Logs:Of Summer and Surprises (Or, Making Family)

Of Summer and Surprises (Or, Making Family)
Dramatis Personae Alma, Kavalam, Ryan
In Absentia	2020-05-30 "Even without getting blown up there can be a lot to juggle."
Location <NYC> Home - East Village
Nestled into the heart of the East Village, Home is an unobtrusive place, with an unobtrusive name to match. A nondescript storefront opens up into an equally nondescript cafe, plain tiled floors, an assortment of veneered tables with plain wooden chairs or booths with cracking vinyl benches. What it does have to recommend it is the food, hearty solid breakfast and brunch served twenty-four hours a day, with a wide variety of menu to cater to specialized diets as well. Well-known to locals and little frequented by tourists, its friendly serving staff tend to remember their regulars, giving the place a warm feel that lives up to its name. It's very late when the door to the diner opens -- once upon a time that might not have mattered; once upon a time the East Village might have been bustling enough that the cafe floor was still reasonably busy at any hour. These days, though, it's quietish, a pair of young women eating at a counter table, one jittery-looking man at a front corner booth. As a result no heads really turn save the server's, glancing over toward Ryan when he enters with a quick familiar smile. By his usual standards, he's looking practically dull, in a taffeta motorcycle jacket that colorshifts from purple to black depending on the light, a heavy belt with a large heart-shaped buckle, and form-fitting gray slacks tucked into sturdy purple Doc Martens. His smile is bright and cheerful, as is the brief exchange of conversation he has with the waiter before she leads him and his companion to a booth in the back corner. Ryan hesitates, looks to Alma, his brows raising with just a hint of question. Alma is dressed much as is usual for her, single-button black jacket over a white dress shirt and black slacks, all tailored to suit her lightly curvy frame. Her kippah tonight is of red satin with a boldly embroidered Black Power fist, and her twists are tied back out of her way. At Ryan's glance she hums quietly, then says, "Hey, can we sit here, instead?" She gestures at an empty booth they're passing, in the middle of the restaurant and near to the bar. "Oh, sure!" the waiter chirps, adjusting course and laying out their menus at the table indicated. "Page will be right with you to take your orders." And so saying she bustles off. "Thank you!" Alma looks around the diner one more time, letting Ryan sit down before she takes her place across from him. Only then does her weariness show in the very slight slump of her shoulders, the grateful sigh she emits. "That," she declares, "was a lot of marching." Ryan plops down into the booth, hands drumming lightly against the tabletop where he sits. Bounces just a little in his seat, glances around the diner with a too-wired flicker of glance. "A lot," he agrees, chipper, "coulda been worse though. Could've been all those miles with tear gas along the way." His smile dims -- just slightly, his eyes dropping to the table. "Were a lotta people out tonight. You think they'll keep it up?" Surely their table was empty, a moment ago. A quiet and unused booth -- only now, very suddenly, there is a skinny teenager sitting beside Ryan, phone clutched tight in one hand and a barely-touched plate of omelette and potatoes in front of him. Kavalam's eyes are wide behind his half-frame glasses. His light blue seersucker button-down is rumpled, as is his thick dark hair; a large backpack sits wedged on the bench between him and the wall. He bites down on his lip, looks very briefly from Ryan to Alma. Fixes his gaze back on Ryan. Shifts slightly, uncomfortably, in his seat, before, hushed: "You're Ryan Black." "So many ways it could have been worse," Alma agrees. "I don't know. I want to think they will. I want to think this is the last straw, even for --" She breaks off, her dark brown eyes shooting open wide as the teenager appears. Her right hand slips beneath the open flap of her jacket. She doesn't actually draw anything, but with the fabric pushed aside thus a row of throwing knives can be seen nestled neatly in a low-profile harness. "Where did you come from?" she asks, as evenly as she's able. Ryan's hands clamp down on the table where he's been drumming. His