2022-05-05 - Time to Stash a Toothbrush

Scents of lavender and the salt of a lover's skin. Mix in a whiff of sleeping sighthound, and Ravn surfaces from sleep, realising that he's definitely not in his bunk on the Vagabond. Queen-size bed, quilted bedspread, and a face full of silky hair in luxurious shades of auburn, purple, and blue. Ravn stretches. He tries to remember when he last woke up like this, in someone else's bedroom, feeling like he owns the world. It's a very long time ago. He's going to lie here and savour it for a minute or two.

Then, with the stealth that he's secretly quite proud of, he slips from the covers. Samwise the sighthound, lying in a perfect circle of squashed bug, legs up in the air, gets a conspiratorial wink; shh, don't give the game away.

The Dane tiptoes to the bathroom -- his beard is a day longer, not a big deal. He doesn't have a toothbrush here. He should perhaps consider remedying that if he makes a habit of spending the night -- and he kind of hopes that life will allow him to. He splashes water on his face, washes up a bit. There's nothing sexy about smelling like bed.

Then he slips to the kitchen, on quiet naked feet. He grabs his boxers from the chair they ended up on; it's a little late to be shy the morning after but modesty makes him not really care for wandering around completely naked. He sneaks a peek in cupboards for cups and other paraphernalia involved with coffee making. He has no idea what Ariadne is like in the morning, but he himself is not going to think about breakfast or much else until coffee has happened. Priorities.

Between wine and antics to follow?

Ariadne is a heavy sleeper indeed. Bundled up in a semi-crocodile rolling's worth of blanketing, her back towards Ravn (for their combined warmth, no doubt), she of the dyed and dark-auburn hair continues sleeping soundly. Nothing new here to her -- the same laundry detergent, same give of mattress, knowing Sam is somewhere on the bed in some ridiculous contortion of spine and long limbs -- nothing new except the extra warmth and oh, how sweet it is. She sleeps all the harder for it.

There's nary a twitch for the tall Dane leaving or the muffled sounds from the bathroom. Samwise notices it at one point and stretches all four legs up into the air before relaxing; Ravn is given a sleepy, doe-eyed look. Oh, hey, taller human, what's up. Otherwise, the dog just slaps his tail against the quilt once. That being said, Ravn of the boxers has the kitchen all to himself for a good number of minutes, nearly fifteen in all. There's a coffee maker now, a simple affair with a carafe and all, but he'll recognize the electric kettle he'd brought over two weeks back. Coffee bags are collected in a whicker basket next to the machines, both ground and beans, of variety (no Jamaican Blue, she's just a barista, after all). Mugs are in the cupboard one over from the sink and there's a collection there; company titles, logos, some dog-related ones, one particularly sassy one ("Let's keep the dumbfuckery to a minimum today"). There's what appears to be a familiar collection of pastries from the café's own display on the counter under plastic.

Either way: after those fifteen minutes come the sounds of the bathroom in use and? Samwise appears first, looking far more awake than his owner to follow. Ariadne has brushed her hair, but it's down and loose still in one of those manes still holding sleep at her nape. She's wrapped in a periwinkle-blue plaid bathrobe with sleeves long enough to reach her knuckles and hem to her ankles, slippers on her feet. A glance over at the kitchen and her eyes spot Ravn. An inkling of fear evaporates instantly from them to be replaced by a softness.

"Hey," she greets him even as she walks over to the sliding glass door. "Let me make sure Sam is good and I'll be right back in." Her voice is still soft and a little rough. Singing indeed.

"Good morning, starshine." Ravn's fingers are curled around one of those novelty mugs. He's found his gloves -- indeed, what a picture he makes: Black boxers, black gloves, and scars -- long white lines over his legs like a man who's been whipped; the dent in his arm from a meat cleaver biting bone; the bullet that went right through his chest, nearly killing him. Other, smaller scars, from other scrapes. Somebody clearly doesn't know how to duck. He looks pretty relaxed for someone who's sitting around close to naked in someone else's kitchen, though.

Truth is, he's not entirely sure where his turtleneck is. His t-shirt is there, he should pull that on. So he does. His pants? They ought to be here somewhere.

We're going to talk about this, Samwise. You've got a basket somewhere, and the Dane is willing to bet his jeans are in it.

Now that's a familiar quote. It entices a soft giggle out of the barista by the door. As she's sliding the slip-lead over Sam's neck, she glances over. "Two shakes of a lamb's tail." This? Said with a muzzy smirk of amusement. The sliding glass door unlocks with a hollow click and outside it is for morning bathroom duties. Dogs gotta dog. It takes about five minutes before the glass door slides open again and Samwise enters dragging the slip-lead. He shakes out from nose to tail as if shedding the morning chill and then daintily pads over to Ravn. Greetings, taller human, thank you for your offering.

Maybe of jeans. Definitely of turtleneck. Clothing? Absconded with. (Spoiler alert: the jeans are on the far end of the couch, half-slung over the arm).

Ariadne closes the glass door and scuffs her slippers off on the mat there before making her way into the kitchen. Her bathrobe scents of sleep-warmth; her face, au natural save for mascara at her lashes, smells of a cleanser and lotion combination one part sweet almond and other half aloe vera. A hand gestures its way to the round of one shoulder and the other up to cup Ravn's jawline. A lean-in and gentle kiss for him, her tasting of mint in turn. "The earth says hello," she murmurs against his lips in passing before straightening again to linger standing beside his sitting self. "Also, tasting like coffee is not fair, use that power wisely. You want a muffin or something?"

"I should try to eat something before I break into oobi abba nabba, yes." Ravn also knows the rest of that song. He's humming it into Ariadne's mouth as she kisses him: You twinkle above us, we twinkle below.

