2025-01-08 - Where Thunder Goes and Things Disappear

The boat puttering across lake Michigan between two of the islands is a long number, white and blue awning draped with canopies on the sides. It's cold out here over the water, not as cold as it should be, but this place is magical. Still, some of the passengers are bundled up as they head to Crescent. The ride's not all that long, but it just did get underway.

Luckily, the winter months dictate the ferries come equipped with heaters on the interior, which are a treasure on a night like this. Fresh air or heat? That's the choice passengers are left with. On the late ferry, people are scattered around. The sky is partly cloudy over the islands, but there are still glimpses through that wispy screen above to the winking winter stars in an otherwise clear black sky.

One of the first onto the ferry was a very tall woman bundled in layers, with an oversize scarf wrapped like a cowl over her hair. From the back, she could be anyone. She's all in black and various shades of grey, perched as close as she can get to one of those heaters without risking melting anything she's wearing. The benches in front and behind her are empty, as is the seat beside her. On her lap is a mobile, and on the mobile, a soft song plays. It's not exactly ferry etiquette to play something without headphones, but there are very few people here, and so far none have complained.

For part of the passage, Kavi's stood out on the deck, leaning over the rail and staring out at the water and the sky, or what can be seen of either. It's mostly black on black, any variation of shade obscured by the bright lights of the boat or the various islands and their wonders, drawing the eye and blotting out what's between and betwixt.

He too is dressedin all black, with a black hoodie, hood up to cover his hair from the damp night air. If it were truly Michigan cold, he'd have a coat or gloves, but the hoodie is warm enough. Unfortunately, it's not dry enough. After a few minutes on the deck, he heads inside in search of a bit of mist-free space -- the heater just happens to be a fringe benefit.

Kavi sits across and catty-corner to Lala. The mobile on her lap is given a bit of a side-eye, but he doesn't say anything; instead, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the small rectangle that contains his Airpods, deft fingertips plucking them from their case, to hook them into his ears.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Lala says. She just notices that move to fix an earbud into the ear out of the corner of her eye. Unlike some other people, she takes notice and clicks her phone off, tucking it into her front pocket of her thermal. She does have a jacket on over her layers, no gloves, though. The voice is a little more lived in, a little bit throatier than before, but happens sometimes when you don't quit smoking when you should, when you get older, or when you spend a few hours talking on the radio every night. Some combination of those, but Lala Coward still sounds near the same some ten years on.

Especially when she says sweetheart.

Even if she doesn't realize right off whom she's said it to. Kavi's given a glance, but he's up just far enough that a look over doesn't give her his whole face. Just a lock of hair, a sliver of his cheek, and that hoodie. A broad shouldered man in black. She turns her face to look toward the water sliding by in a gap. At night, it's all black out there. Maybe a little disconcerting if you think too long about it. But the lights of the islands are twinkling within view, just pretty far off either way on a cold night swim.

Even as she moves to turn off the phone, his head turns, slightly, ready to tell her it's nothing, that it's fine, and his mouth opens to do just that when he hears her say those words. He was a twig last she saw him, and as fresh-faced as a street-smart petty criminal could be, whereas now he's broader, bearded. There's a gravitas there even before he opens his mouth to speak.

"No worries, luv," he murmurs back, a baritone made sharper with those East-End London vowels, even on such soft syllables.

He waits a beat, before turning to look at her more properly, tugging the Airpod back out of the ear he's just placed it in. "Been seeing some well odd sights since I got here. Not sure what's real and what's not. That you, girl, or my mind playing tricks on me?"

Her profile's visible when he speaks, and Lala starts to smile, and then it stops. Her expression changes, a little tension pulling between her brows. In unguarded moments, what she's thinking absolutely shows on her face. There's a second after that love before her face turns back to Kavi and she looks him right in the eye. He's different, more grown up. More a man than the young man he was. She's different too. Grey hair instead of black, features slightly changed, and she, too, is a little less lean and hungry. Her features are a little softer, but those sharp grey-blue eyes are the same. Thirty-two instead of twenty-two with a lot of road behind her.

