2022-05-02 - Amaranthine and Cobalt Blue

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : You know, I thought about starting off this text with HEY. LISTEN. But I've done that recently and that joke needs to remain fresh, so we'll put it back in the fridge with some tin foil overtop. However! You, me, back porch, pizza, deer? I can't guarantee the deer, but we did have a vague plan about pizza and deer at one point. Right? I'm not crazy?

(TXT to Ariadne) Ravn : I vividly remember being threatened with lawn deer. Shall I bring anything? I still have a decent bottle of Californian red.

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : Oh good, lawn deer was a plan. Yes, bring the red and yourself, pretty please?

(TXT to Ariadne) Ravn : Even myself. I will put a pretty bow on one out of three. Hint: It will not be me, and it will not be the deer.

(TXT to Ravn) Ariadne : Aw, you'd look good in a bowtie! ...wait, you do look good in a bowtie, we've seen this in a Dream. I was briefly distracted there. Anyways! See you soon!

No bowtie. Does Ravn Abildgaard own a bowtie? Not here in Gray Harbor he does at least. There's probably a few in storage back home but here? No. Does he want to own one? No. Ties, and anything that relates to them, are only useful if you actually want to hang yourself. This is his hill, he will die on it. He'll make the occasional concession (if for nothing else, then for the shock value). Today's example is a nice grey jacket, no doubt borrowed from Aidan's apparently endless stash of strange, curious, and lovely clothes. Paired with his usual black it looks pretty sharp.

His usual leather carrier bag contains a bottle of Californian Red and a bag of Turkish Delight -- because why not? Something sweet might be wanted after pizza, and it's one of the few super sweet things he actually likes. Time to swallow something because those first visits in a new relationship are inevitably a little awkward, and ring the door bell.

Ariadne, of note, also does not own a bowtie. But it will never change her opinion that bowties look good on gentlemen, throat-garroting potential aside, and are meant to be adjusted with funning fondness when worn. But after the door bell rings, there comes the counter-chime of, "Coming!" Two-note, singsong, clearly the barista, it's echoed when by a soft 'boof.'

Samwise has alerted. Behind the door, he looks at his owner. Did I do it right?

"You're a giant, furry dork," Ariadne tells the dog fondly. "Back up, back-back." Beep-beep-beep, sighthound reverses down the hallway and then sits because that's how this works. Door opens. She's dressed breezily today in a mint-green blouse and blue jeans, feet in cream-colored slip-on shoes more ballet (even by fabric) than sneaker. The blouse puts her collarbones on display and the crocheted top-sections of sleeves allow peeks of toned arms. Nothing at her neck save for a few...okay, maybe a few of those nibble-marks haven't vanished yet, but it takes a close (or knowing) eye to spot them.

"Well." Ariadne makes zero attempt to hide how she strafes Ravn down and up with her eyeliner-accented gaze. Today, the eyeliner is a deep emerald flashing bright at sunlit angles. "Maybe you didn't show up in a bowtie, but if you had bells on, I'd certainly see about ringing them." A grin. "Also, hi," she adds more sweetly before gesturing for him to come in. It scents of pizza in the apartment, yes, but her perfume is there as well, light and curling its own sensory finger in turn. Once the Dane is inside, she moves in and pauses before seeing about a kiss of greeting.

Once the door closes behind him, Ravn is very happy to hand his carrier to -- say, the door handle, perfect for looping the strap over. For a moment he has a mental picture not unlike one of those old cartoons where a character picks up an interesting scent and then floats along with it, hypnotised. Where it leads? To Ariadne of the marked collarbones, she of the excellent taste in perfume, she who has danced through his dreams for several nights, occasionally wearing less. (And on one occasion more, and he's not entirely sure he wants to re-do that one, because the polar bear was kind of a turn-off). He's certainly happy to slip his hands to her waist and settle in for a kiss hello.