He watches her bustle about, while making a mental note: If he's going to be spending the night on a regular basis he really needs to pack a bag, maybe leave a few tactical things about; toothbrush, a robe of his own, maybe a pair of slippers, a comb. The basics of looking human in the morning, and thank God that his preferred beard style doesn't really get terrible from skipping a day of shaving.

Another long look; he likes watching Ariadne like this, parades down, relaxed, comfortable in her own home. "So I guess that now we are indeed an official couple. I am finding I rather approve of this development. Now is not the time to tell me that you're actually just on loan from a polycule consisting of five blokes, you, and a donkey."

Another soft laugh from the barista over by the coffee maker. She pours herself her own mug of coffee (this one has a white inked silhouette of a sighthound design on black) and plucks two muffins from beneath the plastic covering, both lemon poppyseed.

"I'm not big on sharing. Something about how I prefer to focus the entirety of my attention rather than spread it out in half-assery. And as if we weren't official before," Ariadne gently teases with an easy, sleepy smile in Ravn's direction. Samwise is following her now, ears lifted, clearly expecting breakfast in turn. She reaches to remove the dragging slip-lead and hangs it about her neck in a motion long-practiced. "But...yes, looks like you need to figure out a toothbrush and a bathrobe. I'm sorry to inform that I don't have another robe, but I can get you a blanket if you're cold?" she offers as a Tupperware comes out of the fridge.

Human food? Nope. Dog food, a blend of kibble and moistened raw set to be heated in the microwave beyond fridge-chilled. Samwise wags his tail. Oh yes, please, food food food.

"Oh, I'm fine. Wondering where exactly my pants are. And my socks." Ravn laughs softly. He doesn't seem very worried; dogs have a tendency to drag stuff off and Samwise strikes him as a dog possessed of a definite sense of humour.

He sips the coffee in his hands and watches his girlfriend -- his girlfriend -- go about the morning routine of feeding the sighthound. He could get used to this.

"So, no donkeys. That's a relief." A playful smile lingers on a face with a beard that's a day's worth above the usual two days' look. His beard grows in black, or at least a very dark brown -- a contrast to the red and auburn tones that his head hair tends to fade to in the sun. "Jokes aside, I'm not one to chase women. I'm not really keen on sharing either. I flirt shamelessly with a few women but it's kind of understood that it's because we're not going to happen."

Yes. He really does think of his occasional light banter with Kailey Holt and Perdita Leontes as heavy flirting, the naive sod.

Socks. Socks? Samwise glances over from watching the running microwave intently. Poor bastard. Like you're getting your socks back. God only knows where the turtleneck went as well.

"We'll see about finding clothing after coffee." Ariadne glances over again from doctoring her coffee with a generous plop of creamer. Her smile is still muzzy. "And no, no donkeys....and yeah, I might act a little more charming than usual now and then, but like you said: it's in play and knowing nothing will come of it. Otherwise, there's no reason to risk it. Why court trouble?" A one-shouldered shrug. "Inasmuch as I might say that I'm a barista who gets told all the gossip -- which is true, by the way -- I'm also a black hole. What gets told generally doesn't get repeated. I'm allergic to drama. Sometimes I think about carrying an Epi-Pen with me to work, to make a semi-tasteless joke." A sip of her coffee. Mmm, yes, good. She walks her own mug and the plate of muffins over to the table and pauses to kiss Ravn's temple before returning to remove the dog food from the microwave.

It gets dumped into what must be his bowl and then set up on a raised feeder tucked to the outside of the kitchen counter in turn. Bye, Sam, see you in a few when you're done inhaling. Please remember to chew.

"I've seen you at work," Ravn points out, smiling. "I do not feel threatened in the slightest. If I did -- I would not be here. We are not strangers who met yesterday. You know most of my friends. I think I know most of yours. Nothing really changed except, well. Except that I may need to buy a spare supply of socks thanks to Samwise the hoarder there. You should have named him Smaug."

He hitches a shoulder. "Gossip is valuable in this town, though. I never cared much for it elsewhere, but here? Sometimes, it's the only warning we get that something is terribly wrong, somewhere. Information is passed around, one way or another. You learn to listen for terms and expressions, to listen for familiar kinds of trouble. By now, all the hairs on my neck stand on end if somebody mentions Sasquatch or another cryptid. Because I know cryptid sightings are bad news."

Ariadne sits down at the table about the time of the quip about 'Smaug' and snorts to herself. A glance over her shoulder. Fire and death? More like, fur and legs.

She reaches for a poppy-seed muffin and starts pulling the wrapper off of its bottom half. Another glance up at Ravn. Her lips thin. "Figures that it would be bad news around here and not just a fun local mystery to solve. Maybe it was a coyote with mange and not the Chupacabra, to pick one I heard down in Colorado a few times." She inhales and then stops, instead moving to pick up her coffee and sip at it. A lingering frown down at her muffin now as if she were weighing saying something very carefully.

Sam comes around the end of the kitchen counter and wags his tail a few times. Hey, humans, what else you got? Ravn's bare leg gets a blep. Mmm, recently-eaten sloppy blep. Affection, human, affection.

This is why Ravn wears a lot of clothing all year round: Not the fear of showing skin, but the random, thoughtless touch. At least he's somewhat prepared for the idea that a dog might in fact not consider his neuropathy, and if Sam ever feels that this human watches him carefully, this is why. He manages to not jump at the sudden blep. He manages to not hiss, either. After all, the dog means well, and he saw it coming enough for the sensation to be merely discomfort; not unlike brushing your fingers along an electrical fence.

"Myes. Here, cryptids tend to be real, and there's a fair bit of trouble involved." It's not really the subject on the front of Ravn's mind at the moment; he wants the bliss of new romance, rather than the darkness of body snatchers and monster killers. "We don't really have a lot of those things back home. Country's too domesticated. You need wilderness for cryptids -- somewhere for them to flee to. Best we have is -- wait for it -- the puma."