She stares across the aisle at a face she hasn't seen in a decade, listening to a voice she hasn't heard in just as long, but one she would recognize anywhere. And there she sits, absolutely frozen by the voice and face she never expected to see again, least of all here, nearly four thousand miles across an ocean where she saw him last.

It's very rare that Silas Lorelei Coward is rendered absolutely speechless. And yet here they are, her lips slightly parted, and not a word coming out. A ripple of something slides across her face. Her brows draw up at the center of her forehead and she takes a deep, sharp breath, like she forgot to breathe through the last few heartbeats. Because she did.

His dark eyes, nearly black in hue, take in those changes, the little parts that add up to the sum of the person in front of him, at least physically. One or two similarities could be passed off as coincidence, but it's more than just appearance. It's bearing and voice and the way those gray-blue eyes seem to cut through him more easily than any blade. There's not that many people who've had that effect on him, and only one that looks like her.

When she doesn't speak, his brows draw together, and one foot slides forward until his black boot nudges her foot in the gentlest of bumps, like he's testing if she's physical and not just an apparition.

"This a cold shoulder treatment or you think I'm a ghost, too?" he asks, the tone light, but there's a hint of something else behind that teasing tone. Something guarded, defensive. Walls he used to have for most people, but never her.

Sliding to the edge of her bench seat, Lala stands. Six feet with a thick sole on those boots. None of her ink is visible in this bundled up snowbird look she has going, and there's some new ink at her temple, but now that she's moving and speaking at the same time, yeah, definitely not a mirage created by the park. Nobody's asleep and having nightmares right now. (Not enough zombie pirates for that.)

"Boy." She finally snaps out of it. Maybe it was the question. Maybe that edge of something else in his voice. "Get up and come say hi to me proper like. Leanin' across the aisle like we're in church." She rarely sits still long, and it's probably no surprise she's moving now. Ferry's a slow mover, and steady, but there's still some sway in the deck. So she keeps one hand on the cold metal of the seat beside her, holding on to the back of that bench. She offers a hand to him, palm up. If he stands like she ask-tells, there's almost six feet of a hug coming his way. Good thing he's tall enough to take it.

Kavi's eyes rise with her, a furrow in his brow but an otherwise stoic face as he watches her. Only when she speaks does he finally relax a little, the crack running through the wall, the fortress he's thrown up. With it, his smile parts that stoic expression in two into a sunny smile that some might find at odds with his exterior.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He stands and breaches the distance in one easy step. One hand slides out of his pocket, far more inked than she last saw, to grasp hers, but it's to tug her into a long hard hug that's years -- a decade -- overdue.

Kavi's tall enough to wrap her entirely in his arms and Lala's tall enough that he can bury his face against her neck and shoulder without stooping. "How are we both here?" he murmurs at some point, though it's muffled by her coat.

Lala's arm goes around his neck, body pressed in close. She gives warm full body hugs. Her other arm joins, once she lets go of his hand, and she holds onto his neck tight, face tucked into the side of his neck. She's got on many, many layers. Which should come as no surprise how often she starts talking about the cold, especially when things dip under 60F, which is 15.5C to Brits and most everyone else.

"Fuck ups and planes, if I had to guess." It's a bit muffled there, but easy enough to understand. Regardless of accents. "You stay up too late." Says the night DJ. Like she isn't here on a late ferry her own self. She still smells like the vanilla sweet spice of some kind of tobacco and a hit of black licorice. Candy and the faintest chase of cigar smoke. Typical and familiar. She's not willing to let go just yet, and so that hug lingers. And maybe it's so she can say something to him without him seeing her face. "I missed you, 'Avi." Then there's a pause. And then she says, "You got old." Nice. "Er." Save.

Though his body is broader than it was, it's not softer thanks to lean muscle layered atop what were once wiry and rangy limbs. His scent is both familiar and not -- whatever cheap cologne (and too much of it) he'd worn ten years ago has been replaced with something more sophisticated, layered among other scents from other products like beard oil, lotion and the like. Altogether, it's a complex and multifaceted scent -- cardamom, black pepper, campfire, citrus.