eyes open wide, his shoulders stiffening as he turns sharply in his seat, eyes riveting on Kavalam. "Holy fucking shit." Kavalam dips his head, shying slightly back against his backpack. His eyes shift, quick, to Alma's jacket. Back to the table. His fingers tighten hard against his phone. "I," he replies, just a touch stiffly, "have been here. You invaded my table." One of Alma's eyebrows dips, while the other only climbs higher. "The table was empty!" Her eyes flick to Ryan for confirmation. "Why would they have seated us here if..." She trails off as her eyes drop to the teenager's meal, then lift back to his face. Her hand drops away from her weapons. "I'm -- sorry?" The faint uplift of her tone isn't exactly a question, but she does sound uncertain. "There was not anyone here when we --" Ryan is looking to Kavalam's food, too. His brows knit, and he dips his head with a slight flush. "Shit, man, I'm sorry, I have no idea how that mix-up happened. We must be more tired than we thought. Apologies," he's starting to push himself up from his seat, "we'll get out of --" "Wait --" Kavalam cuts in as Ryan starts to rise. "No, it's -- stay? I mean. Sorry. You don't -- have to stay, I just." His head falls into his hand, fingers curling into is thick hair as his forehead presses to his palm. "Sorry." This is mumbled, quieter. "It's been a. Long night. I didn't mean to be --" He looks back to Alma's jacket again. "Startling." "Long night," Alma echoes, "you can say that again. You been out at the protests?" She shakes her head. "Anyway, I'm sorry about the whole --" She gestures at her knives, hidden again by the flap of her jacket. "Part of the job description, protecting this guy." She nods at Ryan. Ryan is slow to change course, frozen for a moment half-out of his seat, palms braced against the edge of the table and his eyes locked on Kavalam. But then he sinks back down, brows hiking up and his smile returning, crooked. "Shit, yeah, for all of us, huh? And I was the one who infringed on your -- omelette?" He pulls his own menu in close, though he doesn't actually look at it. "I would go with intriguing, really. We're usually pretty observant." He's saying this brightly, cheerful, even as he drums his fingers against the menu lightly and adds: "What kind of a long night? Are we talking like add a mimosa to that omelette?" "Protests? Oh -- no, I -- I was at school, but then I went --" Kavalam shakes his head. Drops his hand back to his fork, stirring potatoes aimlessly around his plate. "It is not your fault. I am easy to overlook." His shoulders curl in tighter, but a moment later he looks up with a startled lift of brows. "Oh! Yes. I would. Like the mimosa." He looks to Alma with a small frown. "You are -- his bodyguard? Is that hard? I saw when you got..." He ducks his head suddenly. "Sorry, I shouldn't say. I mean, I bet a lot of people saw when you got... uh. Sorry. Right. A long kind of long night. Do you -- live around here?" "He's going with intriguing," Alma says, lapsing into an easy smile, "I'm gonna stick with startling, but no harm and...it is pretty unusual. But, there's other people even I can overlook -- though usaully more when they want me to." She finally does pick up her menu, though she doesn't actually read it, regarding Kavalam speculatively over top of it. "Yeah, it's hard," this answer comes calm, matter-of-fact. "Maybe not for the reasons you might think, though." Her eyes flick over to Ryan for a moment at the not-quite-mention of the bombing, her assessment practically automatic at this point. "I guess it could be a longer night than it's been. Me, I'm out in Flushing. You had school on Saturday?" The quirk of Ryan's grin is quick and crooked. The light drumbeat of his fingers on the menu falls a little more unevenly, just a touch more jittery; though the actual tap is not all that heavy it sends a brief reverberation through the dishes there, a small rippling tremor through what remains of the water in Kavalam's glass. It's gentle, there-and-gone, and for all that his tone is only amused: "Bullets, explosions, she's old hat at that by now. I make her life tough all on my own whisking her out of the state at the drop of every hat. I'm not far from here when we're in town, though." His hand presses flat against the menu, green eyes fixing thoughtfully on Kavalam. "School hard, or leaving it?" "People -- usually