Sam lingers next to the Dane, his tail slowly wagging and ears lifted. If he's sensed the momentary concern (and jump in cortisol), he's there to see if he can entice another headpat. Observe, human, soft ears, you know you want to pet them, it lowers your blood pressure and I can tell.

"The puma." Whatever Ariadne was considering saying, she pushes it to one side in the face of this factoid. Golden-hazel eyes lift and hold Ravn's in turn. "I heard you right? The puma? In Denmark? Like...we're talking our 'cougar' here in the U.S.? Like a catamount, the mountain lion?" So many names for the same creature -- the one who bit Jules and this the barista still doesn't know. She's seen the bite, but she's more familiar with what a wolf eel nabbing looks like instead.

"Yes," Ravn returns, laughing softly. He reaches down with a gloved hand to stroke those soft sighthound ears; Samwise is doing what he does best -- he's being a good boi, and it's hardly his fault that the Dane's nerve system is wired weird. Walking around wearing little is not for people whose nerves seem to be on the outside of their skin. Still not the dog's fault.

"It was a story that started circulating in the seventies," the folklorist says. "In the southern part of Jutland, a bit south of where I live. A cougar -- an American mountain lion. People saw it. Police and authorities debunked the story -- it had to be a very large house cat, maybe even a lynx. Then they began to find deer in the trees -- the way the big hunting cats will store their prey. And in the end they found tracks that were verified to be puma paw prints. They never did find the actual cougar. And no one ever found out how it came to be there though it's probably safe to assume that someone smuggled home an adorable little pet that grew too big and too illegal, and they released it into the woods."

At least part of the muffin is gone, though a paltry few bites, by the time Ravn is done explaining. Ariadne sips her coffee again, her eyes just wide enough.

"Well...damn. That's...man, people are such idiots, but at the same time, god, yeah. I know all about the seventies and the idea of owning a wild animal as a mark of station. Of wealth and...I guess, having the balls to try and tame one of the more dangerous animals on the planet. Lions, tigers, bears..." She leaves oh my unspoken, though her little smile speaks it instead. "I'm, uh...going to ruin a little something for you about this cryptid -- or maybe make it cooler, I dunno, we'll see. When we moved here, my dad and I did a lot of research about hiking. You do have to worry about puma around here sometimes, it's true. So...my little factoid for you? Mountain lions don't stash food in trees." A beat. "They actually cover it in a cache on the ground. Think about it: pumas have very little competition here in the U.S. No other big cats to compete. Maybe wolves, maybe a bear, and that's if either can find the cache. Soooooo...it's more likely that whatever was reported, by that behavior? Different species of wild cat." A lift of her coffee mug and sip. The more you know!

"Huh." Ravn frowns. "All of this was before my time of course. Makes you wonder what the fuck kind of cat people thought they saw. I remember reading an essay about it in university -- it's kind of the only modern cryptid we have. They did verify those prints -- makes you wonder if it was some kind of other cat. Normal cats, even big ones, don't do it, either."

This mystery will have to remain. Official Danish records say cougar. Poul Thomsen, the Danish equivalent of David Attenborough, said cougar. The world may never know.

He chuckles and starts picking at his muffin in turn. "We have a few wolves now but that's it. They came back from Germany after having been extinct in Denmark for centuries. Before that, we had medieval legends of herring kings. And this one I think you can figure out, Miss Marine Biologist -- large, gigantic herring like fish that seemed to swim upright in the water and were always found dead. Moss grew on them, giving them the illusion of hair."

Ravn gets a squint. A nice, long squint. It continues over the rim of her coffee cup as she sips. Notably, no more of her muffin has disappeared. Is someone a bad morning eater?

"...whaaaaaat the ffffffuck," Ms. Marine Biologist finally drawls. A birdlike cant of her head and tug of lips to one side. She even looks at Sam, who looks back in the middle of his ear-squishings -- what, mom?

Fingers spread off of her coffee mug. "I'm...going to hazard it's a species of deep-water fish by the size of it and I can think of a few species who might grow 'hair', but that's still...like...I mean, a handful of options. Big. Herring like, colder waters... Not a shark, I know they knew what a shark was. With the fish being found dead, there's the possibility of this moss being some parasitic worm eating on the decaying flesh." A beat. "Could be...an...oar...fish?" she says, deliberately slowly in her answer, watching Ravn's face. "Unless, is it even known what these things were?"

As an after-thought, she adds, "Leopards actually take their kills up trees, so possibly could have been a leopard, but...like you said. They verified prints and leopards kind of have spots." Le shrug. Total mystery.

"Yep. Oar fish. Not a fish any 15th century fisherman would ever have observed alive. They didn't know about the way they swim -- they'd just see them dead, caught in the nets, but probably dead long before currents even moved them into shallow enough water to be caught." Ravn laughs, delighted. There's something utterly fantastic about having someone who's as obsessed by geekery as himself, even if it's a different field. "We have quite detailed wood cuts so once oar fish became commonly known, it was pretty obvious. Giant, silvery ribbon shaped things."

Even if it's a sleepy smile, it's a big one and a prideful one from Ariadne at having correctly surmised the King of the Herrings. Ravn laughs and she preens, even sitting upright in her chair a bit more. Preen. Preen-preen.

"Yeah, ribbon shaped, those wonderful fringes off of their forehead. God...weird-looking things, like, no wonder there are stories about sea serpents, right? Imagine: you're in a Viking longboat out on the ocean and one of those things swims past? You tell a fish-tale about it," -- pun intended. "And you neglect to mention how you very loudly shrieked when you saw it. I know they surface sometimes, but rarely, which is why they were so startling." Setting her coffee aside, she then plucks a hairband off of about her wrist. Her multicolored mane is gathered up and back into...you guessed it: messy bun.

