2022-05-13 - It's Like Family Knows or Something

Mmm. Lavender. Lavender and warmth, such warmth. It's too easy to wriggle back towards it again until there's more contact than there was. Warm skin. Slowly, Ariadne inhales and exhales, her lashes parting. Oh, what time is it? A squint at the bedside clock. Oh, not much after 8am. Why is she --

Ah-hah. That would explain it. Samwise is lying like a sphinx alongside her legs and perking his ears. What a tilt of head once he realizes she's awake and his stretch of front legs means he ooooooozes his way up the quilted covers until he can sniff at her face with a cold, twitching nose. Blep. Nose kissed. Mom. Mom. It's breakfast time and I gotta go. Rubbing the back of her hand against her nose, the barista chuckles roughly before coughing lightly once.

"Oh my god..." Her own turn to stretch while Samwise rises and daintily makes his way to the end of the bed before hopping down to the floor. Sore. We're sore in a few places, but oh well. Long rides will do that to a body. "Ravn, I gotta take Sam out, I'll be right back." Rolling over, she presses a kiss to his temple before she departs from beneath the covers. Sneaky? Not at all. A sighthound blew her cover entirely. Meh, it's cold, but thank god for a bathrobe to clutch and capture heat and slippers against dewy grass. If her hair's mussed up? Well. Bedhead is a thing. She plans to shower once she gets back inside anyways because Sam can handle waiting another fifteen minutes for breakfast anyhow. He's a big boy. The sound of the glass door opening and closing heralds her temporary departure.

Ravn's bedhead rivals any bedhead, anyhow. The Dane mumbles something into the pillow he's face planted in. He's not a quick riser. She's out of the room entirely before he even manages to claw his way to the surface. Then he lies there for a while, just allowing wakefulness to assert itself nice and slow. There are worse ways to wake up. Worse places to wake up.

He knows that once he moves, his body is going to say things like bathroom please and he too could do with a quick shower. No point in getting up until the sounds out there suggest that Ariadne is done with the bathroom -- so he doesn't. Hey, there are perks to this. Maybe at the time he's done out there, she'll have made coffee.

Life isn't so bad.

Distantly, a few minutes later, the sliding glass door opens and closes. In Samwise comes trotting, tail wagging, feeling much better since he's been out. He doesn't nose Ravn, but he does go to that side of the bed and rest his chin on the covers, wagging his tail, triangle-hanging ears perked.

"Sam says good morning," the redhead informs her lover as she too arrives in the bedroom. Her tone is utterly fond if still rough with sleep. "I'm going to shower real quick and then we'll see about coffee. You can join me if you want, but you look really comfortable, so I don't blame you if you want to stay under the covers. Coming in for a hair-kiss." Thus, he's warned before her lips press to those locks so naturally crow's-nested at the moment. In a swish of plaid bathrobe, the redhead then disappears into the bathroom. Ravn's presence or not, the shower isn't overly long. Her hair needs a light washing, but other than that, when she next appears outside of the bedroom, it's sporting her bathrobe overtop sweatpants and a comfortable t-shirt as well as her slippers. Her hair, still damp, is twisted up on itself in a clipped demi-bun.

Now? Time for coffee. Water is set to boil and Sam's breakfast set to be microwaved. He stands there, as usual, wagging his tail. Yes please, food now.

Ravn stretches luxuriously and then takes his sweet time finding his clothes. He times it so that when Ariadne pads kitchen-wards, he in turn pads shower-wards. He doesn't need to stay in there for a long soak, after all -- just need some cold water in his face and a quick scrub. If you've ever lived in a way that hot water in a sink was a luxury, you know how to shower quick and efficiently.

He brushes his teeth. No comment on the planted toothbrush. Excellent.

Then he slips into his clothes because much as he feels comfortable here, he hasn't left a pair of sweatpants and a housecoat here.

Yet.

By the time Ravn appears, Sam is busily not-quite-chewing his food at his raised dish. The water has boiled and Ariadne's putting slices of bread into the toaster. The coffee maker is at work and nearly done by the cadence of its dribbling down into the carafe. As if sensing his arrival on some unknown level (or maybe reacting to the lack of shower water running), the redhead glances over her shoulder.

"Hey you," she say softly in greeting. Toaster button is depressed. "Had a hankering for toast this morning, so if you want a slice, you're welcome to one." How to resist meandering over to the man? Her arms open to invite both a hug and her mouth softens in equal invitation for a kiss. The shower hasn't removed all of her make-up; the kohl fetchingly lingers about her lash-line and it seems the mascara survived as well. Magical, truly. Her own mouth tastes of the same minty toothpaste Ravn more than likely used in turn. No morning dragon's-breath here!

Who's going to decline an embrace and a kiss, and then toast and coffee? Not Ravn, that's who. He knows he's not at his brightest before the coffee hits, and he's more than happy to just go where directed. Which in this case means, into waiting arms.