"The pizza smells lovely and you smell lovely," he tells her, with that trademark lopsided smile of his; up close, that blouse is very flattering on an athletic woman with the toned arms and shoulders to wear it -- and with her warm, strong auburn and galaxy coloured hair, Ariadne is a white woman who can wear cold pastels without looking like she just overcame a bad bout of the flu. "Did you roll in the sauce? Are you the secret ingredient?"

Hands at her waist and the barista's own hands gently cup those Danish jawlines in passing. Hello, hello, and you're very welcome to be here, the kiss says without becoming too deep and distracting. Granted, the redhead's checking herself hard. Dreams have been quite dreamy of late for her as well.

"Funnily enough, I'm not the secret ingredient for the pizza," she murmurs back. His smile hits her right where it usually does: in the hip pocket, as the saying goes. A little sigh as she lingers there within his waist-settled hands -- is that one foot lifted to bounce toe lightly on the carpeting? It is. Only Sam notices this and he doesn't get it. He's just sitting.

Watching.

Waiting.

"My perfume isn't garlic," the barista continues, unable to help her own little smile. "But you're welcome to nibble on me later if you still have room for dessert." Leaning in, she steals another kiss, this one just firm enough to promise and --

Wooooo-woooooooo?

"...damnit, Samwise." Pastel in blouse, pastel-pink for blush at her cheeks.

"I'm a picky eater," Ravn warns, amused; this is hardly a secret. "I should have room for a couple of good bites." He glances at the sighthound, and then laughs softly. "But I do think somebody is feeling neglected. Does he usually get a small slice? If he does, we better get to the part he thinks is important, before he dies from hunger, the poor, miserable sod."

That little blush; he loves it enough to lean in again, in attempt to brush his lips over a pink cheek. How can somebody simultaneously be as free and unafraid of self-expression as the barista warrior queen of questionable puns and pop culture -- and capable of such a fragile little blush?

Women, Ravn. They're this other species you don't understand, remember?

It's all right, he tells himself. He's an academic; he'll study the subject thoroughly in this case. A quantitative field study.

"Poor, miserable sod got fed half an hour ago, so he's yanking your chain." Somehow, an arm has found its way around Ravn's waist in order to allow a sway-in. Gently leaning against his height, Ariadne turns in place and eyes the dog with a fond glower.

Samwise perks his ears and wags his tail. Hi?

"Okay, come say hi." His owner relenting means the dog prances over and gets to sniffing at Ravn. Sniff. Sniff sniff. Sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff -- you get the gist. If offered, a knuckle gets a blep-lick. Hmm, Danish.

Returning the cheek-kiss, Ariadne then departs Ravn's presence if only to lead the way down the short entry-hallway and to the living room which bleeds into the kitchen proper. Pizza boxes are settled on the counter, closed to retain heat. "I got two small ones, one for me and one for you. Leftovers," she explains with a glance over her shoulder. "And pineapple, ugh." Smirk. Time to rifle through cupboards for wine glasses. Does she have these? Let's see. Those jeans also fit her silhouette quite nicely, it could be noted.

Everything is noted. Trust the academic eye to file away every detail for later -- use, yes. Ravn is more than capable of saying hello to Samwise and observing the spring in Ariadne's step as she leads towards the kitchen. He is not a dog person per se, but he has nothing against dogs -- and individual dogs he's quite willing to get to know and befriend. Tote bag chihuahuas? No, thank you. Dogs that act like, well, dogs? Better. Also, Sam lives here, and it'd be quite rude to ignore one half of the household when you're the guest.

Damn nice jeans, though.

He settles on a chair, hand still on Samwise's head; cats and dogs both tend to be a whole lot better than most humans about the whole surprise movements and neuropathy affair. He's not sure if they can tell, somehow. Maybe it's just that they're used to communicating visually to an extent most humans aren't.