"Do they actually survive a trip to the surface?" Ravn is not a marine biologist; as far as he's aware, the kings of herrings are dead when encountered. "I can't help but think about how deep sea fish often are depicted eyeless and shapeless, because the pressure changes kill them on their way up. I remember looking at lake trout in northern Sweden and wondering why their eyes always looked like their brains had exploded and blown then out -- and that was why. The water in those lakes is so cold that the trout live so deep for earth heat, that the trip up makes their eyes blow out."

He hitches a shoulder. "They taste great, though."

"You've got it mostly right." A nod for Ravn. "It's graphic, but the pressure changes don't bode well for a lot of species who live very deep in the ocean or other waters, yes. Some will survive for a little bit before descending again, but yeah. I haven't seen any oarfish at the surface myself, but a lot of them are probably on their last limb. Old, underfed, too full of parasites...whatever takes 'em in the end."

Sipping her coffee, she finally picks off a large chunk of her poppyseed muffin again. "I haven't eaten oarfish myself, but I imagine those trout are good, yeah. I'm not one of those biologists who hesitate to eat fish. Now, seal or whales? Orcas? Yeah, I'd struggle big time. Probably cry if I had to do it." Shrug. It's the truth. "But sushi? Mmm, sushi. I feel like you still owe me a sushi bar though, bud," Ariadne adds in gentle tease. She smiles softly at him across the table. "You said 'sushi bar' and then brought burgers. I know why, but it's the premise of the thing." Tickity-tack, her fingernails on the table, before she giggles at him.

"We may have to go to Olympia or Seattle to find a proper sushi bar," Ravn laughs softly. "Mind you, I'm entirely on board with this idea. I go to Seattle every so often anyhow, to drop papers off with HOPE's lawyer. Usually do some shopping on the side because Gray Harbor is kind of provincial in some regards."

Says the wine and whiskey snob. Who owns a motorcycle with room for a passenger.

He nibbles a bit of muffin. "I've had whale. They still hunt some species in Greenland and on the Faroes. I don't mind Greenland so much given it's the way of the indigenous peoples, and it's not the endangered species. I do mind the Faroes -- it's the 21st century, we no longer need to drive them into shallow bays and stab them to death."

Ariadne's expression, bright at the idea of a trip into Seattle for proper sushi -- she'll fully admit she's a snob -- very quickly falls to hear of the treatment of the whales. Her face closes off to a mask very nearly frosty and she cycles through a marked inhale and exhale through her nose. Sipping her coffee seems to be a manner of centering herself.

"Well. I understand and respect the way of the indigenous people, but the manner of the hunt leaves much to be desired. I won't be trying whale." And that's apparently all she has to say on the subject itself. "But sushi? Sushi is delightful and sounds like an excellent plan. When's the next time you have to pop up to Seattle?" It's very obvious she's grasping for a change of subject here, but there's also very honest interest in the answer. Her mouth parts and she adds with a sudden faint coloring of her cheeks, "There's...the off-chance we'd get spotted by my family if I didn't tell them, sooooo..."

How do you feel about this as well?

"Tempted to say, when do you want to go?"

Might as well jump into it as step in one toe at a time.

Ravn cants his head and studies the woman in front of him. "I guess what you're really asking is, am I serious enough to get presented to your family as the boyfriend? The answer is yes. It may turn out we weren't a good match after all, but that's something we can address if it goes that way. I'm certainly intending to make the attempt. Are you ready for your family to get seen with a vagrant like me who hasn't even applied for permanent residency yet?"

The pastel hues of the blush might linger, but Ariadne's smile returns, sweet as the dawn. She doesn't seem overly troubled by the idea of presenting Ravn to her family -- or maybe she hasn't sat down and factored in both her mother and sister and their twittering while her father eyes the Dane with something not quite fatherly suspicion. But not having permanent residency?

That throws her enough. "Uh, Ravn. You. What. Residency? What if -- " Ariadne stops herself. What if with a LOT of things there, but...it's also Gray Harbor. "Not my business," she finally decides with a shake of her hand. "I am ready. Yes. Except for...look." Her expression goes even sweeter if a little bit rueful. "They're going to want to know the truth about you, bud. You ready to tell them you're actually a count...?"

"I'm not about to get kicked out of the country. I'm a rich, white, educated man from Scandinavia. Believe me, your country wants me to stay." Racist as fuck? Yes. Fact? Also yes.

The other question throws Ravn a bit more. He blinks and quirks an eyebrow. "Why would I tell them that? I don't usually introduce myself with name, title, and a copy of my coat-of-arms. Does this matter?"

"I personally don't care and you know I don't care," Ariadne is quick and firm to add. A nod at him. "But it's something where a little research is going to happen because my sister's a nosy twit and I can't control her Google searching. I only asked because I want you to be the master of your own decisions. Not that you aren't, but..." She then groans and smushes half of her face with her hand. "God, I fucking suck at explaining myself before coffee. I'm sorry, Ravn, that was so fucking heavy-handed of me."

A sigh as she sets her hand down on the table and tics her nails lightly against the surface. "I...want you to have your privacy. That's my point. I want you to get the respect you deserve and want on your terms. I just...like I said. My sister's nosy."

Ravn reaches a hand across the table and rests it over Ariadne's; for him, that's a pretty intimate gesture. "I get that. And I know you don't. I also know that anyone who does in fact want to know who I am and where I came from, can find out with a search engine in about twenty seconds. That's not the point. I'm not ashamed of who I am, and it's not a secret."

He offers a small smile. "The point is, I don't introduce myself that way. It's -- important for how people react to me, right away. There's one hell of a difference between meeting some bloke with an accent, some kind of historian -- and getting a formal introduction to some pompous jackass who needs you to know he's got a studbook to rival any race horse before he even tells you his name. You follow? It's not about keeping secrets. It's about how I want people to see me, to meet me."

