2022-06-28 - Friends Don't Let Friends Buy Fibreglass Violins

Una Irving is not, generally speaking, a regular at Pâtisserie Vydal, probably because she's mortally afraid of fangirling over its proprietor should he ever be around: one cannot be a dedicated home baker without having a firm appreciation for artistry, and one can't be Una without... well, a deep willingness to make anything awkward. There is a difference, however, between not being a regular and cutting one's self off from things delicious and beautiful, and so it is that the redhead, on this cloudy summer's afternoon, has found herself at a table towards the back of the seating area, with mille-feuille and a café au lait, and an expression that is unquestionably satisfied.

It is so good, you guys.

Ravn Abildgaard is a regular; whether he's a regular patron or a regular antagonist is somewhat up for debate. The handsome young man behind the counter is named David, and Ravn is around enough that he can just ask for 'the usual' -- which is coffee, black, and a slice of the Patisserie's quite excellent coffee cake. Which he is then going to sit at a table and dissect and not actually do a whole lot of eating, and that's where the antagonism comes in: His bad eating habits drives Vyvyan Vydal bonkers.

Sometimes Vydal and he meet up at lunch time. Vydal must have a secret masochistic gene -- something which David would otherwise deny, because like the rest of the Patisserie's employees, David fears his boss' sharp tongue. Vydal is known to be Opinionated.

He quirks an eyebrow upon walking in today, and then raises a hand at David -- thumbs up, the usual please -- before drifting towards Una's table. "Want company? Or are you worshipping in silent reverie?"

Ravn's approach-- or more to the point, his comment-- draws an immediate blush from Una, and a somewhat guilty, embarrassed smile. "No, join away," she assures, hastily. "The pastry and I were having a moment, but I think we can keep a hold on ourselves. This kind of thing is such a massive pain in the ass to make, so I don't, but--"

But it's so good.

"You're going to pick something apart and make me cry, aren't you. No, no, don't worry. I'm not judging. Has your face pissed anyone off yet today?"

"If Vydal turns up, he'll probably be getting that odd eye twitch again," Ravn murmurs ruefully. "I don't actually intend to make him twitchy. His coffee cake is very, very good. The goat cheese galette is my other favourite."

He pulls out a chair and plonks down on it. Today's black t-shirt reads, An Apple A Day Keeps Anyone Away If You Throw Hard Enough. Credit to Ariadne Scullin for introducing Ravn to the fine art of t-shirt trolling. His world is greatly expanded.

Una's comment draws a slightly embarrassed sounding chuckle, though, and the folklorist shakes his head. "I honestly have no idea what that was about. I have that effect on some people -- but usually it's after somebody else introduces me as the Count the whatever."

Una's smile turns sympathetic, and it is probably for Ravn himself rather than Vyv, or, indeed, the coffee cake. It's not Ravn's fault he can't ingest like a normal human being... and it is, in fact, a tragedy.

She sets down her fork in order to reach for her coffee, taking a quick sip of it and considering the topic at hand around the cup's rim. "I had to think about it afterwards," she says. "I've met him exactly twice: when you got glitter-bombed, and then again when he was hunting for something lost and found it in your yard. The fae were clearly an issue, but beyond that... I can't see what you possibly could have done to offend, though he seemed to have a real thing about rainbows and glitter."

It's beyond her. "It may be that he's just an asshole."

"I mean, being afraid of the fae is common sense. The only reason I'm not up in arms about them is that Petra had me at age seven, and he let me go. And even knowing that I will acknowledge that sidhe are immortal creatures who can afford to play the long game. If somebody was to come tell me a faerie circle opened up in their yard on say, Spruce Street, I'd give the same advice that Robin bloke has for us: Stay the hell away from them, faerie are trouble." Ravn nods slightly.

He smiles at David as his coffee and a delicious looking slice of the Patisserie's most excellent coffee cake is delivered to their table. "May Himself be in a good mood today," he tells the younger man. Maybe it's some kind of ritual among Vydal's employees, and others who know just how perfectionist the pastry chef is.

Then he looks back at Una. "In Danish folklore, faerie aren't always trouble. A lot of them live near and with humans, in a kind of symbiotic relationship. You have some of that as well, in brownies and other little helper spirits. It's understood that as long as the farm faerie get their plate of porridge, the cows will remain healthy and produce lots of milk. And as long as everyone pretends to not notice that one barrel of beer always vanishes after brewing day, the rest of the beer will be excellent. That sort of thing. But always with the potential to do severe harm if agreements aren't honoured."

Then the folklorist hitches a shoulder lightly. "I'm trying to teach myself these days that it's not up to me to unite us all. Unity is a big thing for me -- that we have each other's backs, that we can trust one another. But I only get to open the door. I don't get to shove people through it. If the affair with Brennon and her experiments taught me anything at all, it's that. Sometimes, people don't want to be on the same team I'm on. And I have no right to tell them that they have to."