"This is not the worst way to start my day," he tells her, quietly amused. "And you know something funny? You might want to slap an extra piece of toast in there because guess what we forgot? Dinner."

A blink. Forgot what? Ariadne stares up at her boyfriend at the revelation because it's...hilariously true.

She ends up laughing hard enough to require a hand over her mouth. "Well...damnit, that's right, we totally did. I thought I was just extra hungry for some reason. Um. Let me see about eggs then. I'll do two over-easy, we're going to need more than just toast." Another peck of a kiss for Ravn before she gestures at the coffee maker. "It'll all good to go, you pour yourself a mug. You know where the mugs are." Her lips curl up in a pleased smile. It's one of those unspoken developments in a relationship, knowing where the cutlery and eating-ware is -- along with leaving toothbrushes. Out comes a good old cast-iron skillet from one of the floor-cupboards and then two eggs and the butter from the fridge. Even still sleepy about her edges, Ariadne can apparently make some simple fare.

Ravn's ideas about cooking breakfast largely involve sticking something in the microwave so he's not about to complain. He just sneaks a couple of mugs out of the cupboard and retreats to the kitchen table where he plonks himself down, one hand under his chin, to watch her bustle about.

"I won't offer to help," he murmurs. "Because I am a disaster in a kitchen. But I'll do the dishes and the pan after. Have you read your texts yet? How many did you get?"

One of those mugs ends up filled with steaming coffee containing a proper dollop of creamer. Ariadne glances over as she shuts the fridge door and chuckles.

"Only four texts as of before I showered. She's been containing herself, probably because she knows I have a limit to enduring her pestering and she'll get no answers if she tries forcing her hand. The phone's charging, I check it in a minute once I've got the eggs down." The kitchen's already starting to smell like heating butter as is. Turning the skillet about to swish the melted butter around, the redhead considers letting it brown up a bit. "Salt and pepper on your egg then?" she asks of Ravn as she leans against the counter beside the stovetop, bathrobe sleeves rolled up and coffee mug in-hand.

"Oh, and the texts went something along the lines of...let me see. Ahem. OH MY GOD -- followed by -- WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME -- followed by -- HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN DATING HIM -- followed by -- HE'S A FREAKIN' COUNT. So. Yes, bud, your cover's blown courtesy of Google." Her smile is crooked and very much empathetic.

Ravn can't help laughing. As always, his laughter is soft and quiet -- contained. How can he not laugh? Somehow, Ariadne manages to SPEAK LIKE THIS, like a certain Discworld character. He can almost hear the squealing that must have gone into those texts. It cracks him up, still, because last he checked, there's nothing special about his title but what people themselves make of it. Which, fortunately, in most cases isn't a whole damned lot.

"I suppose I'd better go shop for glass slippers?" Another peal of quiet laughter. He could lecture for quite some time as a historian, upon why people react this way; the origins of the gentry, the belief that God puts people where they belong that still permeates a western culture that doesn't honestly do a whole lot of listening to medieval dogma otherwise.

He's not going to. He's just going to sit there and laugh and wait for his toast. "So, are you going to go 'yes dear, I'm aware, I too can use Google' or are you going to go 'I'm not dating a goddamn muppet'?"

It's the question about glass slippers which sets off Ariadne in turn. She was watching to make sure it was honest amusement from him, the quiet laughter, and now her own joins in at a higher and louder pitch. She ends up snorting behind her hand once before shaking her head.

"God, no, no glass slippers. Ugh. My instep! Hell, your instep. You've already complained about whale-bone corsets once. I didn't think you were a masochist," she grins at him before setting aside her mug. The two eggs are cracked into the skillet and sizzle upon their layering of melted butter. "And...I think maybe the muppet option. She'll hate me for it, but...hey, that's what siblings are for, right? Screwy answers because there's a set of keys and we're not face-to-face. I'll say something like...'Yes, I'm dating a Count. Remember he's from Denmark, not Transylvania.' She'll probably text back, OMG I KNOW I FOUND HIM ON GOOGLE and I'll be like, 'Your Google fu is strong as always, grasshopper' and then she'll start whining that I'm not answering her questions and you'll be laughing yourself to tears at this point." Finding the spatula, she pokes at the firming egg whites.

"I vote for the first answer being something along the lines of, one person, two people, one couple, ah- ah- ah." Ravn nods firmly. "If you're going to make fun of this, take it all the way. From what little I've seen of Anastasia? She'll find it hilarious once she gets over the excitement. Things we laugh about aren't things we make a big deal about, and that's what we want, right?"

He smirks. "Also, finding me on Google is, uh, really not difficult."