Relief filters through Ariadne's expression as her hand is gathered up; she rotates it in turn for a better interlacing of their fingers. Her pride thinks this shouldn't be such a relief, but she did rather traipse into a field of seagull nests with steel-toed boots.

"Right, right, I follow, Ravn. I do. Like I said, I'm sorry. It was heavy-handed for me to bring up. I'm...glad to hear that you've found a way to deal with it and yes, you'll be introduced as 'Ravn'. That's it. If they want more information, my family can speak with you. That way, there's no...weird...telephone game-ish type shit." Eyeroll. It's going to be nearly impossible to avoid anyways, but damned if she isn't going to try. "Alright. So. When are we going to Seattle? My next day off is..." She thinks and names the day, not too far hence. "I can see about someone checking in on Sam, probably Una, just to take him out and make sure he gets dinner -- or maybe Della. She gets along well with him. Or he could come with in the sidecar? Up to you."

Ravn squeezes his stolen hand. "Look -- this is not new to me. And some people do get weird about it. That's why I don't usually say anything. It's not that I'm embarrassed of who I am, it's that I don't want to deal with people not knowing how to deal with it. Your family wants to talk European aristocracy? We can do that. I just want them to meet me as Ravn first, and the rest can happen later."

He laughs softly. "Honestly, most people react like -- they ask a couple of questions like, are you royalty, do you know the queen. Both questions are a firm no, and then we go back to normal things because it's really not that exciting. So that means we're doing sushi next week? We can take Sam. Kitty Pryde doesn't want to go for long drives but she has at least three boats she eats dinner on besides mine so she's not going to be missing out."

"Alright, we'll bring Sam. It means we won't be able to go everywhere and into all the stores, but I bet there's a sushi place with an outside eating deck so he'll still be allowed. Or I suppose you can get a bar and then pop out again and we find a place to sit, no biggie." Another gentle squeeze for her own captured Danish hand.

Her smile goes soft again. "I know they'll like you for you though, Ravn. Call it...call it gut instinct. I'm fussy about my guys and they know it. Honestly...I'm...equal parts nervous about my sister and my mom. My dad? He's just going to give you a look because you've managed to charm his baby girl." A snort-laugh. Dads. "My sister does the research. Remember how my mom is Hungarian? She...kind of knows about old families and blood lines and...ahem. Stud lines."

Yes. She did not laugh. But damned if she's not dying of the giggles on the inside while she attempts to be an Adult.

"I don't think my name is big enough that it'd ring bells instantly but five minutes with Google, sure." Ravn shrugs. "I'm sure we can geek out over stories of ridiculous noble antics, then. I'm a historian, I'd have a party. And I can certainly provide a few tales back, in and outside of my own family tree."

The smile widens a little. How long is that laugh going to stay on the inside? "My pedigree if you will."

Like a single bubble, a bliplet of laughter peeps forth from Ariadne despite herself. Her hand temporarily leaves its mug-hold to press fingers against her lips in passing. Ahem.

"Your...pedigree," she manages to echo with something of a funning loftiness, like they were indeed discussing his papers. "But what about your hips? Are you sound? Good stamina? How about dexterity? These are important to a lady." Look at her mouth purse to a rosebud's effort of damnit, I will not laugh, can't make me. She knows it's a goad in itself.

Even Samwise, now curled up on his bed tucked to the kitchen counter, looks between them. His little doggy eyebrow twitch in turn. God, humans are weird.

Ravn smirks over the edge of his coffee cup. "Generally sound. No hip dysplexia. Stamina is not too great, the asthma is unfortunate. Consider breeding for manual dexterity but not for a working animal."

He winks. "I am a cat -- well, two cats -- in the dream scape. That's where the joke came from. First time Rosencrantz pulled me in there, we were both pretty damn surprised to find that I was essentially my mother's inbred, helplessly stupid Siamese. It makes more sense when you know that the other cat is a raggedy-ear alley cat who needs nothing and no one. I'm kind of trying to reconcile the two in my mind but it's problematic sometimes."

Ahem. Still not laughing. Even when this charming jerk talks about manual dexterity rather than working so very hard.

Look at Ariadne sip her coffee as cover. His wink nearly gets her; she still has to swallow a bit more carefully before setting her mug down on the table with both hands wrapped about it. "Yeah, that's right. The two cats. Well."

And it's the redhead's turn to go for a blush. "You were certainly that raggedy-eared alley cat last night, I'd say." Her own smirk curls up so sweetly.

Now it's Ravn's turn to fight a laugh -- and failing. He chuckles quietly into his coffee cup, and then agrees, at least a little. "I was both. Or neither, I don't know. The alley cat -- he doesn't need anything or anyone, he doesn't care for anything or anyone. I don't want to become him. I was him for a few years -- alone, wandering, not connecting with anyone. But conversely, the Siamese would sit in his castle and stare stupidly into space with a vague feeling of unhappiness, so I'm not him, either. I really do want to be a mix -- because it means coming to term with myself. Also, neither of those two would be able to have a healthy, loving relationship -- something that I definitely want very much."

Tilting her head, the barista across the table softens her smile into something fond and intimate.

"So, if you're off to such a good start here, are you both of those cats after all? Or are you just yourself, which is all the world needs to be a better place? Remember, there's only one of you...and I'm lucky enough to have you." How gentle, her hazel gaze upon him, and now her smile melts to something admittedly more -- let's be honest, twitterpated.

Ravn's hand squeezes Ariadne's again. "I think they represent extremes of myself. Both have strengths and weaknesses. But neither is me. The dreamscape just kind of goes all Jungian on you because it communicates in archetypes and gestalts."