Conflicted, Una hesitates over her response, though it's clear she's giving significant consideration to what Ravn has to say. She pauses in that in order to smile at David, waiting until the young man is gone again before leaning in to continue listening.

Finally, "I suppose I'd just rather that we were all on the same team. Because the idea of having to trust my back with someone who isn't-- that bothers me. Worries me. Everyone doesn't have to be best friends or anything ridiculous like that. But... ugh, I hate conflict. And I hate people waving their metaphorical dicks around even more."

It's enough to put a person off of their pastry, except that it's not, not really. "I wish our agreement with the fae were less... amorphous. I suppose that's the point, isn't it? They don't like to be pinned down. I don't think they're necessarily trouble either, though. But still, we do absolutely need to tread carefully."

"I wish we could all be on the same team." Ravn nods slightly and toys with his spoon; so far, the cake slice survives unscathed. "I really do. But I remember one of the first times I said something like that, at the coffee house I think. I was talking with a librarian who had helped me find some books -- and her boyfriend I think. And out of nowhere, the boyfriend informed me that this is not how it works in Gray Harbor. It's every man for himself, and if the zombies come, he'd be happy to throw an asthmatic sucker like me to them and run to save his own life."

He shrugs a bit. "And I have to accept that. That not everyone wants to be one for all and all for one. Brennon wants to be your friend. She also made it pretty damn clear that for some reason or other mine is not a face she wants to see again. I have no idea what I have done to her, and I am not owed one. Same with that kid yesterday. You can't make people like you or trust you. All any of us can do is put ourselves out there and say, this is who I am, this is what I can contribute. And sometimes, it's just not good enough."

The set of Una's mouth turns mulish-- and then sad. "I think it was my fault," she says. "With Ava. I thought it would make sense for us both to be there, so that we could all talk about the faerie ring at the same time, and not play telephone or anything. But she wanted to talk to me, and then it just made things awkward and weird. So I'm sorry that I dragged you into that. I wasn't thinking. That's entirely on me, not on you. Not even really on Ava, because she was wrong-footed and that's not helpful when you're already being vulnerable."

Ravn shakes his head. "Don't blame yourself for trying to be a team player. Given that this all does affect all three Oak Avenue properties, mine in particular, I did have a place in that conversation. If she wanted to speak to only you, she should have told you as much."

He hitches a shoulder again, lightly. "I have no idea what I've done to her, but whatever it is, it's bad. Maybe I said something at the masquerade -- that's the last time I saw her, being dragged off by the police chief. I'll admit that I've felt like saying a great deal of bad things -- the woman tried to poison half the town and as far as I'm aware, she's pretty damned unrepentant about it. She's very lucky that almost no one knows, or she'd be facing charges -- from the Casino, and from the people she drugged. She's lucky she works for the GHPD and has a policeman boyfriend because people already expect the fuzz to cover for its own. Apologising to you and Jules was a good step. It will still be a long time before I trust that woman to not rush head first into anything, and not caring how many others she tosses under the bus."

Una, however, seems determined to dress herself in sackcloth and ashes. "I didn't exactly warn her," she points out, pausing with a forkful of her pastry hovering somewhere between plate and mouth. "And I should have. How could she have known I'd bring someone? I'm not saying she didn't fuck up, because she absolutely did, but... so did I. I'm just not convinced that it was you personally she was upset with, so much as it being anyone. But," she inclines her head forward, "I can't blame you for not trusting her. I'm trying to, but I know it's going to take time."

She shakes her head, sadly. "At least the plants are going. I hope whatever they're doing, whatever complicating factor there is, it all gets done soon. Their very existence makes me uncomfortable."

Ravn nods slightly and reaches for his coffee cup (cake, you're still unharmed). "If she's moving ahead and cleaning up after the mess she made, then on some level, all's well that ends well. The best way to prove herself trustworthy is to, well, not do something like this another time, and it did sound like she doesn't intend to. I don't know whether 'What Would Jules Do' is the answer given Jules' own penchant for rushing into fights -- but it's definitely a step up. And 'What Would Ravn Do' is not the answer either, because most of the time, my answer would be mind your own business and don't try to run other people's lives for them, and that's not very helpful advice either."

He shrugs lightly, again. "It doesn't really matter. Brennon and that kid yesterday. Maybe there's a misunderstanding. Maybe they just don't like my face. Either way, people are entitled to their opinions and views. And I will admit on my end that I do come across both pretentious and arrogant sometimes. That I sound like I think I have some kind of universal truth on tap and if people will just fall in line behind me, then all is well in the world. Neither would be the first to tell me that. I try hard to not come across like Professor Know-It-All but I often fail."

