2022-05-07 - Chasing Pigeons

The open road. Highway twelve along the Chehalis River Surge Plain Natural Area Preserve. Forest on both sides. The Chehalis, glacial melt and river delta, on the right -- when you're facing towards Olympia, Tacoma, and Seattle. The dense coniferous woodland never quite turns not green -- but there are shades of green, and the spring sun makes green verdant.

A '63 Triumph motorcycle with a side car can eat some road. It gets the occasional honk from some bike enthusiast driving past in a car or truck. The sound of its engine drowns out the occasional skylark but it makes up for it in its own smooth, musical rumble. There's a strange freedom in this that just doesn't compare from the inside of a car.

It's beautiful.

Ravn Abildgaard thinks so, anyhow. He's lent his usual torn-sleeved leather jacket out but a solid wind breaker and a good sweater underneath will do. He's not riding like the wind; speed limits are a thing, and the Dane is a cautious driver. He has no desire to end his days like his fiancee did, smashed to a pulp against a road tree.

Nor that of his passenger in the car. Kitty Pryde can be convinced to give up her seat when two factors are in play: One being a generous bribe and the other that expression on Ravn's face that says he's riding further today than down to the marina or back to Oak Avenue. The cat does not like long rides.

Samwise the Sighthound gets the side car instead. And behind Ravn, his owner. It's not a far drive on the highway after all, at least not by US standards: Two hours. Back in his native country, two hours would get you about one quarter of the way from one end of the country to another but, Denmark is kind of a miniput nation.

You know who likes long rides?

Samwise. Dubiously. But, one way or another (and after having his ears wrapped flat by what amounts to be a doggy headband and wearing, yes, doggles), the red-brindled Windhound is belted in via a dog-safe car-harness augmented for the side car. He's currently leaning back against the sidecar's seat, squinting in his doggles, looking if not bored, vaguely amused about proceedings. Who knows what's going through his brain? Maybe that there are so many fast smells that he gives up trying. Every now and then, he stretches his long nose to bunt Ariadne's leg; she uncurls one of her arms from about the Dane's waist to gently rub beneath the dog's chin until it settles any momentary worries.

Thank god for the Bluetooth ear-pieces within the helmets. Otherwise, talking would be about impossible with the rush of the wind. "You know, we're lucky as hell for this weather and how it's going to hold. I can't imagine dealing with the rain on the way home. Hell, if it starts before we leave, I say we bite the bullet and overnight in Seattle. I'm sure we could find a place where Sam could stay too?" Ariadne's voice has the interesting closeness of the helmet's interior in turn. She squeezes Ravn's waist gently. "I'm glad I layered regardless though."

Is that amusement under her words? Maybe.

Because that is a black turtleneck beneath her windbreaker and gloves.

"In a city the size of Seattle it's got to be possible to find a motel or bed and breakfast that will allow a dog, yeah." Ravn doesn't sound particularly worried; people come in all the places with service dogs and seeing eye dogs, and a well behaved not too giant dog is not going to be a deal in a lot of places; there may be an extra cleaning fee or a room insurance in case of dog induced damage, but, that's only fair, he figures.

He has yet to realise where that turtleneck went. He thought Sam stole it. He will be wiser.

The landscape races past in all its verdant green majesty. He can't help admire it -- the US is a country of vast distances. To him, almost heady to think of. In his home country, it takes effort to find a view that doesn't have buildings, or at the very least fields. These woods, these national parks, they are amazing. He wonders if Denmark once looked much the same. He knows that it did -- before the Stone Age. And with more open land because the country is old seabed. Sand, not bedrock.

"I figure we'll pull straight through Olympia and Tacoma? It's about two hours altogether, so Sam should be good for needing a bush? And then of course we need to decide where in Seattle we want to go -- I'll defer entirely to the native on that decision."

"Yeah, Sam will be fine. I made sure he did all his business before we left the apartment. He even had a little bit extra breakfast, so if it weren't for the open of the sidecar, he'd be asleep." Her body weight behind Ravn can be felt to shift as she looks over at the Windhound. Behind his doggles and in his sideways lean, he is looking a little dozy. Slow blinks abounding.