"Aw, hey now, I can't tell her you're not hard to find. She prides herself on her Google fu." Glancing over from tending eggs, Ariadne smirks at her lover. "You can't hurt her feelings so early on that you're that asshole who mocked her mad search powers. Now, I'll do the whole ah-ah-ah thing though, and I'll even attach a picture. You know she's going to point out that you wear all black if I do this."

Which, apparently, is going to amuse the hell out of the barista. The eggs are done, however, so one is ladled off onto a slice of toast and this delivered to the table along with a fork. "Salt and pepper is there if you need it." They are, tucked to the back of the kitchen table, contrasting colors to mark each seasons.

"And I need you know that you're doomed to at least one Twilight reference," Ariadne adds as she lifts her own egg onto the toast and then, after moving aside the cast-iron skillet, comes to sit at the table with her coffee as well.

Salt and pepper, right. Questions, they're things you answer, and when you don't, you get to handle the salt and pepper distribution yourself. Yes, please, he'll take a light sprinkle of both.

"I wouldn't know the first thing about Anastasia's Google fu." He tries to maneuver his egg up on the toast because runny yolk on warm toast is great. "But if she starts calling me Elmo, I'm calling her Miss Romanov. You have been warned."

Siiiigh. "I knew the Twilight references were unavoidable. I'm a Count wearing black, in a small town in Washington State. I might as well start wearing guy-liner and glitter-based foundation."

"For one, she won't call you Elmo. If anything, you'd get the god-awful accent I did earlier last week." The Hungarian accent on steroids. "Two, excuse me, I'm the more badass between the two of us, so I get to be Miss Romanov. My hair's just as red, pfft. Three..."

And Ariadne rests elbows on the table and her chin on a bridge of her fingers. "You wouldn't look half-bad in guy-liner anyways, come on. If done right, it's glorious stuff. You can skip the glitter-based foundation, you sparkle anyways, just like I do. I mean, like, the psionics and powers and stuff like that," she adds with a gesture of her fork before reaching for the salt and pepper for her own egg. It's perched on her toast because she, like Ravn, is quite fond of egg yolk on warm toast as well.

"Yes, but you're the daughter of King Minos of Crete, you and your clever ball of string, you. Anastasia is just a hundred years old and looking surprisingly good for her age." Ravn nods firmly and cuts into his egg. Yolk runs and bleeds into the buttered bread, just the way he wants it to.

Then he looks up. "I've done guy-liner a few times for my fiancee's photographs. It has to be light -- too heavy and I look like I'm stoned out of my skull. It'll never be something I wear on a daily basis, though. I don't begrudge you ladies the right to wear any make-up you like anytime you want to, but there's no way in hell I'm subjecting myself to a rigorous schedule of applying it in the morning and removing it in the evening."

"Hey, fair. A good quality kohl eyeliner is a pain in the ass to get off," the barista agrees. "Then again, if you get, again, a good quality liner, it'll also wear away really nicely too, so you don't need to scrub at it. It just lingers artfully." Another long sip of her coffee before she cuts into the egg. Golden yolk spills out and down into the toast. It's the simple things in life, Ariadne thinks to herself as she glances up again at the man seated across from her.

Thus, it's with a quieter and sweet smile that she murmurs, "I guess I can be a princess and a goddess. Sure. Anastasia can be immortal in her own way." A flick of brows acts as a shrug. "Immortally annoying." Siblings.

"Weeeeell," Ravn murmurs because if this is the game we're playing, don't play it with a historian. "Technically, you're a princess who's really smart, saves Theseus' life, and then gets dropped on some remote island by him. Later on, the story gets retconned a bit and the god Dionysus called dibs so that Theseus had to remove himself from the scene before he get helped off it. Either way, Ariadne's the clever girl with the ball of string in the maze, and that bodes well -- I love the idea of having the one girlfriend in the world who's smart enough to help somebody not get Lost."

Hey, it bodes well in this town.

He grins. "Are you going to answer? Yes, I'm kind of watching this a bit like a bloke at Wimbledon. If I have to listen to it later, let me have my laughs now."

Such a smirk. Such a smirk at the realization of what she's gone and encouraged. "Oh my god," drawls the barista half-under her breath before laughing quietly to herself because...he's entirely correct and well Ariadne knows it in great detail.

"A princess, a goddess, and the one girlfriend smart enough to help somebody find their way back. I feel like you're buttering me up for something." Still, she reaches for her phone in her bathrobe pocket and brings it out. Now her eyes rest upon her task. A 'please hold' finger rises off of her fork while she thumbs up the texting app via her other hand. The digit flies and she then spends a moment searching for...yes. This one to attach to the text.

Blip, off it goes. She rotates the phone screen-up between them and then digs into her toast with a patient air. The text flew as, I know, it's like I'm one person, he's two persons, one couple, ah-ah-ah and then the picture of the Muppet character beneath.

Give it about...ten seconds. Bzzt: If you're dating an actual vampire, we need to talk.