The door opens and who should the proverbial cat drag in but Itzhak Rosencrantz, schnozz and all. He looks like he's had a long night and not of the fun variety. Maybe that's why he's here instead of the Griz, so someone will give him coffee without making him listen to math rock.

He's got that perpetually hungover rock star vibe behind his mirrored aviators as he slouches towards the counter, six foot plus of ink and rough trade in desperate need of something to take the pain away.

"And 'What Would Una Do' is definitely not the answer either, since my answer to most things is going to be 'hell no, are you crazy?'," agrees Una, allowing one corner of her mouth to twist upwards. This time, finally, she eats her piece of pastry (and despite the subject matter, can't help but smile as she does so: so good).

"Mm," she adds, having chewed and swallowed and considered her coffee again. "Sometimes I think we're hard-wired into resenting other people knowing things we don't. As a culture, maybe, so maybe that's less hard-wiring and more programming, I'm not sure. But I know you don't think you know everything. So do most people. Some people just like to think--"

She and Ravn are at a table towards the back of the seating area, the redhead facing forwards. She's looking at Ravn more than watching for anyone on their way in or not, but Itzhak's a noticeable enough figure, and evidently she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye, because she glances up, distracted, if only for a moment or two.

"Worst. I guess."

Ravn looks up and then raises his coffee cup in a lazy salute to the Morning After Musician. He indicates a chair with a nod; there's room for more here once relief has been acquired. He finds himself wondering if the Patisserie sells headache pills. Strong coffee they can manage, at least. Fill 'im up, David the counter jockey.

Then he nods. "It's true. Somebody lecturing you tends to come with inherent criticism: If you only knew what I know, then you'd be a better person, like me. I'm going to try to rein it in a bit. I forget, in company of people like you or Ariadne, who are happy to hear crazy things and then tell me some of your own in return."

A giant bowl of foamy cappuccino later, Itzhak slumps into the offered seat. He pulls off his sunglasses to hang them in the neck of his tank top, revealing that his eyes are every bit as tired as his body language suggests. Yet he smiles crookedly at Una and elbows Ravn. Or elbows the back of Ravn's chair, so as to avoid touching him. "Yo."

"I don't understand people who don't want to hear crazy things," admits Una. "I just like knowing things, hearing things. The world's too interesting, too full of new and crazy things, for anyone to be satisfied, surely."

Alas. Not everyone agrees.

She offers Itzhak a brief, somewhat tentative, smile in return, brown eyes taking just a moment to study him; his tiredness, at least. "Hi," she says. And then, after a moment's pause: "You look... tired."

"You look like you just came back from playing Woodstock. Did Sitka turn from jazz to hard rock?" Ravn shoots his friend a curious look as well.

He offers the other man a small, lopsided smile. "Tell us you've been doing something exciting so we can press you for details instead of sitting here talking about people who hate us for reasons they won't tell us."

"Nineteen seventy nine, Daytona. Was I supposed to not drive when the NYC team lost their driver?" Itzhak mumbles into the cappuccino. Slurp. "I just wanted a piss, forgot about the goddamn doors. We lost by half a second, so that one's on me, but in my defense I ain't driven a track in years."

The tentative smile from Una gets a solemn wink in return, a 'don't think I don't see you' kinda wink.

Una? Why yes, her pastry is abruptly very, very interesting. Nothing to see here!

This does not prevent her from picking up the conversation, mind, and from asking (as she carefully sections off another piece of the pastry-and-cream concoction), "But it was fun, at least? I hope. Sounds like a better door than some of them. A lot of them, even. Sorry that you didn't win for them, though."

"Tell me about it," Ravn murmurs. "Every second time I go to the bathroom on the Vagabond I end up lost in time."

He picks up his spoon and finally uses it for its intended purpose -- dissecting his slice of coffee cake. Some might argue that the point here is to eat it. They're probably right. He's still just going to dissect it.

Itzhak's smile deepens as Una avoids looking at him. "Yeah well, you win some, you spin some out into the wall." Shrug. That's life in the big city, kid. "Yeah, it was fun," he admits, "but I can think of a lot more things I woulda rather been doing. You better eat that before I do," he adds to Ravn.

"I thought falling through the oven was bad," admits Una, bravely glancing back up with a rueful smile. She scoops up her piece of pastry, but doesn't yet try and eat it; these things do need to happen in stages, after all. "But the bathroom's not much fun either. I'll be glad once I can trust a door to take me where I expect it to, and not-- well, whenever, wherever. Some of them are... more fun than others. And some moments are better than others; I think that's the real trick."

Now she'll eat her pastry. Priorities.

