet a while he swallows, hard. And after a while yet after that, he murmurs to Kitty Pryde, "Bloody hell."

The green look he gets back is almost pitying. A tom cat who lets the female go roll herself somewhere else, showing her belly and marking scent elsewhere to attract other toms? Useless. This specimen is good for one thing only, and that's feeding her. If he ever manages to procreate it will out of pity. Or more likely, cloning.

"I know what you're thinking," the Dane tells his cat. "And you know what? Stuff it up where the sun doesn't shine. There's two cats inside of me, sure. But for this? I'm a human, and I do things the human way."

Kitty Pryde looks at him. Just looks. Okay, fine, the inbred Siamese in him probably would require cloning. The alley cat, on the hand, knows what the game is about. He's not about to consult the alley cat for seduction tips.