Ariadne doesn't even think twice about cackling.

"After last night what could I possibly be buttering you up for? Reminding us that dinner is a thing next time?" Ravn smirks and nibbles on his toast.

And then that response comes back and he has to quickly mouth down coffee to keep him from spraying egg all over the table. He laughs, silently, and then suggests, "Tell her that you're pretty sure I'm human although it is a little eccentric, the way I refuse to cross the river or eat Italian take-out."

Tittering behind her hand keeps Ariadne occupied for a few seconds after Ravn's suggestion.

"Oh-ho-ho-ho my god, you're so ridiculous!"

But she doesn't even flinch to pick up her phone again and enter in roughly what the Dane suggested: I mean, I'm not aware of any weird habits other than refusing to cross rivers or like Italian take-out. The phone is set down again and she waits now, fork tines rested on her toast and fist before her mouth. Golden-hazel eyes rise to Ravn and then drop back to the phone.

Five seconds this time. Bzzt: This is a really weird way of telling me that he's into biting, sis.

Watch Ravn actually turn kind of pink. "Well, uh."

Pause.

"Nope, I don't have an answer for that one. Not besides, I could, well, not."

Ariadne's fork clatters to her plate and remains there really only by dint of its tines half-stuck in yolk-soggy toast. Her fingers against her mouth stifle up some, but not all, of the giggling escaping her. Ravn's pink. She's sporting that pastel-pink blush.

"God, Ana, you wily little shit," the barista lauds of her sibling after a moment and then can't help giggling helplessly more. "No-ho-ho, wait, we need to think fast because the longer we delay, the more guilty I sound!"

Too late. Bzzt: Seriously, he's into it, isn't he, just fess up already.

"Shit." And now Ariadne's holding her stomach and practically howling.

"Tell her you haven't noticed but the gloves are kind of sexy." Ravn has played this game before. "When she asks about them, admit you've never seen me wear anything but black. Mention my habit of swearing in German. Keep going. At the time we meet she'll be so relieved to find out I'm not actually some Hollywood villain out of an Indiana Jones movie, that she'll forget the rest. And, uh, wear a high-necked sweater."

He's grinning. Openly and widely. This is hilarious and in some way, for once the joke is not on him.

Ariadne runs her fingertips under the lash-line of one eye, still laughing. "Oh my fucking god, Ravn!"

But, yet again, why not. The text flies, I haven't noticed myself, but he does have these really nice gloves. Pretty sexy. I haven't seen him with his walking stick in a while, but that's pretty nifty too. Ping, off it goes. Setting down the phone, the redhead across the table can't help the semi-stifled snicker.

"She's going to kill me once she figures out I was yanking her chain," she murmurs to Ravn, eyes rising to his face. "The next time we see her again, you watch, she'll -- "

Bzzt: If you tell me he wears a top hat, I'm going to be seriously looking for fake fangs he paid a lot for. Europeans are so weird sometimes. What do you mean by gloves?

Excuse her, Ariadne's dying on her side of the table.

Ravn cants his head. "I probably own one. I don't have one with me here in the States, though."

His eyes sparkle with amusement. "Europeans are weird, are we. Tell her that as far as you're aware I'm perfectly normal and well balanced for a bloke who spent a considerable part of his youth playing his violin under the moon in the western tower."

A little amused gasp. "You do not own a walking stick!" the redhead giggles before she reaches for her phone again. Thumbs fly before she holds out the phone to show Ravn what's outgoing: I mean black kidskin gloves. He's pretty normal as a whole even if he did spend most of his childhood playing his violin under the moon in the western tower of his castle.

Off it goes.

Ariadne shoves two bites of cut toast into her mouth as fast as possible because she knows that if she doesn't get them down, they'll either be laughed all over the table or there's significant choke risk. She doesn't even immediately look at the phone when the return text comes. Instead, she works at swallowing her mouthful of coffee first and ends up cough-laughing once anyways.

Bzzt: I'm about ninety-nine percent sure you're dating a vampire aficionado because if he's really that weird, he's really good at blending in because I didn't catch that vibe at all from him when we talked. He just seemed quiet and starchy.

"She-hee-hee-hee-hee means proper," Ariadne argues before succumbing to chortling again.

Ravn looks outright entertained. "I've been called a lot worse than starchy. Also? By now, I'm going to seem outright dull compared to the picture she's imagining. She'll laugh her backside off, and we're past the social awkward. Mission accomplished."

He picks up another bite of toast; eating is easier when he is relaxed and feels in control of the situation and also, they really did forget dinner last night. "And I am a vampire aficionado, I suppose? Vampires play a substantial role in pop culture, which is part of my field. So, by all means, confirm that -- tell her I can rant for hours about these modern interpretations and how gentle and mournful really has de-fanged the archetype."