The expression on his face is not one the barista is likely to ever see at work, either. Open. Warm, fond, but most of all, open. Ravn is a man to keep his thoughts private most of the time, his body language subdued, and his interests to himself. Not so here; it's all right there for the taking. After all, if you're not going to make the attempt to reach out and connect, don't let anyone in at all.

An echoed squeeze of Ravn's hand and turn; slowly, lightly, the redhead begins rubbing her thumb back and forth against his knuckle in turn.

"Ah, Jungian. Sure, that makes sense. Itzhak's unicorn...there's a mind exercise. I have no idea if I'd be divided or not. I wonder about the whole Osprey bit, but...eh. I don't want to encourage anything about unresolved extremes for me. You know the Veil would take advantage of it." It's a wonder, this open expression of his, and Ariadne drinks it in with unabashed appreciation. God, how electrical his expressions are. "Do you think you've made progress with this coming to terms lately or...like all of us, you're still growing?" The barista includes herself in this assessment, most definitely as a life-long learner.

"I have friends. I have a girlfriend. Two years ago, the only words I spoke to others were ordering a ticket or a cup of coffee. I've come very far." Ravn smiles lightly. "I don't think the journey is at an end. We continue to grow until we die. Where we'll be five years from now? Heaven only knows. But the idea that we might be here in five years does not make me miserable. Whether it's in the same apartments, houses, boats -- we'll see. I can see myself want to stick around, though. Never could before, anywhere. Always felt like I was just passing through."

He cants his head and studies the -- his -- barista. "What do you think you are learning? Where do you think you will be, five years from now?"

Girlfriend.

It makes goosebumps rush down her spine and arms. Her shyer smile still flashes a sliver of teeth. Thus? Claimed. Done. Another long sip of coffee while ignoring her pick-pocked muffin. Maybe the muffin tastes funny to her. Samwise shifts on his bed to get more comfortable; he's drowsing lightly now, full of breakfast and content until just before noon if habits hold. Still -- it's always a little thrill to meet another academic's gaze and realize she's being observed in turn. One can always tell the scholarly types; there's a focus lacking in other conversationalists' regards.

Thinking on an answer requires resting her free forearm on the table. Ravn's hand gets another gentle if distracted squeeze. She looks down at her coffee not to be evasive, but to spare her mind track. Ravn's said it before: sustained eye contact is distracting if not lethal to logic in certain circumstances.

"Helluva question." Not a loud start, one audibly amused, before she glances up again. "I think..." A little wiggle of her slippered foot. "I'm learning to trust more and doing a good job. Realizing people are supporting me too. Confirming that my decisions are sound ones. Apparently wrangling myself a boyfriend." Giggling softly, she frets her bottom lip in passing. "But...still figuring things out, yeah, because this place is...wild," she decides. "And I'm a puzzle piece who fits in somehow. Five years from now? Maybe I've figured out precisely where I fit in the scheme of things. I'd like it if you stuck around those five years though, emberem."

"There's never any guarantees that life works out the way we want. People get together and realise it was a mistake. But I want to hope we didn't make a mistake." Ravn's smile is quiet; introspective. "I don't want to start talking about growing old together when we've barely known each other for three months but -- ideally. I mean, at least to me -- that's the point. There's such a thing as being wrong -- but if I don't intend to commit to something, I don't get started on it. I hope that doesn't sound too, well, crazy stalker."

Crazy stalker doesn't let go of Ariadne's hand, though. And the little smile lingers. "If you do end up growing old with me, though, just saying -- at least we'll have a nice house."

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves here. There's some growing still to do and sometimes, things change." Not unkindly does Ariadne say this, still wearing her soft smile. "It's not a mistake to be brave and open for another though, because even if things crash and burn? We learn. We did grow and we're wiser for it. Now, about this nice house. If you're talking about your drafty old stone-and-mortar castle-manor-house-widget? I hear it's haunted, sooooooooo..."

She tries very hard to remain solemn, but her mouth twitches all over the place against a grin and it's very obvious. "I liked your idea of renting the place out so someone else can deal with the ghosts. Maybe it gets checked in on now and then, the Black Dog given pets and all. Maybe he likes chin scritchies and I'll even keep my fingers."

Ravn grins slightly. "That's -- sort of what I'm trying to say, yes. There's no guarantees in life. But there's wanting something to grow into something beautiful and lasting. And I do. Whether I get what I want -- well, that's for time to tell."

His lip twitches all the same. "Haunted like all hell. And the Hell Hound -- well, knowing you, you'll probably have him running laps around the lake with you in six weeks. I've only ever seen him once, and that was in a Dream. Reason I rented it out was more -- what's the point of leaving it just there, no one living there, just taking up space? Even if I did live back home, who the hell needs that kind of space? It's a relic from a bygone era. It needs to be -- something else, not just somebody's residence."

"Way too drafty," Ariadne agrees in continued gentle tease. "And you have a lot of faith in me if you think I could encourage a spectral dog to at least be a jogging buddy. Thank you." Taking up her coffee, she pauses in lifting the mug to her lips. "Ravn. The biggest thing I need you to know about all this? I'm in."

Coffee mug is set down for her to take up his hand with both of her own now. Earnestly, she even leans in a little, holding his gaze. "I'm in and I do want to see what grows from this. So far, it's just...pfft, hah, so sue me, but I'm going to say magical," the barista decides tartly and with a chiming laugh. "Ugh, that was so cliché but at the same time, so appropriate. Anyways." Mug is retrieved again because coffee is almost gone and all of it must be in her body. "Looks like you're stuck with me in the meantime. Woe betide you." Another giggle before she tips the mug back to finish off its contents.

"Horrible fate," Ravn murmurs and holds out his mug -- if refills are happening, he'll take one, why yes, thank you. "Stuck with a beautiful, intelligent woman who's going to tell me things I never wanted to know about whale mating habits and sleep with me most enthusiastically. How will I ever survive such a cruel fate?"