Ravn puts his spoon down and nudges his plate over to Itzhak. He's well aware how annoying his habit of buying food and then not eating is, to other people. Annoying people is not the point.

"I've yet to experience a fun one," he murmurs. "But at least I haven't been tossed into ancient Rome or the Ice Age with somebody who hates me either, so small mercies. I dread the moment that happens, and you know it will. The Veil is not going to miss out on an opportunity like that."

"Who hates you?" Itzhak demands, just before scooping up Ravn's coffee cake and chomping into it. Swallow, "Show me so I can punch 'em. Then they'll hate me too and we can get pulled through together."

Rosencrantz logic. While he is absolutely watching Una eat her pastry. Out of the corner of his eye, but he's watching all right.

"Most of them seemed fun, at first," says Una, with a sigh. "That's always the trick. Seems fun-- interesting, at least-- and then boom, Vesuvius, misappropriated violins--"

She breaks off, blushing abruptly. Yeah, that other one is not getting mentioned. Being watched eating is significantly less embarrassing.

"Anyway. Robin doesn't matter, and Ava... I don't think she'd work against you, anyway. Robin might, I don't know."

"I'm not a conspiracy theorist." Ravn offers a small, wry smile. "People have better things to do with their lives than plot against me. But the Veil does pounce on opportunities and insecurities, and it's only a matter of time. I've wondered many times why it didn't land me in some Dream with that guy who wanted to sacrifice me to save his own life. The only explanation I have is that maybe he left town and it can't get to him."

He hitches a shoulder lightly at Itzhak. "Brennon's pissed off at me for some reason, and some kid named Robin called me a pretentious dick. Neither are a big deal. Hell, the latter is kind of funny, really -- at least until we end up depending on one another in some Dream. That's what the whole deal is about, after all -- being on the same team, being able to trust that we're all trying to save one another's asses."

"Brennon?" Itzhak says, frowning. "What for? Eh she'll get over it." Further Rosencrantz logic.

Having ravished Ravn's poor helpless coffee cake right there on the table in front of everyone, he sits back cradling the bowl of cappuccino. Something Una says really catches his attention, though. "What about a violin?"

Una's already said her piece on the subject of both Ava and Robin, and doesn't seem inclined to comment further, now, dropping her attention back towards her pastry--

-- but only for a moment. The subject of the violin has her abruptly sets down her fork, looking-- 'guilty' is the wrong word, because she's definitely not taking this on herself per se, but it's some distant cousin of guilt, perhaps. Guilt-by-association. Guilt's slightly less dramatic step-sister.

"We," she begins to explain, "lost Ravn's violin in Rome. Fucking Nero has-- had?-- it."

Ravn makes a little face. A combination of embarrassment and a wry smile. "If anyone tells you Nero can't have fiddled while Rome burned because the violin was not invented yet, they're wrong. He absolutely did. The bastard took mine."

He sips his coffee; that, at least, doesn't get stuck in his throat like solid food does. "I am going to need to acquire a new one. I don't think I'll be getting that one back."

Now there's something you don't see every day: Itzhak at a loss for words. He blinks at Ravn, then at Una. Then back to Ravn. "Ya joking me. You're joking, right? You gave your violin to actual Nero so he could actually fiddle while actual Rome actually burned?"

"I'm not sure it really counts as giving," murmurs Una, whose mouth has twisted up into an awkward little smile, and-- yes, okay, there's maybe a small amount of amusement for lost-for-words-Itzhak.

"And I'm pretty sure what he did with it doesn't count as fiddling, either."

Ravn makes a face. "There was definitely no giving. And history better be glad Una was there to hold me back, or I'd have strangled him with the strings, in the name of music."

He visibly shudders at the memory. A part of him is still crying deep inside, at the memory. Particularly the part where the neckbeard asshole tried to slam it against his hip to find out if it was some kind of percussion instrument.

And then a tiny troll rears its head inside the Dane. "I am thinking of looking into electric, maybe. There are a lot of beautiful fibreglass designs..."

He winks at Una. Hold on to your resident race driver, ma'am, he may flee screaming now.

"Jesus, dude." There's nothing but stunned awe in Itzhak's tone. "That... Is epic. I mean. If you gotta lose your fiddle."

The guy who sacrificed his own fiddle to placate a murderous ghost would know.

Then he sets his giant coffee bowl thing down hard enough to make the rest of the dishes rattle. "Excuse eh moi the fuck outta me, fiberglass? Fiberglass?? Una are you hearing this?! Friends don't let friends play fiberglass!"

Everybody in the shop is looking over, some nervous because a big tough looking guy is yelling.

Una caught that wink, and grins, but it's fair to say that she did not quite anticipate how trollish that comment actually was. One hand lifts to try and cover her reaction, but her eyes are all-but dancing with mirth, so it's not exactly effective.