"Truly, mission accomplished." Literally fanning at her face and looking up to spare her mascara (or what's left of it), Ariadne blows a puff-cheeked sigh. More giggling. Ahem. She manages to at least get another mouthful of coffee down before Ravn has her laughing yet again.

The phone is picked up. "I'm going to actually use 'gentle' and 'mournful' too, by the way," she informs the Dane before thumbing in the text. It flies off as: Funny you should call him that because he can rant for hours about how modern interpretations have wrecked everything and god forbid anybody like Twilight around here because 'gentle' and 'mournful' has de-fanged the archetype.

Phone set down. They wait.

Bzzt: Okay, number one, no more vampire puns in this conversation, I don't care if he actually has a biting kink WHICH YOU NEVER SAID HE DIDN'T. I'm going to ask him to his face now. Number two, you're both giant nerds, so clearly you're meant for each other. Number three, never let him anywhere near Forks. In fact, tell him Forks is somewhere in Canada. He's from Europe, he'll believe it.

She's never going to finish her breakfast, Ariadne realizes, as she sets the phone down and proceeds to wheeze out laughter.

"Alas, this European knows how to read maps. Of course we don't have to tell her that. We'll just tell her I was so inspired by modern literature that when I saw an opportunity to live in a small town in Washington State where mists regularly turn night into day, I thought -- there is something here that calls to me. Somebody ought to write a book." Ravn smiles, beatifically.

He taps his lip. "Although, it'd be nice if perhaps they made it a little bit more young adult friendly. Why do the vampires always have to be the monsters? Don't monsters have feelings? Maybe it can be a story about connecting -- "

No, he can't. He has to reach for the coffee before he chokes on his own words. And yet, somehow he gives the impression that Anastasia might get that entire speech some day. In a slightly exaggerated accent. Under moonlight. While wearing black and refusing to comment on biting kinks.

Are those glimmering tears of amusement at the corners of her eyes?

Good chance they are. "Oh my fucking god, Ravn...!"

The Dane reaches for his coffee, his lover across the table disappears down onto her folded arms. "Shit," comes the muffled curse before she keeps laughing. "That's too many -- " Ariadne sits up and actually hiccups once. "That's too many words, you're going to have to summarize it shorter than this," she fully commentates while the phone lies there with its screen still lit up. Coffee. It's almost gone and she needs to finish it...if she can. While trying not to laugh.

"You're going to speechify at her about this, aren't you? Oh my god, you are." Her golden-hazel eyes are entirely too mirthful. "Look, all I ask is I'm around to hear this and I swear to god, I'll try to keep the straightest f -- "

Bzzt: Actually, take him to Forks one time, I want to hear about what he does.

Ravn glances shamelessly at the display. Privacy? Not in in this conversation, sorry. "I promise, if she is there with me, I will look around and say: What a perfect setting for a horror story! This is the kind of place the monsters might try to just live and pass for human. Not somewhere truly terrifying, not somewhere super cheerful and normal, but a place like this where people already think there's a sasquatch in the woods and things in the mist. Don't you think? And there's a reservation nearby, we could use some of their legends. Do you think they have vampires? They could be vampires fighting our noble vegetarian werewolves."

He pauses. "At this point she'll probably realise I'm pulling her leg, though."

I think I'll wait on Forks for a while, he's still got to sing to me about counting the bats flying around. This text flies off before Ariadne returns to the remaining half of her yolk-soaked toast.

"I almost guarantee Ana will recognize you're pulling her leg, yes. She's not a starry-eyed teenager. She's five years younger than me, sure, but do the math." Which equates to twenty-six. "Though...now I want to know." Her sense of funning dims but a thoughtful lumen or two. "Are there werewolves and vampires around here? Around Grey Harbor?"

Bzzt: LOL If he ever does this, I will about die. If he actually sings, I'm going to extra hate you. I mean, hell, have you looked him up? Seriously, go Google him.

Ravn is still desperately trying to not laugh into his coffee. "Bloody hell, girl. She makes it sound like I've got some deep bloody secret which only superior Google fu can reveal. As far as I'm aware, I don't. Makes me wonder what she found."

He puts the cup down and forks another bit of toast before giving the other question the serious attention it requires, silly as it might sound at first. "There are. I haven't met any, I don't know anyone who's met any. But the dreamscape is just around the other side of the Veil, and I think we've proved that if it ever existed, humans have told a story about it. Or if we ever told a story about it, it came to exist Pan narrans."

A thoughtful look. "It makes you wonder why we don't meet them -- but I suspect that at least in those modern incarnations, they're not primal enough. We have tamed the monsters, inflicted rules and agendas on them. The dolorphages like primal, untamed fears that you can't ward off with sufficient layers of rules lawyering."

Oh, the barista's giggling, believe it. Superior Google fu. That Ravn's struggling to avoid burbling up coffee? It's absolutely endearing.