"There are pizza options without pineapple that I like too," he notes, amused. "As long as you don't try to convince me that lettuce or kale is proper pizza topping we're not going to be fighting over it. I do like pineapple, though. It gets this special tangy taste when heated up."

Samwise certainly does attend for head pets. The Dane has a way with his hands and the sighthound stands next to the chair for continued, gentle scritchies. Very good, human, thank you.

"Kale can make an excellent pizza topping with quality olive oil and minced garlic mixed into a non-standard cheese layer," notes Ariadne as she appears with a pair of dusty wine glasses from the very back of her cabinet. They need a wash. Into the sink they go before she rolls up sleeves. Her golden-hazel eyes find Ravn again. "But I did go with pineapple today since you prefer that particular taste." A second or two of lingering, deliberate eye contact --she caught that, sir -- before she gets to sudsing and rinsing the glasses. "I thought the barbecue went well?"

A totally nonchalant, light conversational offering.

"Those dick cookies though."

Trust her to throw a liberal dash of sass into such an offering.

"Delicious." Smirk.

"I don't much care for olives," Ravn notes, amused. "I do like kale, just -- not on my pizza. Pizza is supposed to be greasy and indulgent, salty and sinful. Green things don't belong on pizza unless they're pepper."

He reaches for a dish towel; if one washes, the other can dry. As usual, oddly, the kidskin gloves seem to not be an issue. "And, I thought so too. Woods came over and acted all -- normal? I've never seen him just talking like a normal person before. He's usually trying to pick a fight or embarrass the hell out of somebody. Man loves his kids though." Ravn chuckles and then shakes his head. "And apparently, one of his two girlfriends wants to get married. Poly people lead interesting lives."

His tone is not condemning, but it is clear; that life style is not for him.

The folklorist laughs softly. "Those dick cookies though. I got to see Rosencrantz pointedly take one down whole. I wish I'd had my camera out. I'll admit, I was surprised that Irving, of all people, is such a fount of dirty jokes. I approve, she's hilarious. But I am surprised."

Observing how the towel is taken up, Ariadne then offers out one of the squeaky-cleaned wine glasses to the Dane now next to her. Samwise, thus abandoned from his head pets, disappears into the living room to begin a rousing game of Fling My Toy Willy-Nilly; it's some fox-tailed ball deal, the very one his owner has been using to practice her powers, and look at him go -- whee! Simple canine joy.

"Yeah, interesting lives, but...I can't see myself dividing attention like that. I'd always be so nervous someone wasn't getting enough affection, and...not for me. I'm glad Everett is happy though." In this, she is certain. Happiness is necessary for life. The second glass is finished in its rinsing and she turns off the water, then handing over the glass towards Ravn once more. "And I missed Itzhak doing this? Damnit!" She still laughs. "God, I just adore Una because yeah, she's wicked beneath that veneer of sweetness and it's so much fun. She still gets me off-guard from time to time. I love it. That I enabled it? And let's be honest here, I enabled those cookies and it's not some prideful claim on my part. Best." Now, a beam as she dries her hands on a second towel hanging nearby from one of the drawer handles.

"They were delicious too, I quite enjoyed mine when I got home. Did you end up having one?" One can hear the giggling in her words as she gives Ravn another not-so-innocent look.

Ravn looks sheepish. "I didn't. I know. I'm a weak, heteronormative chicken. In my defence, I am not an avid pastry eater in the first place, so the lure was not that hard to resist. I'm sure Irving would have let me take one home if I asked. But I didn't. I'm honestly not sure whether eating disorder or homophobia won the day here, but I couldn't convince myself to try. It'd be so -- I didn't want to look up after having to spit it out, and see those Irving eyes, you know?"

He puts both glasses on the table where they are to be used. Then he quickly dips back to the hallway where he left his carrier -- and the wine. Oops. Back in, and back on his chair. "The fact that I'm a chicken doesn't mean I didn't think it was hilarious as hell, though."