"I think you've been outvoted," she tells Ravn, drawing her hand away from her mouth again. "No fibreglass. Itzhak will never forgive you, otherwise, and that would be sad."

Ravn grins slightly; a rare, lopsided grin that actually shows a bit of teeth. Trolling successful; and if half the shop is staring, it's not him they're staring at, so that's fine, too. "Actually I'm thinking maybe I should requisition something custom built -- then I can also have a custom paint job. I don't want to invest in something so valuable that a Roman bastard stealing it from me would be a disaster. And given I don't perform, I don't need a Stradivarius exactly, either."

"Look, don't get me wrong, fiberglass has its place, on the body of a car not a violin! A violin needs tonewood, it needs aging, it needs to come alive in your hands!" Itzhak's own hands are busy, describing form and sound the way only a mover musician who hears the glimmer can describe it. "Fiberglass, may as well play a dead fish, feh!"

Yep he's still going. But he stops at the idea of a custom violin. "You gotta spend all that money somehow, right? Cripes, hang on, my phone is goin' off." He gets up and retreats outside, where he lights up a cigarette and starts talking in loud cheerful Yiddish to whoever is on the other end of the line.

Una's grin softens into something more thoughtful-- and maybe a little intense, which is the opposite of softening, but go figure, somehow it works-- as Itzhak talks: she's watching his hands.

It means it takes her a moment to register when he stops, and takes off, at which point she's glancing back at Ravn, and then there's that amusement again. "A custom paint job, huh? Though I bet if you put too much into it... well, no. The Veil has taken one violin for you, it probably won't try the same trick again." Probably.

"I can't play a dead fish," Ravn points out with perfect calm. "My cat would kill me for taking her things."

He doesn't seem very surprised to see the other man eat cake and run, so to speak; that's how Itzhak Rosencrantz is, and catching him seated in one place for long is rare. Instead, he dips into his pocket to fish out that old cell phone of his, in its just as old and battered, sparkly pink Hello Kitty casing. A few taps and he's holding it over for Una to see. "I'm thinking of something like this maybe. A kind of classic colour scheme that goes well with black and my own hair colour -- which is very vain, I know, but as our mutual friend of the grand gestures and the sexy Aviators just pointed out, I have to spend that money on something. Why not?"

Una leans in to get a better look, and lets out a little happy sound. "I like it," she says, approvingly. "It makes sense to me. Your violin... it should make you happy. I know you said the old one wasn't particularly special, but you're settled, now: it makes sense to have something you care about. Even if you're only playing for yourself."

She reclaims her coffee, now, giving what is probably intended as an approving nod. "Why not, indeed."

Ravn nods and calls up another picture. "I'm oddly attracted to this one too, but I think the colour scheme will end up looking like I'm trying to make some kind of Pride statement. Not that I have any qualms about being an ally, but when I play, the statement I want to make is 'music gives me pleasure'."

He chuckles and nods. "I don't want an instrument that belongs in a museum or in the hands of somebody who can share it with the world. I want an instrument that is quality enough to give me pleasure, but I also don't feel bad about being too anxious to really play where others can hear. Some things are too fine to be kept for just one man's pleasure, you know?"

"Oh, but the way that one works with the grain of the wood..." Una has to lean in again to get a better look, and her eyes light. "And the colours. I like them both, and I can see where you're getting that point from, but-- I think that one's my favourite, of the two."

Her nod's slower, this time, and more thoughtful. "That makes sense. You don't want a violin that puts pressure on you. I imagine that would be exactly the right way to make you not want to play at all. And better, anyway, to get something that speaks to you."

Ravn chuckles and sips his coffee and looks a little sheepish. "That's just about spot on. I never invested in a valuable instrument because I don't feel I'm special enough to warrant hoarding something antique and gorgeous for just me. And I never invested in a custom built, but not particularly valuable instrument because I was travelling, and let's be fair -- it's easy to lose an instrument or have it stolen or damaged in transit. But I do live somewhere now where I'm not prone to some random airport official throwing the case too hard. I may have a Roman emperor steal my instrument but hopefully, that's not a common occurrence."

He glances out at the street. Looks like Rosencrantz is off again -- not that he's very surprised at it, that's the way the man functions. Then his grin turns sheepish again. "Maybe I'll tell Ariadne to choose. Some day I will play for her, and then she's the one who has to look at it."

"Itzhak was right," says Una after a moment, and with an outright laugh. "I mean, it makes for a great story, when you put it like that. A Roman emperor, stealing your violin. All of that makes sense, though."

Her gaze flicks after Ravn's, after Itzhak, but comes back, firmly. The sheepishness of Ravn's grin makes her grin in turn. "You haven't played for her yet? There you go: take her shopping with you, and once she's picked, you'll play for her. There's a way to make her feel important and special... not that I imagine you're failing on that part."