Still, the barista listens well because this is, to her, an important question she'd asked. "I'm...a little surprised at how relieved I am to hear this." Ariadne's sigh gusts into her coffee cup before she sips deeply at it. Her own toast is gone now and the plate smeared with crumbs and droplets of yolk. "That maybe the things those...dolophages like to inflict aren't as...savvy at pretending to be humanity. That's a bonus in itself even if it means what actually shows up makes you wish you could pinch yourself awake and unfortunately, you can't. Thank god for rules lawyering."

Her phone is eyed. Slowly, the grin appears. "...let's see what she found."

Dunno yet if he sings. I haven't Google'd him yet, no, I've been dating him, wtf, think. What have you found though?

Off it flies.

"Yes. It's what makes Haggleford such a pain in the ass, he does know how our society works." Ravn nods his agreement -- and then makes an almost visible decision to not discuss the otherworldly abductor and apparently, arms dealer further at this time. Some topics ruin the mood every time, everywhere, always.

He leans in, instead. "I mean, I think I've seen everything about me out there. Don't think there are any big, horrible skeletons in my closet either -- I mentioned the Interpol file."

Haggleford. There's that name again. Ariadne's proven herself capable of catching those tells in the Dane's face and now's another instance of it. Her own brows start to knit in concern, but sensing how there's not any interest in the topic, she chooses too not to hare after it.

A topic which makes shadows slide across Ravn's handsome face is one she's not going to wade into lightly.

Bzzt: Check these out. And two pictures are attached.

"You did mention the Interpol file and I haven't been interested in looking into it. I know why it exists, you explained to it. That's all good," she assures her boyfriend as she picks up the phone.

And her eyebrows rise -- so do her eyes up to Ravn's face. "I see someone chose a bay in this one. The...the fur stole seems a little out-of-season for the amount of sunshine, but...I mean. Ana would definitely point these out to me." She turns the screen to face Ravn now, brows still lifted and something of a curious if sheepish smile on her face.

The wince on Ravn's face is definitely authentic as he looks. "Of course she'd find those. I find them horribly embarrassing but they're not terrible secrets -- they're pretty out there. Hell, the world cared more about Benedikte's supposed talent as a photographer after she died than it did while she was still alive. They reappear every now and then when some gossip rag does a 'ten most eligible bachelors you've never heard of' article back home."

"Good lord," mutters the barista. Still grimacing herself, she turns the phone around to consider the one with the fur stole for a second or two more. There's a subtle tilt to her head before she rolls her lips to one side in what must be partial recrimination. "How...about this. I can see where the talent lies -- like, the lighting, the framing, etc. But I...seriously cannot imagine having these things crop up again when it's involving an article like that. God, how...fucking intrusive."

Her look she gives Ravn is utterly sympathetic. "I'm sorry, emberem, that you have to go through this. What assholery on their part. Is there something you want me to tell her about these? Like, does Ana need to never bring them up again?"

"Tell her my ex-fiancee was into fashion photography and like the lovestruck sucker I was, I agreed to model for her." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "I mean, it's a little late to try to retcon those pictures out of existence. This is part of the package deal that's me -- morning press sometimes comes up with strange shit. Morning press loves strange shit."

He chuckles. "You've said a couple of times that I'm a private person. This is why. When you're me, when you're from the kind of world I'm from, you grow up knowing that there's always somebody watching. That anything you do or say in public may be that time somebody snapped a picture and had nothing more exciting to write about. Living in Gray Harbor helps insofar that people outside of this town tend to forget you exist."

By the tilt-tilt of Ariadne's head and nod to follow, it seems a good-enough answer. Her thumbs fly: His ex-fiancée was into fashion photography and he was pretty hard for her at the time, which is why he agreed to model. I don't think he would have done it otherwise. Swish, off the text flies and the phone is set down. Her fingers curl about her mug again and the remaining half-inch of coffee remaining. At this point, Sam's done sniffing around his toy box (eh, nothing interesting today, thinks he) and he comes over to pull the standard sighthound greeting: dog head plop on lap, ears lifted, pet my skull, human.

How not to oblige him? Ariadne begins gently smooshing around his head and he sighs. Yes, very good. "I'm understanding more and more why you want to stay here, bud. Man. I...really hope the world never figures out you're here. Maybe I'm a little bit selfish, but...I want you to be happy and not hounded too. And I'm a big girl, yeah? I tie my own sandals and everything." A wink -- yes, that was a quote from a Disney movie. "Those articles aren't going to make me feel insecure. If anything, I'm going to laugh to myself because look out world: he's all mine right now." Setting aside her hand, she seeks out one of Ravn's hands in turn to try for a gentle squeeze.

Bzzt: Yeah, I saw the ex, you're way prettier. You also don't look like you have a stick up your ass. Hopefully you can loosen him up, if you know what I mean. Of course there's a winking emoji attached. Ariadne cants her head to look at the screen and snort-laughs.