"Too late for an old man, is it," he says with a laugh, warm and velvety, now that they're so close. "You had it right the first time," he murmurs back, but there's no anger in his tone, just warmth and mirth, before he adds, "I missed you too."

He doesn't let go either, not for a long moment, but finally he leans back, keeping his hands around her waist. "Let's have a look at you, then," he says. "You got some magic that makes you look younger? Because I swear you do, luv. What you doing here? They got a shop for the tourists to get inked up?"

The embrace loosens a little bit, though she's loathe to let go, and she takes a deep breath, long and slow. He smells like all the comforting things, from food to fire.

Lala murmurs, "You grew a beard." He knows this. She says it anyway. "And your hair." She tips back a little so she can look at him, which is harder than it should be in the lights on the ferry, but here she is doing it anyway. While willingly standing more than a few feet from a heater. Her hands are cold, but that doesn't stop her sliding one into the neck of his hoodie to brush her thumb across his beaded cheek. "More ink." Her chilly fingertips contact his comparatively warm skin. She can't see the details in this light, but she can see the shadow of it on his skin at this throat, and she noticed the hand.

It's been a long time and cataloguing the changes takes a moment, updating the then with the now, the who he was with at least the outward signs of who Kavi's become. She obliges by reaching up with her other hand to pull back the scarf. Her hair's a pale grey that pulls her eyes moon-colored. There's new ink at her temple, more on her throat, a whole chest piece he can't yet see. She was a tattoo artist when he knew her, so that's no surprise. "They do, but I—" She shakes her head. "I still have the equipment and the license, but I that's not what I do all day anymore." That may be a surprise, because it used to be her whole life. And why she ultimately left.

London.

Him.

"I like it," Kavi says, when she pulls the scarf off so he can see her paler hair, the adornments to her skin that weren't there before. His dark gaze sweeps over his hands, and he chuckles as she touches his beard, his head canting a little to lean into her hand like a cat might.

"I still look like I'm fourteen without it, so." He lifts a shoulder, looking downward -- something still boyish in the dip of his head, the downcast eyes, the crooked smile.

But his brows lift as she mentions not working as a tattoo artist. The question's there, heavy in the air between them, but it's obvious he's unsure if he should ask. Instead, he asks, "What do you do here? I assume you work here, or you're really lost, mate."

Lala's smile grows when he dips his head, and that hit of youth she sees in that crooked smile that used to greet her every day really hits. She brings up her other hand to touch his face, cupping either side of his jaw. "Never shave it. It's you. And it's um." She shakes her head, silent while she thinks up the right words to use. "Just a girl on a boat standing in front of a boy." She laughs then, throaty but loud enough to carry. The kind of laugh that might turn a few heads. Delighted and unabashed.

"Yes. I work here. I'm at the radio station. Music and talking." It's a far cry from what she used to do, ink, paint, all hands on. "I still do the occasional commission, but I can't anymore. Since." She shakes her head again, tongue flicking along her her upper lip briefly. She bits her lip, like she's going to keep some words in. But he's looking at her, and she's always told him things she probably tell other people. "I wrecked my bike again." That's at least two motorcycle accidents she's survived in the last twelve years. He met her after the first one, after physio. But she was twenty-two then and bounced back pretty fast. With help. Her eyes are searching when she asks, "What are you...?" Doing here.

She's completely forgotten anyone else is on the ferry tonight.

"We have a radio station?"

That's not unlike Kavi of old -- a little in his own world, though she was part of that world. "I'll have to check it. Usually just play Spotify. And I could've been listening to your lovely voice for the last month?" It seems that's how long he's been here, which would explain how she's never seen him til tonight -- that and the fact there's hundreds of employees.

But the news of her accident finds his brow creasing again, and he reaches up to touch her face lightly, thumb brushing up against her temple with the new ink. "Fuck, Lahs, I'm sorry. You doing better though? Where?" Where did she crash? Where did she hurt herself? Both?