"I'm not very good at playing for others," Ravn murmurs. "It feels very -- selfish. I keep hoping maybe we'll end up somewhere that has a violin and a piano. Then we could play together, instead of me standing there like I expect to be applauded and told I'm a good boy."

Una makes a face, pretty much immediately. "I'd probably feel the same," she admits. "Too much like being on display. Playing together, though-- that sounds like a much better idea. Though," she inclines her head forward. "I bet she'd like to hear you play anyway. Play something you know she'll love, and make it a gift, if you can manage that."

Another glance goes towards the door. Then Ravn occupies his gaze on his coffee cup. "Amazing how vulnerable caring for somebody makes you feel, isn't it? You want to share everything that matters to you with them, and at the same time, you're terrified they'll see behind the mask and find out what you're really like."

"To be fair," says Una, not looking at Ravn, or the door, or indeed anything at all except-- yes, pastry, right. "I think I feel that way with most people. I suppose less of the sharing everything that matters, but more about the 'what if people see beneath the mask'. I can see how that gets... worse. I have to hope that it gets easier; that eventually, you convince each other that there's nothing to worry about. That you are seen, for all of you, and accepted."

Beat. "I don't think I even know how to share what matters. We-- well, some of us-- spend so much time hiding pieces of ourselves."

Ravn can't help a small, wry chuckle. "Yes. That's what it's like. Not not wanting to share. It's not knowing how. Fortunately for me, Scullin is pretty confident. She does not need me to validate her or to prove to her that she's good enough. She just is, and if somebody doesn't like what she is, they can go talk to somebody else. And that means I can relax a little, too."

He picks up the spoon that Itzhak abandoned and toys with it. "It's hard, sometimes, to understand why others feel they have to hide. You're -- well, you're the kitchen cleric. Everyone wants in on the magic. Everyone wants to be part of the porch and kitchen circle. You think of yourself as just the person who provides pastries but in reality, you're an anchor for a lot of us. The world and the town may be going to Hell, but there's always going to be a pot on and a cookie at Una Irving's."

Una turns pink pretty much immediately, and if she weren't already ducking her gaze, she'd definitely be doing it now. "And you're you. You know so much about so many things, you're one of the first people anyone ends up talking to when they arrive in town, which makes you in the middle of everything, and-- I don't know. That's the thing, isn't it? We all look at other people and wonder what it is they see in themselves that's so bad. But I'm pretty sure we all have something, no matter how confident we may seem."

She sets aside her fork, glancing up. "I admire Ariadne so much, how she manages that, though. She just is, and it's remarkable. I'm better than I used to be, about owning things I like, even if they make me feel weird. But there's so much-- well. There just is. There probably always will be. I'm glad people see me as the kitchen cleric. There are so many worse ways a person can be seen."

"The thing is, we will always be an ideal to strive for, to somebody. And an abomination to avoid at all costs to somebody else." Ravn looks into his cup; where did the coffee go? David, bring him another, please. "I'm willing to make you a bet and win it right here, that you've thought -- kitchen cleric? Is that all I'm good for, baking cookies and talking to people? But you love baking, and you're damned good at talking to people."

He hitches a shoulder lightly. "Just like to some, I'm a source of information that they need in order to survive here. And to others I'm a pretentious know-it-all who thinks he's got any right telling them what to do. We have to look at ourselves and decide for ourselves what we're going to be. And that is often -- very difficult."

Being seen is... kind of the worst, actually. Una's expression is utterly pained, and no, there's no way she can take that bet: Ravn's entirely right, of course. "I guess," she allows, falling short of mulishness, but only barely.

"That's the problem, isn't it? It is difficult. And being vulnerable is difficult. And accepting that you're going to be some people's cup of tea, and not others'... that's maybe even more difficult. I can never tell if I'm happy to be seen as the kitchen cleric and nothing more-- it's not a bad thing!-- or if it bothers me. Both, I suppose. It can be both. But people looking deeper-- well, we've already acknowledged that, haven't we? There are no easy answers here."

"Don't underestimate social status. Being a woman running a good kitchen and keeping the family together isn't high status in our society. It's something women are supposed to just do, on top of everything else." Ravn nods slightly. "I have the opposite issue -- I feel like I have been given a whole hand's worth of access cards to everything good in life, and I haven't done a thing to earn any of them. And because of that, people look at me, and all they see is this nobody claiming all kinds of credit he's never earned. The quintessential rich white guy just throwing money at problems until they become Somebody Else's Problem."