"I doubt anybody's judging you on not eating a cookie." Leaning a hip on the counter now, Ariadne loosely crosses her arms. Her smile is crooked too, fond, interrupted by blank surprise as suddenly --

-- fox-tail ball in Ravn's lap. Samwise then stares at the Dane intently. Stares. Quiet boof. Sir. Throw. You know how this works.

"Oh my god, Sam," laughs the young woman, bringing a hand to her mouth. "He normally doesn't share that toy. I'm impressed. You're in, bud." Shaking her head, she then sees about getting the bottle of wine from the tote. Unzipping it, she lifts out the bottle and then pauses. "...are these Turkish Delight?" Ravn is given a growing smile. "I haven't had these in forever!"

"They are," Ravn returns with a small grin. "And before you have one, the nerd and the puberty ridden pimpled boy in me needs to point out that in Turkish those things are called lokum. Which, in Danish, translates to 'shit house'. Enjoy."

He looks at the ball and then at Sam. "Looks like you and me are hitting it off, doesn't it? I'm glad, because I have no intention of stopping coming around unless your mistress tells me to sod off. Let's try this." Fox tail ball goes flying in a gentle curve -- inviting the dog to chase and fetch it, yes, but maybe not at such breakneck speed as to knock over furniture and leave claw marks on floors and walls.

There goes fox-tail ball and there goes Sam at what appears to be lightspeed. Sighthounds. The toy is easily caught and he prances in a joyful circle with it dangling from his mouth -- Look. Observe. It is mine. You can look, but you can't have.

"...you are, in fact, the biggest dork on the planet." Who? Ravn, apparently, because Ariadne is laughing as she takes both wine bottle and package of Turkish Delight to the counter to see about opening at least the former. The latter can be enjoyed later. "Don't ruin the candy for me! God, I can't un-know this! And don't beam at me like that either, troublemaker," she continues laughing with a point at Ravn. "But I like this bow." The one tied about the wine bottle. She plays with one of its bubbled arcs of flare and smiles beatifically as she asks, "Should I wear it later?"

A beat. "Since you don't wear bowties, apparently."

"Well, if one of us has to wear a bow, I'll accept your volunteering and thank you for your sacrifice." Ravn nods solemnly. He's not going to be wearing that bow. Dreams can force him into ties and bowties. Reality doesn't stand a chance.

He reaches for the pizza box and opens it. Pineapple? Score, this one must be his. "I'd suggest putting it on Sam, but I might break my newfound, fragile friendship with him if I make the attempt. What say you, big boy? Wear a bowtie for -- oh, he's not even listening to me, is he?"

"I guarantee you he's not listening to you, yes." It doesn't even require the confirmation from Ariadne. The dog is again enamored with tossing about his toy and generally making ridiculous sounds while it bounces. Game on, fox-tail ball!

Where's a cork-screw? Cutlery rustles while Ariadne hunts for one in the utensils drawer, her brows lightly meeting in consternation. "I'll wear the bow then, since my sacrifice will be greatly appreciated." A sly glance at pizza-scoring Ravn while she drapes fingertips across the shallow divot of her throat in passing. "It'd be a good color on me anyways." It's a cobalt-blue to be a near-match to her hair up-drawn in a clip and left to otherwise cascade now, revealing the dyed under-hues. "But...since you know everything," -- gentle tease while she finds the cork-screw and then gets to working this cork free of the bottle. " -- I saw Jules' arm. What the hell do you think happened to her? Or do you know?"

"She hasn't told me yet. Maybe she won't. I told her right away I want to hear anything that she wants to tell me, when she wants to tell me." Ravn nods and watches the bow; it does look damned fine in Ariadne's hair, and he's happy with the colour of silk ribbon he picked out (the other option was bright pink). "I wanted to stress to her that yes, I'm a folklorist -- very curious. And I'm a friend -- very worried. And I'm a white guy whom she doesn't owe shit, so, when and if she wants to talk."