He watches her, then it seems to register a little late she asked what he does. "Oh. Chef. For special events. Went to Paris after I got out."

"We do. Radio SPL in the evening," Lala says, giving him a little taste of her radio voice. "Chill jams and spooky vibes right on through the witching hour." Her smile turns a little wry at that. If anyone eavesdropping hears her say that, the'll definitely know who she is. Far fewer people in this park know her face than her voice. And only those that still tune in. They do stream online as well, but still. It's not Spotify.

"Yeah, I'm walking. I'm off the heavy shit. Got a few more scars and a couple new aches, but." She shakes her had again, stopping that track of thought. She takes a little breath and says, "It happened in New York. Some of the best spinal surgeons in the country, so it was lucky there." Where she worked after guesting in Camden, at a little shop in Brooklyn. "You went to Paris and became a chef." Something about that brings a brighter smile to her lips. "So the eggs bennie was just the beginning for you?"

There's a beat of a pause before she clucks her tongue and says, a laugh in her voice, "I remember the effect that had. Can't imagine how your life's looking these days."

If anyone looks their way at the sound of her DJ voice, Kavi doesn't notice; his eyes are on her face, rapt as he listens to her, still holding her around the waist. Eventually he realizes that may be awkward, and steps back, then gestures for her to sit -- they're not yet halfway to their destination yet.

"Yeah, NHS ain't all it's cracked up to be when it comes to some of the more serious things, is it," he asks, sitting directly across from her this time. "Bloody hell, you're the last person I would have guessed if someone told me I'd meet a person from my past on this ferry. And the first person I'd wish to, if I'm honest."

His long lashes fan his upper cheeks as he glances down at that little bit of honestly, before he looks up again and smiles at the mention of the eggs benny and its effect. "Up and downs. Had a restaurant in LA but lost it last year, so here I am. Figured I may as well come here and get some superhero powers or sommat while I suss out what's next."

Lala's hands slide free of his face, and she takes that half step back to sit. Night ferry or not, standing in the aisle is a little awkward. She moves easily enough, but perhaps not as carelessly as she used to, sitting at the bench behind her and facing out, rather than sprawling across it which she would have once done. "I never expected to be anywhere outside a large city," she says, of finding her out here in the wilds of Michigan of all places.

That flash of honestly prompts a familiar smile, one she used to wear before she said something awful like, "You still think I'm gorgeous ten years on." Or worse, something like, "With those dark eyes, long lashes, I'm done for if you've got any silver in your hair." She leans across the aisle to reach for one of his hands, her own fingers far more inked than before. Her palms too, these days. "You had a restaurant." Yeah, she repeats some of the things he says, but that's how Lala processes, mostly out then also with her hands.

Sometimes it takes her a little longer to reveal what she's feeling under that, that is if her visual cues don't give her away first. Maybe she still doesn't quite believe he's real. Stranger things have happened on these islands. "So you live here?" The question seems casual enough on the surface.

"Same, girl, same. London, Paris, New York, LA -- this little pile of rocks in the middle of ... what state are we in?" That might be a joke, but he never was one for geography outside of the 10 miles closest to his own home.

There's a smirk when she mentions his hair, and his free hand reaches up to pull down the hood. There's a few strands, mostly at his forehead and a couple in his beard, but most of it is still lushly black, reflecting a silvery shine, like a raven's wing.

"The building went up in a fire. Not our fault. Insurance covered the worst of it, but..." he studies her hand in his, his brows creasing for a moment, before he looks back up. His shrug is small. He latches on to the question she asks, to leave that story in the past. "I do. I've only been here a month. You? Did you get your superpowers, Lahs?"

Lala's hand goes to her chest, fingertips brushing her collarbone, rather the scarf over her collarbone. "Oh my." The reveal of his hair, with its few silvery strands, has her all flustered over there, in an overdramatic way. The smile that follows, though, is genuine, a little flash of teeth, and it certainly touches her eyes. "You look more like the trouble you are with a little age on you." Her gaze sweeps from his hair to his eyes to his jaw, and she shakes her head, no doubt making all the tiny comparisons in her mind to how he's changed from how she remembers him before.