Oh, please, m'am, I want sum'more?

Smirking to herself, Ariadne takes the offered empty mug and rises from the table with both now, intending to refill Ravn's to the brim and her own with perhaps another third's worth of volume or so. Not much more. She doesn't need to vibrate into another dimension.

"You haven't even heard me wax on about whale mating habits, you have no idea how entertainingly dry I can be." Golden-hazel eyes twinkle over her shoulder between pourings from the carafe. "I can put David Attenborough to shame." Now that is a claim, though the minx quickly ruins it with: "You'll be equal parts intrigued and mortified and you'll get that cute little blush you do across your cheeks because you're so proper, my good sir. It's a terrible fate to withstand. However will you survive it?"

"Might end up trying to act it out." Ravn simply ignores that very blush as it creeps across his cheekbones. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist. That's how it works. Right? "Got to work on holding my breath first, I suppose."

He makes grabby hands for the mug. "And when we're done discussing the migration patterns of right whales, we'll dig into the symbolic significance of early medieval heraldry. Everyone else will wonder what the hell we're on about, and they'll agree that we're probably good for each other."

Lucky for Ariadne that she's simply tucking the carafe back into place for the coffee maker. She snort-laughs something fierce; if she were holding a coffee cup, there would have been need for a paper towel or three.

Not only this, but look at that blush: it was almost summoned on command. This counters her own inclination to pink up and she merely smiles like the tart she knows she can be. For the immediate moment, in order to safely deliver his coffee, the barista doesn't reply -- but don't let anyone think those replies aren't formulating behind her smile-pursed lips. "You are such a geek and I find this so attractive," declares the marine biologist after setting the mug down before him. By the way she leans in, it's a kiss on offer. She adds, oh-so-close to his face, those darkened lashes a-flutter, "And there's always the shower if you can't hold your breath for long enough."

"You're going to make me do breathing exercises in the shower?" Cheeky remark buys Ravn a second or two, to consider the fact that he doesn't have a toothbrush here. To consider the fact that Ariadne knows this. And that she's still leaning in. Ergo. He cranes his neck to catch that kiss. His.

When it does inevitably end he murmurs, "I am a geek and I am quite confident in my identity as a geek. Some men are action heroes. Some men are bookworms. You know what you get. And I know what I get -- my beautiful woman who can hold her own in a discussion and then kick my arse in a sparring round."

It's more than Ravn tastes overwhelmingly of coffee than the morning-dragon's breath generally warded off by toothbrush. A little nose-nuzzling on Ariadne's part before she rolls a step back. Her smile appears again, quite cheeky. Uh oh.

"I'll learn you to spar yet, emberem. It'll be fun. We get to roll around on a mat and I'll even pretend like the lions do when the cubs bite their tails: make a lot of sound like I'm dying." Eyebrow waggle. "And besides...I am going to make you do breathing exercises in the shower. You'll be gasping, of course." Somebody stop her now, she's caffeinated and a troublemaker. "No holding your breath." Finger waggle to boot as she saunters back to the table with her mug and sits down again. "I suppose you won't be able to hold it anyways since I'll have stolen it."

Ravn's blush does not particularly decrease; he's also steadily ignoring it. "Maybe you won't need to pretend. I like to think I might be able to make you sound like you're dying, without you needing to fake it. Give a man's fragile ego a little help here."

He chuckles and steals Ariadne's hand again. "I have no doubt that you're entirely capable of rendering me catatonic. I am going to buy iron supplements and spinach, because with the amount of nose bleeds I'm going to have, I'm about to become severely anaemic. My life is very hard. And with you in it, it's not going to be the only thing that is."

Rosencrantz would be so proud of his boy.

He chuckles, she can't help the snort-giggle, and her hand is all his to hold. Ariadne relaxes her arm along the table and tilts her head, watching his face while she quietly wonders to herself: wow, this is so normal and easy -- is it supposed to be this easy? -- delightful.

Ravn does, finally, score his blade-beat and point. Observe: petal-pink across the barista's cheeks as she ends up laughing quietly again, her head tilted back for a second. "Ohhhh...shit, yeah, okay, you got me." She can feel the heat on her skin and there's no denying it. Her eyes twinkle as they appear again with a drop-down of her face again. "You're perfectly capable of making me sound like I'm dying, yes, we've quantifiably observed this." Science nerd. "And maybe you can get these supplements later today along with a toothbrush." There it is, out for grabs: an invitation to stake a bathroom claim via clean teeth. "What are your plans for the rest of the day? Hate to say it, but I've got a shift in a few hours." She glances at the microwave clock. "Maybe enough time for an errand or two myself, a walk for Sam."

"I have some work to do, online, and for HOPE. And I need to talk to a locksmith about a spare key for a boat, maybe." Invitation seen and returned. "Much as I hate it, we should probably not quit our day jobs to hole up and barricade the door against the world. Not that it's not tempting."

He looks into his cup, chuckling lightly. "I do want to continue your singing lessons." Musician. "But not with time pressure. What is it they say in that movie we never actually watched: For you, never a quickie?"

Oh, a spare key? Ariadne lifts her brows and smiles -- silently, she's accepted this extra key, even if it takes time to make it onto her carabiner in turn. She manages to sip her coffee and also to get her next swallow down with temporary effort.

"Yeh-hes." Oops, we laughed, good job. More pink across her cheeks. "Never a quickie. Besides, we both know how that movie goes, no real loss," she demurs with a confined wave of her spare hand. "Singing lessons were far more important at the time. I do need to pay bills though, yes, and Sam would get bored. I can't have that." A glance at the dog dead to the world in his post-food nap now. His whiskers twitch and a little snort leaves him. Adorable. "Depending on when you're done with work, you could...meander on over here again? Or we could do a late dinner somewhere?"