He taps his lip with a gloved finger surprisingly unstained by pizza grease. "At a guess, though -- she met something. She had some kind of Dream, and given the way she carried herself, it was not a bad one. Challenging, but she overcame? A lot of those vision quest type affairs seem to involve overcoming parts of yourself by fighting them into submission. I suppose we should be quietly relieved she's not Lakota and doing the Sun Dance."

THONK -- out comes the cork after a dedicated wrench of strength from the barista. "Whew." Quiet relief for the cork out and no spilled wine. Ariadne then pours a half-glass for the both of them as she listens, glancing over at Ravn at opportune moments. The bottle is set aside and a glass offered out to him now.

"I admit, I don't know about the Sun Dance, so you'll have to fill me in on that one, but I'm glad Jules is okay, plain and simple. That bite, it..." She pauses, setting aside her wine glass to fiddle with how the silk ribbon sits in its simple bow in her hair. There, now it'll stay, even with the clip there as well. "It reminded me of the cat bite I once saw my sister get from the cat we had growing up. Total accident, they both startled the hell out of each other, but man, whomp. The cat got her good. It makes me wonder what Jules tangled with. I'm glad as hell she overcame it, whatever it was." Now for plates. One is slid over towards Ravn and the other is filled with a slice of the non-pineapple pizza. Look at the amount of healthy veggies on the pizza. Ariadne did not order sinful pizza for herself.

"I hope she tells you so you can tell me, at least," the barista adds as she goes to sit at the table with wine and pizza now. "Or maybe Jules can tell me, I dunno. I'm as curious as you."

"Well, she might tell you simply because you're not me." Ravn laughs softly and accepts his wine glass. "No offence to our Jules because I can see why she is the way she is -- but white academic, male is not the approach you want to take if you want information from her. Given how indigenous culture has been and still is treated by the white academical world I don't hold it against her. I am quite aware that the odds of her telling you the story before me are quite good, though. And if she doesn't ask you to keep it quiet? I'd love to hear it."

He looks at the red wine swirling in the glass. "As for the Sun Dance? Short and sweet: Inserting bone hooks into the pecs, suspend self from ceiling in them, dance until the combination of blood loss and pain causes loss of consciousness and hallucinations. Sometimes, running with bison skulls suspended from those hooks in the flesh. Absolutely gruesome. I have no idea how regular this ceremony was because I'm not a scholar on Native American culture -- I just remember reading about it in etnographic magazines in my childhood."

Ravn has a good point and the barista nods agreement. Perhaps she will be the first to get this information between the two of them. "I'll tell you if I get permission, yes."

But then, the explanation of the Sun Dance. Watch Ariadne's mouth slightly part and her lashes narrow. "That...somehow sounds a little aggrandized, so...I'll have to double-check the authenticity on that, I think, given the time period of the article you read. You're, what...a week older than me at most? It's been a decade or two. I'm not saying you're wrong," and she lifts a peaceable hand palm-out. "I'm saying that I want to double-check because time changes all things. That being said, I've read more recent articles about bullet ants used to induce hallucinations in tribes living in the Amazon, so the concept of using pain to reach those hallucinatory stages is absolutely a culture-wide concept. Basic biology too. Stress out a body enough, the brain starts fritzing, boom. Hallucinations."

"Oh, I have no doubt of the article's authenticity -- within the framework of it being an article in an etnographic magazine from the 1970s, based on 1800s sources. Meaning that it's entirely possible that no one actually went and asked the actual Lakota to what extent it was actually practised, when, and why. Could have been a once a century ceremony for all I know, that someone recorded as a regular thing. The whole concept of actually fact checking with the people involved is relatively new, regrettably." Ravn cants his head. "On the whole, though, Jordens Folk -- people of the Earth -- held a pretty high standard in terms of academia, but it's obviously a product of its time."