Ariadne settled back into place. God, this is just...plain nice. Holding about him feels like it is as it should be. He's got core muscle beneath the clothing and skin alike, lean and strong enough. Feeling his back continually rise and fall against her chest is another simple joy. She hazards that the air itself could smell of resin and the faint tang of ocean water, of sun-warmed earth, but raising the visor of her helmet is asking to blow out both the interior of the helmet itself and the Bluetooth mic. Bad news bears. She can imagine easily enough.

"Insofar as to where you want to go...depends on if you have any other things to drop off. You'd mentioned lawyers and HOPE? I don't know where that is, but if you're not bored of Pike Place Market, that's always a scene. We'd blend in beautifully with the other tourists too, so it's not like we'd be easy faces to spot anyways." Except for Sam, he's unfortunately a rarer breed. But everyone tends to assume he's some Whippet mix and Ariadne's fine with deferring to assumptions since this one is at least partially correct in genetic technicality. "I want to see what the florists have in. Oh, and the chocolatier. And there's the original Starbucks there and there's bound to be a sushi place within a city block or two. You good for hills though?" Since the city sits on the slopes leading down to the Puget Sound itself.

"Sounds like you've got a pretty good route laid out right there?" Ravn laughs softly. He's familiar with Seattle in the way that he knows where the good busking spot by the Maritime Museum is; where his law firm has its office; and where that café with all the tech bros is, and there's no way in hell he's going back there while dressing like them. He doesn't remember street names or locations; his breezing through, two years ago, was far too fast, far too living on what little money he earned busking and grifting, far too keep an eye out for the police looking to run off vagrants lest they bother the tourists.

He would look over his shoulder at the woman he's talking to, if he wasn't driving. He keeps his eyes on the road. Olympia, you're just an obstacle before the green begins anew.

"As long as you're good for hills, yes," the barista confirms. Those hills? -- are no joke, and she's aware of his asthma in turn. The last thing wanted is poor Ravn heaving for breath against the side of a building because Ariadne would feel like...kind of an asshole for accidentally setting it up to happen. "We can park the bike in one of the garages off of the Market itself by about three blocks and walk down to it. Or closer, if you want, it's just the parking spots are pri-cey the closer you get." Of course. Tourists will pay and not flinch.

A sigh heard along the Bluetooth connection and a shuffling about, resettling of her arms. She's warm and present. "I'll learn you at least the Market. That way, you can tell others and more business for the family-owned stalls and everybody's happy. Ooh."

Oh god. That was a troublemaker's chuckle. "How manually dexterous do you think you are, my lovely grifter?"

"I'm used to walking all day in Gray Harbor. I might need a breathing moment here and there but I don't expect to keel over dead from a hill." Ravn laughs softly. "That garage sounds fine. I always feel stupid for paying tourist tax -- it's kind of the perfect grift, let's just admit it."

He pauses a moment at that other inquiry though. And after a few breaths of consideration the folklorist slash ex-thief says carefully, "There aren't a lot of things in a market stall I couldn't steal if I really wanted to -- steal or grift my way into. I'm not really keen on bugging honest stall owners, though -- just doing their jobs and all. I used to be pretty shameless about lifting the pocket change of some fat cat tourist but that's another game."

Cue a soft rill of laughter.

"Oh my god, Ravn, have some faith in me," Ariadne complains lightly. "I was not asking you to lift somebody's wallet or steal something from a stall. No. You don't have to prove you can do that to me. I believe you." Another squeeze for his waist. "I'm talking about a whole other fish entirely."

Giggle. Uh oh.

"There's...a fun hazing I like to subject people to when they're not from the area," she continues. "You do need to have quick and steady hands for it. It's at one of the major fish stalls in the Market itself. I'll do it if you see it and you don't want to. But it's fun." What a singsong. She sounds just gleeful.

"Well, who am I to fly in the face of tradition? Make sure to have your phone out and ready, so you get pictures to share." Ravn laughs softly. He's not one for cameras and attention much in general, but this is different; fun pictures making the rounds in their mutual circle back home is somehow an entirely different kettle of fish. Some day he's going to sit down and have a conversation with himself about it. He's going to be kind of confused when presented with the evidence.

He pauses and then smirks into his headpiece. "However, if I end up smelling like fish, I will not hear any complaints later. You get me fishy, you get the fishy snuggles later. I will consider this my revenge. Or my reward, your pick."

Oh. The video on her phone will be rolling if Ravn decides to participate in this particular endeavor. It might even end up on the Friendzone. The whole of Grey Harbor might end up knowing.