"...Phrasing," Ravn murmurs and quickly eats the rest of his egg. "Mind you, not wrong."

He lets his hand be captured and returns the squeeze. "I'm not a big deal celebrity. I'm only interesting to the gossip rags when there's absolutely nothing else to write about. I was never hounded besides for two times in my life: When Benedikte wanted to be, because she figured attention would be good for her career, and when she died and the tragedy made good press. You're a big girl, and you're the girl I want. There's nothing to feel insecure about, and I think you've known me long enough to know that. Society girls looking to add notches to their dating bedpost have never interested me, that's not about to change."

He glances at the phone. "And I'm sure your sister will give you plenty advice on how to thaw out Mr Darcy."

How delightful, the holding of hands. So simple, so sweet, so significant all at once. Ariadne's eyes twinkle as she shakes her head. Her smile is fondly exasperated.

"She's always thought herself quite the sex kitten as well. Hell if I know, it's not my business," the barista adds, her eyes redirecting to the phone screen. "But hey, maybe she has an idea or two." What a blatantly ridiculous eyebrow waggle at Ravn. "You're not cold or needing to be thawed anyways. What you are is a gentleman and a rarer breed, old-world manners. There's nothing wrong at all about that. Though what are my chances of seeing you in an ascot? About the same as a bowtie?" She gives her boyfriend an easy grin as she lets off petting Sam's head in order to reply to the text: Wouldn't you just like to know. Ping, there it goes.

Bzzt, not a second later: OMG YOU CAN'T DO THAT TO ME

Ariadne snorts. Pretty sure I can, you nosy nit.

Bzzt: I'm still asking him about the biting fetish.

Ariadne gives Ravn a look equal parts amused and consternating. Yeah, good luck with that too.

Bzzt: OMG LOL why you gotta date guys who won't answer questions? Mom will get answers out of him.

Another snort. Yeah, well, Mom doesn't know about him. AND THAT'S NOT AN INVITATION TO TELL HER. Let me. You know I'll murder you.

Bzzt: ilu

A beat. Ariadne looks up again. "...I think she may have told my mother already."

Ravn laughs helplessly, softly. He's highly entertained; after all, what is this if not working through a metric buttload of barriers that might otherwise prove awkward and stiff later on?

With a smile he suggests, "I'd say ascot is more likely. My aversion against it all -- you realise it's not really about the clothes. It's about the whole putting on a mask and pretending you're suddenly better than everybody else because your suit was tailored."

Pause. Shameless reading of texts. "Oh my. So, next, mum joins the conversation? Time for group DMs? Don't mind me, I'm thinking about making popcorn."

"Ohhhhhhhhhh no, mister. It's not Mom texting. It's Mom calling -- and she knows I have my phone near me, so it's either answer or face the wrath of the text of 'why do you have a phone when you don't answer it?' It's the worst."

Ariadne sighs down at the phone. "I can't believe she told her, oh my godddddddddddddd," she grumbles as she mooshes up her own face momentarily. Sam sighs. Excuse me, madame. "Yeah, one sec, Sam, hold on." Gotta reply to the text anyways: You are, in fact, the worst.

Bzzt: But ilu still and how was I supposed to not? Mom's got to do her own research. You want her grilling your guy in front of you?

"Sounds like I should invent whiskey infused popcorn," Ravn notes, still amused. "Isn't this better than her grilling me behind your back at least?"

He sips his coffee. He's enjoying this whole scene far too much. Maybe because he's seen it play out before -- your TA is a what -- and while people do tend to get over it all pretty fast, it's still a song and dance routine that bores the hell out of him at most times. That, or worse, they don't get over it pretty fast and it gets awkward.

One of the things he hates the very most in this life is people acting as if his opinion is somehow so much more important than somebody else's, just because he's got a better credit standing. He hates it. He has no words for how much he hates the responsibility that comes with it. With great power comes and then we punch Uncle Ben in the face because actually, no, the world will have to save itself.

"I mean, yeah, I'd rather she grill you in front of me so I can cut it off if it gets too bad. Not that you can't do this either, but I don't mind redirecting to me because I'm good at this kind of thing." Shrugging, the barista decides Sam deserves at least another minute or so of smooshy-head. Another sigh from the sighthound. Ravn's still-captured hand gets another squeeze. "I guess this also means we'll be invited to dinner sooner than later, probably out on the town. My dad's going to want to eat someplace nice if he can manage it. Maybe Anthony's or the oyster house. Maybe the Six Seven."

One shoulder shrugs and the bathrobe wants to fall off of it; it nearly does. "It means you'll have to get a little bit fancy. Do you mind that?"

For now, the phone remains silent.