Then he chuckles. "And they were publishing articles about bullet ants in Amazon tribes' transition rites as well, yes. To be fair, Frazer describes those in The Golden Bough which is more than a hundred years old. Also still a fascinating read, if you're interested in the origins of a lot of those cultural archetypes that seem to apply to all human cultures."

Pause. "And I'm talking your ear off. Sorry."

"The Golden Bough, duly noted -- and you're fine, Ravn," the barista gently stresses with an equally gentle smile. "We're having a conversation that's interesting. I expect to hear interesting things from you in turn. Your jam is folklore which happens to involve..."

A little twinkling jazz-hand off to one side, her wine glass held in the other. "Tah-dah: people. And cultures. And how cultures influence via self-expression, etcetera. I'm not bored. I'm learning and making mental notes to back-check things because I'm a scientist at heart. I don't accept facts as they're laid down. Things are going to get double-checked because even science can be wrong. People thought the sun revolved around the earth, hmm?" A tilt of her glass before she sips at her wine. "I mean, I can shift convo if you want though, easily. I don't know your favorite color. Or your favorite song. Or whether or not you like Danish food better than any other food on the planet." An easy grin.

Ravn looks a little guilty. Oh, boy, does he ever know that he talks a lot. And that history and folklore is his jam, indeed. "I don't object in the slightest to verifying sources. I object a whole lot more to not verifying anything that interests you, because what we know changes all the time. The world is changing very fast, and our knowledge of other cultures? It changes even faster, the more those cultures are allowed to get a word in, too. You know what got me into reading those magazines as a kid? I asked my father what they were and he said, well, people go to Africa and see how some tribe does a wedding, and then they write about it. And that was me sitting there, age seven or eight, and thinking -- okay, does that mean when I get married, there might be a couple of pygmies with cameras, taking pictures to write about back home, this is how white folks carry out a wedding ceremony?"

He reaches for the first pizza slice. "Cobalt blue. Favourite song? Depends on my mood though obviously I have favourites. And Danish food is good but very rich in carbs and starch so approach with caution unless you actually do work in a field all day. You?"

Cobalt-blue, is it? Ariadne nonchalantly reaches up to brush fingertips along the bow and across some of her hair in the process. No wonder he's so enamored with the dye job. She smiles to herself at the other answers and pauses to consider her own in turn, her eyes on the slice of pizza containing pineapple. Blugh, more for him.

"Hrm. I'll agree with you that the favorite song is dependent on the day, but I lean towards the general feel of the songs rather than a genre. One or two songs per album and not the full album is generally my modus operandi. As for food...Danish isn't half-bad. I've got certain things I prefer the taste of, but I'm sure to discover more." What a honey-warm look across the brim of her wine glass as she sips. "Color is harder. God, so many colors are beautiful..." This is said with a fond wistfulness in turn, like the concept was difficult to explain and treasured at the same time. She idly plays with a strand of her dyed hair in the process, winding it around a finger without thinking. "I'm going to say...amaranthine though. It's a shade of purple which is sort of like the kind most people think of when you say 'royal purple', but this shade? It's...when it's done right in fabric, it's that breathtaking hue right at dusk, where your eyes can just pick up the last colors before night falls. Eternal." A sigh and little laugh. "Look at me waxing on now."

"I think I know the shade you mean. It's so dark an indigo that it is almost black." Ravn nods. "You know me and my usual preferences. I'd wear that shirt. Deep purple does not cut it. I like black, and I like earth colours for myself, because cool shades go best with blue eyes. But a jewel shade so dark it is almost black -- might just work for me."

Cobalt blue might in fact look quite good on that man. He probably has no idea.

"But then," the Dane observes with a gentle smile, "I already have a very dark shade of purple in my life, and I fully intend to see it splayed on my chest at some point."

If Ravn was going for another one of those delicate blushes? He gets one. Ariadne laughs softly and tucks her chin to one side. Bottom-lip fret.