Most people might be more subtle about it, but she takes her time, because they have time on this crossing. Still a few minutes to the other island, and a couple minutes more to maneuver to dock. She squeezes his hand, then take it in both of hers, legs crossed into the aisle and leaning toward him. "Little of this, little of that," she says, of the powers question. And she turns his hand to look at the ink, thumb brushing across the patterns etched into his skin. Her nails are long and pointed, black tipped.

"Since August. On the top floor if Silver Brook." Her building has one of the best views on the island, given it goes up to floor 6. "Occasional weird visions, not so sure what it means." She looks up from studying Kavi's hand, her fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist. "I'm sorry you lost your place." That's all she says on the fire. For now. That's... a subject for another time.

"Takes trouble to know trouble," Kavi says, thumb lifting to brush over the ink of on the top of one of the hands holding his. "I been mostly well behaved for a minute now, at seven years. So far as the law's concerned, anyway, minus a misdemeanor or two in places that ain't as progressive as some. A lad's got to have some vices to keep his nose clean. Ish."

The note of where she's living earns her a smile. "Penthouse, is it. Look at you, Miss Posh Pants," he teases. But the mention of the visions has his brow drawing together again, before they lift with curiosity. "Visions, eh? Like premonitions or sommat? And they didn't tell you yours truly was going to run into you? IF that ain't worth a vision, what is? We're lightning striking twice, luv."

His dark eyes sparkle, crinkling at the edges as he smiles a little impishly, but then he looks down at her hand on his. "Are you on your own? No Mister Posh Pants?"

"Does it?" Lala asks, the smile crinkling her eyes says she agrees with that anyway. "Oh, as long as it's only mostly. I'd be disappointed otherwise." Her thumb brushes across Kavis knuckles, inked fingers still curled around his hand in both of hers. "Need a pressure release here and there. Hard living by all the rules."

"I have several roommates." She does like a view, though, and has always had a taste for a nice thing or two. "Yeah, kinda, the visions are hard to interpret, but I'm not the only one having them. Either that or it's mini strokes." The joke comes off a little flat, because somewhere in the back of her mind, she's maybe a little worried about flashes of visions while she's just going about her day. She glances down at his hand in hers. "No, it's not like that." She glances up. "Yeah, 'Avi, but is it a pretty show or does it drop you on your ass? Lightning's both."

She tips her head a little at that question. "No, brown eyes." She wiggles her left hand. No rings, save one on her thumb, a white-gold band. "No mister. No missus either." Her fingers slide across his fourth finger, maybe feeling for a ring dent. But she doesn't actually ask. "Devil's in your eyes again, sweet."

The question about lightning earns her a soft smile that's a little pained, and he glances down and away, and then back up. "Last time it was both, yeah, luv. Sorry for how it went down, the timing of it, with me in jail and your gig up at the shop." There's a lot more in his eyes that doesn't make it to his mouth, but he studies her face for a long moment.

There's no ring nor dent nor an ink version of a wedding ring on his hand, and he shakes his head. "I threw myself into the work for a while, and moved around too much to let anything settle. LA was the longest I stayed anywhere since I got sprung."

Those last words of hers make his eyes crinkle again, as Kavi's smirk returns. "The devil I know, as it were. Better than the devils I don't, every time."

With that, he reaches for her, leaning across the space that divides them, to kiss her -- though there's plenty of room and time for her to slip free or stop him.

Lala shakes her head. "No, sweetheart, I didn't mean—" She takes a short breath. "Neither of us could control that." Both of them could have tried a little harder to sort it. She meets his gaze, silently studying his eyes. So much time passes in silence, and there are things she wants to say that she doesn't quite, all the words jumbled up in a traffic jam. The lights of Crescent are visible upcoming, but she's not paying the slightest bit of attention to the world or how they're moving through it.