He chuckles. "And then I spend time with a marine biologist who can talk for four hours about a family group of orcas in Puget Sound and how their fins look different from one another, and how that one has a different temper from that one, and these are the kinds of squid they like. And I am reminded that this is who I am too -- I'm a nerd with a PhD. It's okay to be a geek about things you love. And there's always going to be somebody scoffing at passion, no matter what the passion is."

Una's not yet finished her coffee and takes a moment to do so, now, as she listens intently to what Ravn has to say. There's a wry smile around the rim of her cup for the first few remarks-- and then something broader and more satisfied for the rest.

"I feel like a terrible feminist," she admits. "For wanting to lean in to all the traditionally feminine things. I'm not looking to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, mind you, but--" But. "Society plays a real number on us, I suppose. Trying to convince us of the utility and importance of our passions, and trying to shame us in different ways. For doing; for not doing. Sometimes both at the same time, about the same things."

She dips her chin. "I suppose that's what matters: finding the people who don't scoff at your passion. Even if that means being vulnerable, and letting people see you."

Ravn cants his head. "And here I thought the whole point of feminism was to let women do what they bloody well want to do. And if that's baking cookies -- hell, even if it's being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen -- that's their choice. I'm pretty certain the point of feminism isn't to turn women into carbon copies of traditional male gender roles. If it is, I want to return my ally card."

David procures another cup and nets himself a small smile in thanks. Then the copper blond chuckles with that lopsided grin of his. "I'm from a pretty traditional background. Conservative upbringing. Definite and clearly marked gender roles. And I remember thinking as a teenager that I wished I could get into cooking and baking and knitting, because any of the three would have pissed my parents off to no small extent. Cooking I could possibly have gotten away with, provided I did the right kind -- fine cuisine, the kind you do to impress."

Per Ravn's comment on fine cooking: "Think I might be holding you to that attempt."

Assassin Ariadne! When did she sneak in the door? She's still wearing her Espresso Yourself apron so this must be a work errand on the fly, she with the car and the wallet available. Are they short pastries in the glass displays at the coffee shop? Maybe it's am impromptu birthday. Either way, Eleanor must have called ahead because there's the little white box and there goes the redhead again, though not without a kiss to the Dane's coppery curls on the fly and a chiming missive for Una: "I want to see those kittens! I'll text you!"

And there she goes again, clearly hyped up on coffee and now enabled with more delectable sugar. Woe to the world.

"You would think," agrees Una, with a wrinkle of her nose. "But there's lots of women out there who are so focused on abandoning traditional gender roles that they forget that feminism is supposed to be about, exactly, equality and choice. Traditional male gender roles suck just as much, so really, it should all be about everyone getting to make their own choices."

She returns that grin with one of her own. "I kind of love that, actually: cooking and baking as a way to say 'fuck you' to conserv--"

And then there's a drive-by Ariadne. "Come by any time!" she calls after the other redhead, having failed to properly manage to respond any earlier, or indeed, with any less detail. Her expression is priceless: amused, a little overwhelmed, a little abashed.

To Ravn, once she's finished blinking: "I think you'd better learn some fancy cooking."

Ravn opens his mouth -- and then closes it again. He blinks a few times.

Then he laughs. "I could have sworn I saw a certain marine biologist but I must have been imagining things. Scullins can't actually teleport."

Beat. "And bless her poor, suffering heart if she thinks she's going to benefit from me trying to cook. I better put in for a permanent suite at the hospital for her stomach cramps."

"Are you sure she can't?" Una has her doubts: her very, very amused doubts. She's not laughing outright, but the look on Ravn's face? It's pure gold, truly. "Because that was ridiculously fast."

Grinning, she adds, "Oh, don't worry. I'll teach you, you can impress her, and then you can swear you never want to do it again because you can't live up to your initial triumph. Or something. That's the way most people do it."

Ravn looks to the right. He looks to the left. Then he leans in and mock whispers, "Can't we order take-out from the fanciest restaurant in Seattle and claim we did it but only once, ever?"

He is very smart. Ariadne will never see through this plan. Ever.

Then he can't help a small chuckle into his cup. "Actually, don't know if you met her -- Gabriella, the girl across the street, the one who was causing a bit of a stir over Christmas. She offered to teach me to cook. And we did manage, somehow, to cook a chicken. But she never came back for more lessons, and I distinctly get the feeling I cooked the wrong goose, so to speak."

Una's eyes glitter with amusement, in as much as eyes ever do that; the point is that they hold her amusement, just as much as her mouth does, with that tugging smile. "You cheater," she teases.

"Yeah, I remember Gabriella. I'm not surprised, though; she really didn't seem like your type, though... perhaps I'm just making assumptions here. 'Type' is a weird, concept, right? Anyway, not that it matters. Ariadne knows you can't cook, I should imagine, and she likes you just fine anyway."