"You never know. It might happen sooner than later," she responds, meeting his eyes again with a smile beginning to go foxy. Not one to be on her back-heels for too long, this one. "I might even forgive you tasting a little bit like pineapple." Brow flick and sip of wine. "Also, the color would look..." Lazily, she lets her eyes wander down and up his body in a way both very familiar and entirely measuring in turn: equal parts scientist and honey warbler.

"Sorry, I got lost in mental images for a second there." How betraying, that little bit of breathiness. Ignore this, ahem, throat clearing. "It'd be a good shade on you. Also cobalt-blue. Ever thought about a dress shirt in that shade? From me to you -- " A kiss of pointer finger touched to thumb off her lips, like it was a delicious idea.

"You're making me forget my dinner," Ravn complains, half-laughing, half-whining. Talk about mental images. "My fiancee -- wanted me to wear jewel shades. And I did, sometimes, but she always complained that my skin is too pale. I don't agree -- it's just that they need to be either very cold or very warm. Maybe sometime we'll go somewhere it would be appropriate to wear wine red or cobalt blue."

He cants his head and then, very pointedly, picks up a piece of pineapple and sticks it in his mouth. Yes. He tastes like pineapple. It's part of his charm.

Ariadne squint-smirks at that deliberate bite of pineapple. "Ooh, you," she chides really-not-at-all.

"And I bet I can come up with reason to wear wine-red or cobalt-blue. How about...you wear the cobalt-blue and I'll wear the wine-red and we'll break necks and toast to the dead bodies scattered around us? I mean, hell, victory on the battlefield, last woman and man standing, all that. Boom." She intends to make him laugh by her cheeky grin. "I mean, I was wearing about that color in the Dream at the casino. Remember that?"

Such an idle little question with a coy little lilt. Ravn had taken her arm then, even if it was as a total gentleman wanting to save her from some imaginary ex in turn.

"I remember." Ravn looks down, a little sheepish. "I hated a lot of things about that Dream, but looking at you in that dress was certainly not one of them. I wanted so much to -- but I thought, you and Irving, doing the first step of the feeling each other out dance, better just not. I -- I'm not even sure how to say this, without sounding like a complete ass. I don't compete. It's not that I feel inadequate, or that I think I will always lose. It's that I feel like -- " He pauses and searches for the best way to put his feelings to words. "I feel that if someone wants me, they will come to me. If they want me to compete against someone else for them, then it's not about me, it's about their own need for validation. I know it's arrogant. I am arrogant in some ways. But I've seen jealousy at its worst, and I won't play."

He sighs lightly and sips the wine; an excellent, not too heavy, not too sweet Californian. "Sorry. I don't want to make this all serious and dark. I just want somebody to be with me, because they want me -- not because I'm the best option out of a number of available choices. So when I found myself attracted to you, but thought you in turn were looking at someone else, well. I just accepted it. After all, I don't need to be sleeping with somebody, to care for them."

He remembers. Cheek in Ariadne's grin steadily disappears until it's one of those smiles more a moonbow than a ray of sunshine. It's still there, it just might take a closer look. She listens, brows twitching through thoughts of her own. A sip of wine followed by a pluck of a piece of red pepper from her own slice of pizza followed by more wine. Mmm. Good indeed.

"I hear you," the barista says firstly, her lashes closing as her smile briefly deepens. "That someone playing the field is not attractive because one might go to a lot of effort for absolutely nothing in the end. What's the trade off there? Unfair. That there should be no need to measure up against another because if one is the focus of affection, why should there be another? Una and I, we're friends. That's it. There doesn't have to be more than this because she makes me happy with this. She's my tribe. Now," and Ariadne sets the wine glass aside.