Whatever she was going to say about devils and prison's gone the second he moves closer. Her hand comes up to touch his shoulder, fingertips sliding over the cotton of his hoodie. She curls her hand there and for a second it feels like she might stop him, press him into coming up just short. The pressure shifts and her fingers tuck into the neck of his hoodie, fingers slipping along the side of his throat, her thumb resting in the dip between his clavicles.

Lala meets that kiss, her lips brushing Kavi's mouth. She tips her head her lips part a little. Her hand still on his splays across his palm, and then her fingers curl around his wrist again, holding his hand across her lap like it's reassuring, like kissing him requires that she has hold of his hand too. If history holds true today, he has roughly fifteen seconds before both of her hands end up sliding into his hair. If the kiss lasts that long.

His gaze flicks from left to right and back, to watch for her reaction, for a request for him to stop or wait or anything that signals he's pushing her too far, too fast. The hand on his chest stalls the forward lean for a moment, before she shifts her fingers and leans in herself.

His shoulders rise as he takes in a breath and his eyes close. One hand held by hers, the other moves to the nape of her neck, fingers curling in her silvery hair there. It's both familiar and not. After a few seconds, she can feel Kavi's own lips curve into a smile, before he pulls back, just a little.

"I missed you. Even when I didn't know it was you I was missing," he says softly. "Penny for your thoughts, luv?"

She relaxes into the kiss. Once Kavi's hand slides into the hair at the nape of her neck, Lala opens her eyes, long lashes shading those grey irises. She glances up, though they're too close really to see each other in focus. Her hand in his turns again, and she lift is to brush a kiss to his knuckles when he pulls back a bit to ask her that question.

She only answers him after, her other hand still resting against his throat, thumbnail sliding across his skin, barely a half inch back and forth, slow. "A lot of things. I guess my top five are: you got better with words, more poetical, and I think it's damn cute. I really like the beard. As first kisses of the year go, that was a sweet one, and you know how much I like surprises." She pauses. "Was that three? Two more."

"Familiar me, wake up in the middle of the night and leave the flat to start some shit me wants to know if your eggs benny got any better since Paris. Part of me thinks it's better to try Nora's first and see each other in more even light."

"Well, fuck, five things? You're trying to break a broke man," he teases back, before he settles in to listen to the litany of thoughts. One corner of his mouth turns up at the first, the second corner rises up to even out the smirk at the second.

"Past me was an idiot. I hope I got a li'l better. Might be all the menu writing I have to do. Every space matters. I'm better with my food, with my hands, than my words, and hopefully those have gotten better too."

The hand behind her head traces downward, not so light it would tickle, but not so hard to hurt any remnants of her injury. It's a deliberate, sinuous stroke from neck to waist.

Kavi's dark eyes gleam and he leans in as if to kiss her neck, but instead whispers, mouth against the spot just below her ear, "Definitely better." He leans back again, finding her eyes and then pulling out his phone from his hoddie pocket, sliding it into her hand.

"Give me your number. I'll text you back so you have mine. You decide which you is steering the ship tonight," he says softly. "I look even better by day, just sayin'," he adds, with a cocky grin.

Lala's eyes narrow slightly. "Food and your hands. 'Avi." She gives him a look. Because he just implied she's tryin' to kill him, when casually whipped out commentary about two of her favorite things.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners with that smile. "You know how I feel about a man who cooks. Thin ice, baby—" After she says that one little word, that just slips right out of her mouth in a familiar-and-long-gone way, she presses her lips together. His hand trails along her body, and she can feel that, even bundled up as she is. The lips to the neck. The lips to the neck! "Goddamn it."

"Give me your phone." She sounds almost a little bit surly about it. "You tryin to take me home." He's already given his phone, but she says it anyway, turning it to tappy-tappy-tap across the screen with her thumbs. "Don't you lock—"

Kavi's brows rise and he looks quite pleased with himself, that boyish mischief still evident on his decade-older face, and he watches as she types into her phone.