overlook me whether I want them to or not." Kavalam glances at the water -- then back up, curious, at Ryan's expression. "It sounds -- exciting, though. Go anywhere. Everyone noticing you. Except, I guess, the bullets." His frown is brief. He stabs, a little bit forcefully, at one of his potatoes. "Tss. School it is no problem. Now it is break. I -- am still trying to figure out what to do with it, I suppose." "It's a pain in the ass, but it is also exciting. Though honestly, this guy can make an exciting time out of watching paint dry." Alma finally gives the menu a cursory glance. "I think it's gotta be double fake-cheeseburger with garlic fries for me." She sets the menu back down and studies Kavalam. "Plans for break fell through?" "To be fair, with the company we keep, we're occasionally around some pretty neat fucking paints." Ryan looks up with a bright smile, catches the server's eye; she's back at their table in a flash. He waits for Alma to order before ordering himself; stuffed vegan French toast, side of home fries, two mimosas. "Ain't boring," he answers lightly. "If you could go anywhere with your break, where would it be?" "Home." Kavalam's answer comes immediate and unhesitating, but he drops his eyes after this, a small furrow in his brow. "I just, I do not, actually know what that looks like, right now. I don't -- know." When he looks back up his smile is a touch strained. "You two have probably been -- very many places, no? Where do you like to travel? If you can go anywhere?" "True enough." Alma glances swiftly at Ryan, then back at Kavalam; blows a soft puff of air between her teeth. "That sounds like a rough place to be." Her expression soft but kind of hard to decipher. Her eyebrows life up slightly. "So many it's hard to pick -- I honestly love them all, or I'd hate my job." She tilts her head slightly, lacing her fingers together in front of her. "Istanbul is definitely up there for my favorite places. If you mean somewhere I haven't been, though, I'd love to see Marrakesh someday." "Does sound tough. Home's looked like a hell of a lot of things over the years for me, but not having it at all is --" Ryan shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. "What would it take to start figuring it out?" His smile is quick, one hand lifting to scuff through his hair. "Anywhere? Like, what kind of restrictions are we talking? I have to stay on the planet cuz I gotta say lately that isn't looking so choice." He drops his hand to the table, shrugs a shoulder. "For real, though, I like Georgia. No passport required." Kavalam's eyes open slightly wider. Almost immediately narrow. "Georgia in the United States." He sounds a touch skeptical, but doesn't press this further. "Marrakesh it always looks very -- alive. In the pictures." This is slower, hesitant -- as is the pause that follows it. "I -- do not know. Figure me out, first. That would come before seeing if my family..." He trails off with a small shake of his head. "If I can go home." He pokes listlessly at his food, finally looking back up at Ryan to ask quickly: "Being a mutant. Was that -- very difficult, for your family?" "Yep, that Georgia. I can't speak for the other Georgia, but what I've seen of the state, anyway, it's also very alive." Alma's gaze dips to the table here. "Figuring out yourself, that can be a lot. Even more if you don't have your family's help doing it." She sounds cautious, but not unsure, clasping her hands together on the tabletop. "Or other folks in your life who might be willing and able." "Hey, don't knock it. You got no idea how much of American culture been born in the South." Ryan looks up with a smile, a nod of thanks, as their drinks arrive. "Ain't that the challenge. Feel like if you wait to have yourself figured out you could be waiting your whole life long, that's an endless journey." He draws his mimosa near, takes a long slow sip of it. "Well. I kind of made my own family, so if you mean were they fine with it, yeah. But that doesn't mean it hasn't been complicated. Even without getting blown up there can be a lot to juggle." Kavalam wraps both hands around his mimosa, mimicking Ryan's long sip. "I think that -- my family they would help, but it is. Hard. To know how." One of his fingers traces slowly through the beads of water gathering on the outside of the galss. "Make your own family? Huh. I like that. How do you start?"