"You? You had me at making pigs fly, Ravn. At 'Hotel California' and running interference with that imaginary ex. At caring for me even if what you saw was a growing friendship," she gently emphasizes with lifted brows and a small smirk. "I could tell you were attracted. You don't have as good of a poker face as you think." Her smile goes truly fond now. "Me, I...I wasn't sure what I wanted to do." Her golden-hazel eyes drop to her plate and her smile again nearly wanes without disappearing entirely. "New town, temporary digs...people telling me that something I didn't understand -- and still don't understand, not totally -- that this something drew me here. Cats with too many teeth. Waking up hurt from something that couldn't possibly be real and yet, it's real. Then those damn monkeys. Macaques," the scientist amends as she brings a palm to her face to rub at it in passing, from cheek back to ear. "I was scared, yeah, but...I, uh...I dunno. I think it's working great so far."

Eh? Her eyebrows ask this as she looks at him again. Fingertips rub at one of the disappearing nibble spots on her neck. Working great so far, very eloquent of her.

"I want you to be friends. I want to be friends." Ravn smiles, lightly. "The notion that once two people get together they can no longer see anyone else is toxic. And again, I've been there, I've been in a relationship like that. If you can't trust each other, there's no point. I know I make it very black and white, but I think it is. Whatever kind of relationship you have, if you start thinking you can't trust the other, then -- it's not working, don't try to fix what cannot be fixed."

He laughs softly, a bit sheepishly. "Sounds like I'm losing my touch, though. I suppose it's not surprising. It's easy to keep a poker face when you don't have emotions involved; easier yet if you don't care for the people you are grifting. When you do care? You're fighting yourself because on some subconscious level you are hoping she notices the way you look at her."

He reaches a hand across the table to gently touch Ariadne's ditto. "I didn't expect this. But I'm glad we're giving it a chance. And I hope it will grow into something big and beautiful. I am still not buying those bloody macaques a round of popcorn. They were assholes."

The reaching hand is taken up and gently squeezed in return, the pressure briefly firm and confirming both. His hand is hers now, thank you very much, for the immediate future by how she continues to hold it.

"If those macaques get saucy again, they're going to find how I'm not just prone to swinging big sticks when I'm done walking softly," Ariadne smirks. "And you've still got your poker face, I promise, it's just...yeah, like you said: emotions get involved and the other half gets good at spotting tells." A funning little circling of pointer finger off her glass at Ravn. "If you weren't dealing with me? I bet your poker face would be solid. I really like how we're both able to be friends with Una though. Dita too. That means a lot to me. Guys talk about how they want their guy-friends to get along with their girlfriend. Welp: same here. I want my gal-friends get along with my guy. So far, it seems to be working out beautifully."

Another gentle squeeze for Ravn's captured hand. "Because like you said, it's pretty plain: there's trust or there's not. It's that simple. You? You're my chance I want to take." A lift of her glass towards the Dane. "To you, my gentleman-scholar."

Ravn is perfectly content to leave his hand where it is, in Ariadne's possession. The man is ambidextrous; not like he can't eat pizza with the other, and he likes the little token of affection. "I found it got easier once I stopped thinking about people as gender. I am objectively aware, of course, that Irving, Holt, Leontes, they are women. I don't much think about the biology when we're spending time together -- I'm not trying to have a conversation with their boobs, they're not trying to have a conversation with my dick. Leontes and Holt flirt with me, sure, but the point there is, we know it's not meant to go anywhere, it's not a play for anything."

The folklorist shrugs. "Doesn't always work like that, of course -- I've told you about a couple of girls coming out to 'watch the stars', and stargazing was the last thing on their mind. I didn't get it then, and I probably never will, because I don't want to understand. I want it to be safe for someone to call me at three am to ask to sleep over because the house is full of gremlins. I want to think 'are they safe' first, and 'are they trying to hit on me' somewhere down at the bottom of the list when everything else is sorted."

Enough talking, Sir Says-a-Lot. He raises his glass and clinks it lightly against hers, because what do you do with wine glasses if not clink them (gently) like German beer steins? "To you, my honey warbler of the sharp wit."