"I just have it set to sleep after a stupid long time," he says, watching those pointed nails dance upon the screen. "Can't always wake it up or hold it up to my face when I'm cooking, now can I, girl? Don't take advantage of it. And don't you g taking a lil cheeky sneak at my photos. Not because there's anything interesting there, but because it's embarrassing the number of things I screenshot and never delete and ninety percent of them won't make any sense out of context. It's embarrassing."

If she's doing any of that, he doesn't really seem to care, his eyes now up again, watching her face lit from the light of teh cell phone. "You ever had eggs Benny as good as mine in the last ten?" he asks in a teasing voice that suggests maybe he's not talking about food.

"Honestly," Lala murmurs, tapping away. She taps for a while, putting in more than just her number in those contacts. There's no swiping, so she hasn't gone spelunking through his photos or anything. "If you leave your phone unlocked, no rules about it." She looks up. "But." She flips the phone 'round. "If you want me to see your embarrassing pics, you're gonna have to send them to me on your very own."

"Did you make those delicious little mini quiche for the New Years bash at the castle?" There's a pause before her phone pings and she picks that one up for more typing. "I've had quite a few things in my mouth since yours, love." She gives it right back, but without the Londoner accent. "Few I've cared to taste twice." Finally, those pale grey eyes come up from the phone, her fair face flush in blue-tinged phone light. "Never more than couple three months at a time."

"One of these mornings, you'll have t'show me what you learned since then."

"Cheeky girl," he says with a laugh, taking the phone and looking down at her number, then opening a message to send her a quick 🍳 to let her know it's him. He manages not to point out it's the wrong sort of egg for an Eggs Benedict, but she knows him well enough to know he probably wants to.

His brows lift as she teases back, playing with the metaphor, and he smirks at the conclusion of it all.

"Oh, the lady has bants, ladies and gentlemen," he announces, turning around to address those getting ready to disembark, as if they've been paying any attention to the little drama playing out on the boat with them. (Some of them may have).

"Banter in spades, with legs for days, and how fucking lucky am I to find you twice, Lahs?" With that, he pulls her up and back into her arms. "And no, the quiches weren't my gig. But you'll know my food when you taste it. It's all made with love, luv, and you know better'n most my. heart."

"Oh, very cute," she says, checking her phone for that incoming. She sends back a 💋 emoji. Even if she rarely wears red, and when she does, it's a lip stain that doesn't kiss off. That is unless she's looking to leave a few marks. "Fuck, adorable as ever. It's disgusting how charming you are without even trying. The slang is an absolute nightmare." It isn't.

"You should see my new tattoos. I've gotten quite a few since we last." She stops there and lets him fill in the verb. As no one applauded when they kissed, she's assuming, perhaps wrongly, no one's paid a bit of mind to them. The people at this amusement park have this weird fetish for applauding kisses in public, but thank the gods for small favors. The employees only ferry's safe from that.

"Know better your hands," she says, rising as they tie off to the docks on Crescent. Her hands find his waist this time, rather one does, the other settling at his ribs. She hasn't got her hands into his hair yet, so he's presentable as he was when he boarded the ferry. "Is it well past your bedtime, chef?"

"The accent does a lot of the heavy lifting, if I'm honest. It even worked in Paris, where you'd think they'd be more immune to that sort of thing, eh?" he says with a chuckle.

She lets him supply the verb, and the impish grin returns. "Since I last Benedict you?" he says, though the invitation to see her ink is noted, and accepted, if only through a tacit up-and-down of his gaze and a slow nod.

"You knew my heart then, too, only I was too daft to know my own heart at the time, luv. Maybe this time I'll pay it more mind, and yours, while I'm at it," he says, wrapping an arm around her for the disembarking. "It's not. So you have the steerage of my course along with your own, Miss Posh Pants. You have work? What was it, chill jams and spooky vibes?" He does his best to imitate her voice and accent. And fails.