"Well, given that Sam probably doesn't want to spend the night on a boat -- I figure I should meander over here. Cats are a little easier in this regard -- as long as Kitty Pryde has her food and her litter box, I can fuck off as far as she is concerned." Ravn laughs softly.

He smiles, with more than a hint of sap. "I enjoyed sleeping with you. I mean, sleeping. I enjoyed the sounds of someone else's breathing. The little noises. The warmth. Not to say I didn't enjoy sleeping with you in the other meaning, obviously."

A soft laugh at his forthrightness as well as quick tuck of chin. "I know exactly what you mean. There's something about falling asleep and knowing if you roll over, there's warmth there. It's...really, really nice to be able to wiggle back and you were there. You're tall enough to spoon and god, that's...that's a special treat, especially with how I have to keep it colder for Sam's comfort. He's got too much fur for me to heat the place where my heart wants it to be. If I'm being pragmatic, it saves me money in the long run."

Ariadne smiles down into her coffee again. "But...yeah, Sam throws a wrench in a lot of plans. I'm glad you understand that and there's no resentment. He's my boy. I've got the thumbs. He needs to be comfortable and well cared-for because he does so much for me as is. It's a big deal that he's interested in you. You kind of...had to pass muster," she informs Ravn with a half-smirk.

"I'm not a dog person. I've told you that." Ravn smiles a little. "I still appreciate individual dogs. I like Sam, he likes me, we're good."

He looks down at his cup. "But also, more seriously? Changing each other for our own convenience? It doesn't work like that. I tried that once -- tried to be everything she wanted, like the things she wanted me to like, and so on. All it bred was resentment. I'm not going to give up sailing or owning a cat, and I don't even intend to ask your opinion. Obviously the same applies for Sam and whatever hobby you find peace in. We don't have to be inseparable by the hip. And honestly, I suspect we'll be better off for it, because at least we'll have things to talk about and banter about, mm?"

"We really will be better off for it, yes. Too much closeness and there's not much to talk about. I love that you're out in the community working with them via HOPE and your 'Hotel California' talks. It means I get to ask you later how things went -- and don't think I won't have harmless barista gossip for you in turn because man. I might as well be a hair-stylist for all people blab at me while I'm making up their vente-triple-shot-mocha-with-raspberry."

Another glance at Sam as he dream-snorts. "I'd also never assume anything like asking you to give up sailing. God, just...just thinking about the...audacity? -- of that gives my mouth a bad taste. Quashing someone because hobbies don't align or wanting to monopolize time. Ugh." A subtle shiver and twist of mouth. "If I could get up into a bitch's face." Sipping her coffee seems wisest. Bad taste in the mouth, after all.

Ravn toys with his cup with his free hand a moment. And then, quietly, "She must either think you're not a threat, or they really did beat her down so hard she doesn't dare make an appearance. Either way, I am grateful."

"I'm grateful too. Though...my pride likes to think it's because she got her ass whupped and not because I'm less of a threat. I'm not going to dare anything, obviously, but still." Ravn's hand gets a gentle squeeze as she tries to find his eyes. "You're mine. I'm not about property or asshole demonstrations of ownership, but I look forward to holding your hand for the world to see. Being on your arm, y'know?"

Another long sip of coffee before she considers her muffin. "...I guess I didn't really want a muffin this morning. You want a yogurt or something?"

"I'm good. You know me and food. I'll get better about it, I promise." Ravn laughs softly. And then laughs again as a small blush creeps across his face. "I do want to show you off. I want to -- hold your hand and be like, this gorgeous woman picked me. I'm a bit silly like that. Still can't really believe it."

Gently, a nod and a squeeze for Ravn's hand before the barista gets up again. She looks over her shoulder, hand on the fridge door, and grins.

"Careful, you're going to make me blush again. What about me thinking, holy crap, this handsome man agreed with my crazy idea about seeing where this goes? And me being on your arm? I don't think it's silly. It's delightful. The world should see us smile because people tend to smile back. Y'know, jokes and stuff. Bad one-liners. Terrible innuendos." Eyebrow waggle and she then disappears into the fridge to get a yogurt. Blackberry, by the looks of things. "I don't want to be super loud about it because that's in bad taste, but I have a feeling we're in agreement in this." Spoon is found. "Simple happiness shines with its own light and all," she opines as she returns to the table.

"Neither of us are married to somebody else so there's no need to keep secrets." Ravn looks amused; the idea of infidelity to him is a joke -- because no one sane actually does that, right? "I want to have this. I know we'll be tested on it. Dreams, for one. And it's probably a good take that what happens in Dreams, stays in them -- which is not to say anything goes but that if a Dream casts you as Perdita's husband, well, then it's not going to be something we have a catfight about after, because it was never your choice or hers in the first place."

"Right. Dreams are assholes," Ariadne agrees bluntly after crossing her legs. Her bathrobe falls off of one knee to expose shin and ankle down to her slipper. "I don't intend to get into catfights about them. I've seen firsthand how they're crafted a lot of times to yank chains and salt old wounds because those fuckers want to eat despair and negative emotions. I'll flip them off, have no fear."

A beat and she ends up smiling around her spoon. A quick inversion of it to use her lip to get all of the yogurt out of the spoon-head's curve before she gestures at Ravn with the utensil, "Dita says I can't wear cargo pants anymore unless something about a camisole top, so knowing the Dream? It'd cast me as her husband in cargo pants and some oversized and ill-fitted tee-shirt. She'd be driven mad."

Her eyes travel to the ceiling. "...and that wasn't a fucking idea, you fucking assholes," she grumbles into her coffee mug. Samwise merely twitches. Ah, the complications of humanity in comparison to the life of a dog.

Twitch.