"No, I don't mind that." Ravn squeezes the captured hand lightly. "Your family sounds like they love you and care for you, Ariadne. That's a rare treasure. I'm very happy to play along. I wish I could return the favour but the truth of the matter? I present you to my aunts, the first question is going to be, but she's not from family and the second is going to be, she works as a what. And I think maybe we shouldn't mention that to your family because frankly, neither you nor they deserve the snubbing."

Bzzt: Please don't hate me ilu

Ariadne's eyes fall to the phone. "Frickin' dork," she grumbles and yet again abandons Sam's head. He grumbles and realizes there's another human with hands. Over to Ravn he goes and stands there, the epitome of silent hopefulness, from doe-brown eyes to slow-wagging tail. Pets head please?

Back the text flies: I still love you. Just no more to Mom, okay? This is my business.

Bzzt: Okay promise cross my heart. I want to talk to him more anyways. Bet you they're going to ask about dinner next.

A sigh. Yeah, I'm waiting on Mom to call any moment now. Maybe I'll get a day.

Bzzt: LOL and pigs will fly.

That makes Ariadne laugh enough to put down the phone. "I guess it's a family saying. Don't -- don't make pigs fly in front of her," she says with a point of finger at Ravn. "And...as usual, politely, your aunts can go jump off a bridge." Flutter of saucy eyelashes. "I won't bring them up in conversation. But what if my parents ask about your family?"

Ravn blithely reaches to scratch Sam's head. Somebody's got to, and he's got a free hand. Not a dog person. Possibly becoming a Sam person.

"Well, my parents are dead," he replies. "I don't really have any other immediate family but those aunts. I do have a fair bit of extended family but none that I'm close to. So I suppose that is the answer. I'm pretty much on my own, at least where in-laws they might have to deal with are concerned."

Sam lets out a soft doggy groan of appreciation. Pianist hands? Good for scritchies. Violinist hands? Equally good for scritchies. The last human his owner kept around was terrible at head scritchies. The dog wonders about keeping this human around now.

Ariadne? One can see her slump about her edges. Her expression grows eloquent of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Ravn. God. No...no fucking wonder. Oh, dearheart." Another squeeze of his hand, though this time, it's followed by her bringing his knuckles to her lips to hold a kiss to them. "Well. I've got a family who's very interested in meeting you?"

Bzzt: You have to tell me what mom says after she calls.

"I'm not signing the adoption papers until I've actually met them," Ravn returns, amused. He strokes Ariadne's cheek lightly with a finger tip now that his hand is in her face anyhow. "But I think I might take up trolling your sister for a new hobby."

And scritching the dog. Maybe the dog will indeed decide to keep him, too.

He cants his head to see that last text and then says, amused, "Maybe you should just call her and get it done with."

"You, sir, are potentially the worst." This in response to his possibly acquiring a new hobby. Ariadne still doesn't sound like she's condemning the idea; a part of her smirks to think about Anastasia coming up against the wittiness of the Dane. She does lean into the finger's touch and her mien softens into fondness again. A shadow of the former sympathy still lingers in the back of her eyes.

Sam is certainly considering keeping the tall human. He continues leaning into the head scritchies, mmm, delightful.

"And I think you want to listen in on that conversation. I'm onto you, mister." Smirking, Ariadne thumbs a text back to her sister: I'll tell you what she says after, yes.

Bzzt: omg you're the best. I'm happy for you!

"A bit," Ravn admits. "Because this is honestly quite hilarious. However, that's also all it is, and if you want me to go take a shower or something meanwhile, I will."

He smiles. "Or I can take somebody for a walk around the block. I'm nosy but, you know. Only so much."

Did somebody say 'walk'? Samwise extricates his head out from under Ravn's hand to perk ears at him. Excuse me, what? You said what?

Ariadne can't help laughing. "You just doomed yourself anyways, bud. If you're comfortable taking him for a little one, he could use a sniff-walk. It's a very meandering kind of walk, where you just let him use his nose but you stick to the path. Like...checking the pee-mail around the mailboxes and telephone lines and stuff. No rabbits or anything crazy like -- "

And then. Because of course: her phone starts jingling and vibrating on the table. Brrrt -- brrrt -- some standard ringtone -- brrrt. The caller ID? Momma

Ariadne stares -- and like a prisoner about to receive a sentencing, reaches to answer the phone. "Mommmmm, hiiiiiiiiiiiii."

Good job, look and sound slightly guilty there, Ariadne.

Ravn laughs softly again and rises. "Come on, boy. Let's go sniff all the lamp posts. Water them too, can't have them wilt on us."

He doesn't mind letting Sam walk him around the block for fifteen. It's as good a time as any for himself to have a cigarette in the fresh, open air, and not bother anyone with it. And to laugh quietly to himself about the morning's text conversation. And of course, to tell Sam that as far as he's concerned, he's Sam's dad now.