Ariadne laughs into her own headpiece. "Ooooh, you strike a hard bargain there, buddy. I think you'll be taking a shower before you do any sort of cuddling with me or you can snuggle with Samwise who will spend the entire time attempting to roll all over you with his drooly mouth and his pointy joints of doggy doom. Besides, you can put gloves over your gloves and as long as you're agile? You won't get anything on yourself."

Dear god, what is this hazing?

"But remember, I'm fine with demonstrating if you see it and you don't want to. It's all in fun, lover," the barista reminds him with another squeeze around his waist. "I can still feed you chocolates after. And show you all of the cool stuff downstairs if they let Sam in. I don't remember if dogs can do inside the building itself if they aren't service dogs. If not, another time. There's still a ton of stuff to see outside of the main building."

"I'm reminded of an inn I read about, in Liverpool." Trust Ravn to have an anecdote for any occasion. "It'd be called the Paraffin Oil Shop. Your wife asked where you went when you didn't come straight home from work? The paraffin shop, dear, picked up some lamp fuel."

He grins lightly. "There's a whole tradition for that kind of thing, you know? We have a cookie at home called nothing -- so you know what to answer when your wife asks what you're eating between meals. So, you said fishing shop. Is this going to be, I absolutely caught it, dear?"

Ariadne laughs hard enough to jostle her body against his back.

"You're ridiculous. I'd kiss you on your cute little cheekbone if I could," she claims. "But, helmet, y'know." Ravn gets another rib squeeze regardless. "I mean, is there anything in particular you want to see? I know that's a weird question if you haven't walked around there or done any previous research, but there's a lot of cool things. I can always just give you the basic tour? Samwise will appreciate, there's a lot to sniff along the boardwalk too. If we didn't have Sam, it's also about a mile's walk from the aquarium."

A wistful sigh. "One day again." No doubt it would be like releasing the marine biologist into a proverbial candy shop.

"Basic tour sounds great to me, honestly?" Ravn's voice carries notes of laughter. "But you realise, we don't have to do it all at once? And we can absolutely do the aquarium sometime? Seattle is just two hours away -- there's nothing stopping us from going here every so often, spending the night at some charming little place, and going home the day after. A bit of time out of Gray Harbor, where things don't get weird every other moment are kind of good for your mental health, too."

He can't resist. "If you ever go to Europe -- Berlin's Tiergarten has an absolutely fantastic aquarium. I don't think it's all that special in terms of rare or obscure animals. But they've built it so that you walk in glass corridors along a reef, and you are surrounded by everything from tiny little fish to giant hammerheads, in eye height, just living their lives."

"Okay, well, number one: twist my arm for overnighting in Seattle after visiting the aquarium. Number two, why you gotta dangle a carrot like that in front of me? God, that design sounds so damn cool." If Ariadne was wistful before, she's just about whining about not being able to immediately book plane tickets to Berlin. "Bucket list, that one. It's going on the bucket list. Another fantastic aquarium is actually the Chicago Aquarium, on the note of awesome aquariums. Not all aquariums do it right, but they do. I'm impressed."

It isn't terribly far to Olympia by the signage now. "So...you still good for the off-chance of running into one of my family members? I really am just checking for how sneaky I need to be. Because you watch, I know my way around that place well enough that I can lose any one of them."

"Hey, it's going to happen sooner or later, right? Let's not worry about it. It could be my family, then we'd have something to worry about." Ravn laughs softly, again. He's heard Ariadne speak enough of her family to have pieced together that she likes them.

Which is more than he can say for his.

He ponders. "I never made it to Chicago, obviously. But for what it's worth, neither Berlin nor Chicago are unreachable, either. Just takes more planning. In your case, a passport."

"I mean...my passport's still current -- or at least, I thought it was. I'll have to look." Another shift behind Ravn. "And Chicago's fun, honestly, if you don't mind some...roughness around the edges. There are parts of the city, just like Seattle, where I wouldn't walk alone at night. But it has such personality in turn. Plus, Lake Michigan. I've never been there during winter, but the fact that the lake freezes out hard and far enough for moose to come down from Canada, for example? One of the wonders of nature."

A shiver against his back, a shimmy almost compulsive. "Too cold for me though. I'll take the damp of here. Or hell, move back to Colorado for my four seasons at one point or another. Bet your family couldn't find us in Colorado."