"Oh, she knows. I'm not averse to learning, though -- I just never really had a reason. I mean, I'm not very interested in food for its own sake. For the sake of good company? I could definitely be talked into that." Ravn nods.

Then he chuckles. "I'm not sure what Gabriella's type was. I've known a few women like her, here in Gray Harbor. The ones who seem to basically be into capturing and domesticating a man. I'm not man in uniform enough for them, and I'm not bad boy enough for them. As for me personally? I don't know if I even have a type. At the moment I'm pretty certain I'm barista-sexual. And very specific in my needs."

"That's always a thing," agrees Una, evenly. "It's hard, I imagine, to get much into cooking if the output is not something you much care about. For me-- half the time it's less about the food itself, though I love that too, and more about making other people happy. And, ok, the joy of taking a bunch of disparate ingredients and turning them into some cohesive whole."

Look at how pleased she is, though: 'barista-sexual' is adorable, and she is clearly entirely on board. "I think that's as much type as you need. I kind of like that approach, anyway: it's about the person. But," another dip of her chin, "I'm speaking out of my ass. Just observing, I suppose."

"It's very much about the other person." Ravn's grey eyes sparkle; he's pretty certain he caught on to a few things earlier in spite of his famous obliviousness, but he's going to refrain from commenting on something that might be so young and fragile that it has not even been discussed between the people involved yet. "I'm demisexual. Don't recall if I ever said. Basically, it's all about that specific other person. And not so much about, well, gender or type. Although I suppose that now I actually have a girlfriend I better get used to people asking if I'm sure. You know, kind of like a bisexual woman who marries a man."

He shrugs. "I'd absolutely be up for communal cooking sometime. I think Scullin would be too. She's probably more actual use in a kitchen than I am, but I can peel potatoes just fine, and I do dishes."

Now, now; don't be silly. There is no thing to have noticed, and if Una has caught, even for a moment, that sparkle, she's definitely not attributed it to anything, otherwise she would be blushing furiously, and she's not: she simply acknowledges Ravn with a nod. "I'd argue that's probably an easier way to be, than to be falling for people at random, but-- I don't know. I hate that; that people decide that just because you've made one decision, you've completely abandoned a core part of your identity. Labels matter. For ourselves, even if not for anyone else."

The corners of her mouth twitch just a little higher. "See, all you had to mention was 'dishes'," she teases. "Let's make this happen. We'll make something fun and ridiculous, and even if you don't learn anything, we'll drink enough wine-- or whatever-- to make it hilarious."

"I can definitely pick out and bring wines to make it worth our while." Ravn grins. "You, me, your roomies, Scullin? Anyone else who wanders past? It's definitely the season for cooking outdoors so we might end up with half the town dropping in. Wouldn't that be terrible?"

Then he laughs. "I have a request, then. Do you have any of the rainbow and dick cookies left from Pride? Even if they're a little old, I need somebody to help me get a selfie while wearing a stupid chef's apron, surrounded by all the foods Ream Men Trademark would not be caught dead eating or cooking. For my aunts. Just to remind them I'm living my best life over here among you terrible, uncultured people."

"Sold," says Una. "I always like to say my kitchen is open to all comers, and it's true: anyone who wants is welcome. We'll do a group cooking session, while the weather's nice." She's clearly pleased by this idea, not quite wiggling in her seat, but certainly straightening, beaming with enthusiasm.

Ravn's latter comment makes her chortle. "I don't, but for that? I will absolutely make more. The pinkest, dick-iest, rainbow-iest things I can possibly come up with, I promise. Just for you and your aunts."

"I'll find the gayest, glitteriest, pinkest alcoholic drink to have with them, then. Just for the pictures. Nothing says stiff conservative upper lip like a bottle of pink bubbles arranged in a highly suggestive fashion." Ravn nods solemnly. He takes scandalising his family back home very, very seriously. He's about willing to do anything short of sending those pictures to a gossip rag instead. He probably would have, if he didn't despise gossip rags and attention both.

The cell phone with its pictures of violins in gorgeous designs goes back into a blazer pocket. "And that's my cue and my excuse to go to Seattle and confuse the hell out of the guy who supplies me with good whiskey. He sells out of his garage -- it's a hobby for him. Best kind of liquor guy you can get, someone who's passionate about their geekery. For now though? I should just get on my way back to my boat before my cat runs out of tuna."

"Pink is such a spectacularly pretty colour," insists Una, cheerfully. "And it wasn't that many decades ago that pink was for boys, so really, you're just being traditional." The mental imagery is pure delight.

She inclines her chin forward. "See, that sounds like a guy worth knowing. Go, go. We'll talk soon. There will be pink pastries, and some kind of cooking, and-- well, probably the usual hijinx as well. I'd better finish my pastry."

Una and her pastry may need some alone time after all.