"It does, the accent really does. But the lashes and the mouth do the rest." Lala hms at that and says, "I spend a few weeks in Paris. I didn't find them immune to much, but—"

"Oh my god." And yet Lala's laughing. "Benedict me?" Now her arms wrap around Kavi and she leans into him, laughing. It caught her by surprise that, and how stupid but pithy it was. Her laugh this time is wholly unguarded, arms wrapped around that hoodie, those shoulders. Which is how they end up disembarking together, touching ever since the invitation was first made there on the bench seats.

"Not tonight, no. I did some prep for my co-host. Bit of a sore throat, actually, which I probably should have mentioned before I kissed you. You overwhelmed my good sense." As if she ever follows that. "I was going home to try to make that chai you showed me when I was all fires no feasts in the kitchen. Extra fresh ginger and anise. But you know what," she glances over. "You make it better."

Her laugh sparks Kavi's, and his own is warm and deep. His arms wrap more tightly around her as they walk in turn, and it's probably not the most efficient way to move, but it's not one he's about to change.

"I would have kissed you anyway. Besides, I have super immunity these days after my time in the nick. Your little Yank cold ain't got nothin' on my antibodies," he says feigned bravado, but his expression softens at the talk of the chai he'd shown her how to make so many years ago.

"You still make that, Lahs? I'll make it for you proper. You have to chew on the cardamom. Did you remember that part?" he says into her hair as he pulls her into another hugs. "You can kick me out right after, if you still want to adhere to your better light of day plan. Especially if you're sick, girl. I'll make you a cuppa and be on my way."

Lala slides her arm around his waist, resettling comfortably. He's taller, but not by enough, especially in these boots, to make it awkward walking with him this way. She may be tall, but can still walk tucked in at his side. "Oh, is that so? Well. Thank you, l'm glad to hear my charisma outweighs a tiny potential oncoming something. I think it's just too much talking, too much time in the cold." As if this is really cold to anyone but Floridians and other people accustomed to swampy hot weather.

"It's strangs, y'know. How nostalgic and new this is, like... an echo of something that was come back to me when I'm mostly all grown up." She says more what she's thinking than she used to, but they're not in their twenties, and she's not dragging him out to bars and sweaty clubs all the time. "You'll have to show me what else you learned in prison." There's a little innuendo there. Yeah, she can still be a bit of a shit.

"Course I still do. I try. But I forgot if it's white or green and—" She laughs, wrapping her arms tighter around him. "Oh, you feel good." She sighs that into his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. "I'm sorry I didn't call." His laugh, his easy way in pulling her into his arms, these things prompt her to let that slip. She brushes her fingers across her cheek, tugging stray hairs back behind her ear. "Come up to mine. You can see how the fancy pants live on six. My roommates are probably out. Rose works all night, like I usually do. Consider your fine self commandeered for at least another hour, sweet."

"I'm having a long look at your hands. I want to know if you need touch ups." Hands always do. Really, that's probably just an excuse to hold his.

"It was hard, then," Kavi says, waving off her apology. "Not like you could just ring me when I was in prison, and I could have done better myself, looking you up when I went out, but we were young. You were real young. Think I figured you were better off without me -- too bright a spark to be contained."

He glances down at his free hand that's not wrapped around her as she mentions them. "Probably need it, and no one has your touch. THere's a mess of one I'll have to let you cover with something better, if you're up to it, and if not, you can design soething for it, and I'll make some other sap do it with your art. But I have a spot or two of real estate besides that you can have all to yourself."

He laughs, because that wasn't meant to be innuendo, but sounds like it was.

Kavi pulls her close to kiss her and hug her again. "Considered me commandeered, Posh."

"I'm being honest, 'Avi, I probably would done you more harm than good, what I ended up into when I left London." Lala looks up at him, says softly, "Maybe one day we'll get into it." She hmms. "For you, maybe I'll come out of retirement a little while. If you got yourself a banger, I'll cover it. Leave you prettier than I found you." She smiles a little at that, though it fades a little, with the implication of what she just said. A lot of years stretched between them, and some of the edges might still be sharp.

Lala slides her hand up to touch the hand of his arm around her. "Even if it hurts." She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a full kiss, not quite a cheek kiss. "Especially then."