"All cities have a couple of neighbourhoods you shouldn't get lost in after dark if you look like easy pickings." Ravn is confident on this; and he would be, he's certainly travelled through enough of them, and sometimes hung out with the people who made them unsafe.

He ventures a small glance back; not that he can really see the rider behind him because helmets. "Moose come over from Sweden on a rare occasion when the belts freeze. It's certainly not normal, though. And a few times, they have swam. It's always a bit of a media hype because half the country wants them to re-establish a population and the other half is terrified of gigantic forest animals. We really don't have much in terms of scary wildlife."

"In all fairness, the half of the country afraid of the moose are rightfully afraid. They'll fuck your shit up, plain and simple. Same with the elk around here. I see the tourists sometimes get too close and I'm torn between watching the train wreck unfold and leaving the scene because it's always bad. Bad-bad-bad. But if you don't bother the moose, they don't bother you. I mean, my friend out in Montana has sent me pics of moose just chilling on his front doorstep between blizzards because it's warmer by the front door. Imagine opening it and then closing it carefully because suddenly -- moose."

Samwise stretches in his sit and yawns quietly. Blep. Are we there yet?

"Yeah. They're like that in Sweden. The reason Volvo cars are so sturdy? Well, if you meet an unexpected moose on some mountain road, he's not going to run. He's just going to lower those large antlers and wait for you to come get it." Ravn laughs as Olympia vanishes. "I spent a night on a farm once, out in the woods. Woke up in the morning, the bloke who owned the place was all, oh shit, I forgot to plant carrots for Jakob."

He glances down at the dog; all is well, there, yes? Good. "So, turns out Jakob was the local bull moose. And Jakob exacts a toll of one line of carrots every year. Plant only one line? No carrots for you."

"Oh no! No carrots!" Ariadne still laughs; her volume is checked because helmet plus interior acoustics. No need to blow out ears accidentally. "At least it's only one line of carrots and not, say, half of the lettuce and some of the snap peas and half of the rose bushes. My mom complains about how the deer nibble on her plants and I try to remind her about planting deer-resistant things, but she wants those roses badly enough to see about repellent and fencing. Who knew deer can jump?" Fond exasperation there.

She reaches to give Samwise another round of gentle chin smooshies and he seems to relax again. "At least it's fenced now and Samwise can run around. He can't clear deer fencing, though I have seen him boop my palm at four feet off of the ground, which is not half-bad from a sitting start."

"Deer can absolutely jump," says Ravn who grew up in a manor house with lush gardens and a forest surrounding -- hi, roe deer, all the roe deer. "Fun fact? Deer don't see horses. Or, well, they do, but they don't see horses as threats. So if you want to go deer watching, do it on horse back. They won't register you as long as you just sit there on the horse. If you point at them or talk they're gone, of course."

The landscape gradually becomes less nature preserve, more outskirts of Seattle (sorry, Tacoma, are you even a real city?). Ravn is quietly surprised at how much he enjoys just chatting about nothing in particular. Isn't he usually the quiet one?

Well, not when giving a lecture or talking about something anecdotal, he supposes. And he did find out recently just how much he gives away about himself, to sharp-eyed baristas.

Another squeeze of ribs. "Gosh. Looks like there's a reason to go horseback riding out on the trails around here, isn't there?" Ariadne's tone has the subtle singsong of 'oh dear, you've given me an idea'. Of course, the Dane has unwittingly revealed more about this semi-mysterious manor house belonging to his family. His passenger can see the roe deer now, just browsing away, ignoring the horses. It has a certain romanticism to it.

Outskirts of Seattle slowly blends into interior city. Now it's a place of concrete highways thick with cars and gleaming buildings. Big city scents mix in with the heady salinity of the Puget Sound very nearby; one can almost always see the huge shipyard tucked to the south of the city's waterfront property. Tall red cranes are for moving large shipping containers off the huge ships pulling into harbor. An exit here, a right here, down and along a street leading one past many boutique fashion stores (and man, the PRICE TAGS) and the home of the Seattle Symphony. A block up is the SAM, Seattle Art Museum, showcasing its latest tour of artwork in turn. Down a hill and another, with Ariadne only needing to flip off one driver -- better odds than usual. She directs Ravn towards a smaller parking garage off to one side and finally, finally, they're here and parked.

"Yeeeeeeeurrrrg." Straddling the bike had been fun, but at the same time? Straddling a bike for two hours and not being used to it. Samwise wiggles in his harness. FREEDOM IS NEARLY ATTAINABLE!

When able to dismount, Ariadne is not the only one doing a few awkward stretches; women are, as per nature's design, better built for sitting in a position like that, and Ravn is vaguely reminded why he hated riding a horse with a harsh gait, too.

Not that he's against the idea of horse riding in general. "I do know how to ride," he tells Ariadne. "And if you want to go deer spotting on the trail, I'm game -- more so with a guide. My fiancee used to do dressage -- fairly high level. I'm not touching that with a bargepole. The way those animals were treated is just -- no."

Having emerged from her helmet, Ariadne glances up from unbuckling Samwise's harness-seatbelt from the interior workings of the sidecar. Her cheeks are blushed from the helmet's padding and yes, there's some helmet hair, but she's also got a comb stashed away in her courier-style purse slung across her body.

"We'd be doing western tack, I assure you," she does...assure Ravn. Samwise leaps free of the sidecar and does a sustained shake-out so intense that it nearly rocks him off of his feet. Out pop his ears after the soft stretchy headband is removed and the doggles in turn. He cavorts about on the leash and looks expectantly at the humans. LET'S GO MARK ALL OF THE THINGS! "Hold up, you nut," his owner chides while she clips the leash to one of her belt loops. Out the comb is fished and she winces as she works through her hair, briefly out of its messy bun. "God..."

Toe point to one side...and the other...while she combs. "Ravn, tell me your hips aren't complaining," she then laughs. Her eyes twinkle. Oh, physiology. The comb is then offered out, just in case.

"Oh, it's not my hips that are complaining." Ravn chuckles and runs a hand through his hair; with that mop at least, helmet hair means nothing. A few finger combings and it's back to its usual state of shaggy sheepdog with copper highlights.

"Never have ridden western," he says thoughtfully and watches Ariadne try to tame her longer hair (the comb is declined, who needs it, suuuucker). "I have a feeling that if the horse stops abruptly, so does the rider's hopes of getting laid that night."

Yes, Sam, head scritch for you. We are going to go look at all the things. But first, Ravn pats Lola Bianca. "This lady of mine, at least she won't ruin my hopes in that regard. Or at least not quite so abruptly."

Ravn's chuckle is echoed. Given he's declined the comb -- and gets a fond smirk for his finger-combing in turn, whatever, bed-head is his to own -- Ariadne slips it away and then brings her own hair back up into a messy bun again.

"I'm going to argue, just to be a little shit, that if you're riding Western and you ruin your chances of getting laid at night with an abrupt stop by the horse? Your seating is terrible." Her eyes still glide over the motorcycle. "You can also get thrown from a bike too, just sayin', but that's another sack of cats entirely. Okay, Sam, yes, we're going, geez," she laughs as he makes some warbling yarble of complaint. As they get moving, the barista does some experimental lunges to further loosen up her hips and legs both. A sigh seems to indicate things are much better now for it, thank you very much.

"Alright, downhill from here," she tells Ravn as they emerge out onto the sidewalk. Samwise immediately finds the nearest building-set pillar and lifts a leg. This is his building now. His. Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Dogs." It does appear to be two blocks downhill as advertised and it is a slope. No wonder the city half-shuts down when it ices over or snows. "See the big red sign?" She points; neon lettering on huge building-high bars proclaims PUBLIC MARKET CENTER. "That's home base. The Market spreads out to the left and right."

"I never said I was a good rider. I had to take the basics at a boarding school I didn't manage to escape for a few months, and I let my fiancee talk me into sometimes accompany her on a bit of trail riding, on a lazy old gelding. I'm hardly ready for a steeplechase." Ravn laughs.

His smile widens when he spots that sign. "The suq, eh? Farmer's market, el mercato, il-suq. Every town south of the Alps has one. Many north of the Alps do too, but it's an affectation to some extent. Mediterranean climate, you need to get goods into shade or it becomes unbearably hot and everything spoils. Up north where I'm from, market days are open air because the heat is not an issue."

Globetrotter, show off a bit, why don't you.

He's interested enough, though. No city, wherever on the planet it might be, that Ravn has visited has not had a soul. Sometimes, it's the soul of a gritty old Brooklyn prostitute. Sometimes, it's a grand old dame, like Florence. Sometimes, a chaosium of steel and funkis and glass, like Berlin, rising from the ruins. Every city has a soul.

By the fond smile Ariadne's giving the Dane, she's amused by the information on offer. Globetrotter indeed. A pause in order to cross a street, waiting for the pedestrian signal, and then it's smooth sailing. The next road is closed off to all but the most necessary vehicles. The tourist crowds grow, but not overwhelmingly. It's not exceptionally warm and with the threat of rain (which may or may not show), the locals have better things to do than haunt the market. Some of the tourists are indoors-ing today after the weather unpredictability. Only the tourists have umbrellas. Pfft, it's just rain.

Some pigeons haunt the flat, well-worn cobblestones of the open area outside of the Market itself. Inside, bustling business can be seen. Some of the protective doors are down, but there's evidence of interior stalls hosting fruit and vegetables, various knicknacks, and farther down, flowers upon booths of flowers.

Is that a fishmonger's stall with a small crowd around it, front and center?

It's a fishmonger's stall. And that's one of those coy smiles up at Ravn from Ariadne as she meanders along across the square, Samwise at her hip. "So." A beat. "Want to see about catching a fish now or later?"

The die is cast.

Pfft, rain. Danish people are surprised when it's not raining. Their ancestors probably conquered England because its rainy climate felt like home.

He laughs, though. "So I was right, was I? You get to catch a fish and absolutely tell your wife back home you caught this fish? I have but one question: What do you plan to do, with your fish? Carry it around all afternoon, show it the sights?"

Ariadne bells out laughter.

"Oh no, my good sir, you misunderstand me. They'll let you catch the fish only if you wear gloves. It's safe to be sold again unless you lose it behind the fridge. We're going home with no fish," she assures him as they approach. "What I am going home with is the satisfaction of knowing you caught one of these fish flung at you at high velocity -- but only if you want to." A hand lifts soothingly, almost saint-like in direct counter to her devilish grin. "I'll do it if you won't."

Samwise lifts his ears at a pigeon. Come closer, dumb bird.

"No, no, let's both try. This is the sort of thing you have to try," Ravn agrees, laughing. "It's part of that whole city soul thing. You can't go to Malta and not go see the old capital at night, either -- they call it the Silent City because it's all preserved from the 1600s, and no one actually lives there but a few families and a couple of monasteries. In daylight it's a buzzing tourist trap but at night? It's like stepping into another world."

He grins at Samwise as well. "How about him? Is he allowed to have fish? Back home we have small, dried fish that are used for dog treats."

"Sam actually does get a dried minnow now and then, yes, so we'll see what the staff have up for offer if anything. They might not. I'm not going to ask, but if they do offer? Sure, good boy can have one." It breaks Sam's attention on the pigeon and he looks over. Me? He gets a bit of dried lamb lung out of a pocket as reward and wags his tail. Okay, no staring at the pigeons.

They close on the stall and Ariadne rises up onto her toes, squinting as she takes a gander at the battle-grounds. Nobody seems to be busy haggling over snow crab legs or a parcel of oysters. "Yeah, we can both try, lemme see what I can do. Hang out here for a second."

Watch, Ravn. Just watch your girlfriend in action. A cute dog at her side? Like the young fishmonger behind the counter stood a chance.

She dials up her effervescent good nature to 'twinkling' and can be seen to laugh a few times, hands folded at her belt, brows lifted. A gesture towards Ravn and the fishmonger eyes him before nodding and asking something. Her reply can be heard to lift about general conversation: "That would be amazing, could we? I have the dog, so...something you might not re-sell? I'm a marine biologist out of UW, I won't be grossed out." The fishmonger laughs. A nod and look at his watch, wherein he tells her to give him a minute or two. "Ooh, you're the best, thank you," Ariadne beams. "I'll go get him."

Returning to Ravn, she's back to smiling that troublemaking grin which brings her eyes up to a positively bright hue. "I've got to stay outside of the interior because of Sam, but they'll toss a salmon which didn't make the cut for me. You get to go inside the counter and don the serious gear. They're going to give you a heavy smock and gloves which go to your elbows. Gotta catch the fish when they fling at you. Got it? It's like catching a football. A very fishy, slippery football -- that's maybe three feet long," she ends up laughing.

This is how Ravn ends up looking like a complete idiot. He's strangely reminded of a few occasions when for reasons of a business nature, he got dragged to some plant and made to put on protection gear to get a tour of the facilities and the only thought that'd be on his mind would be something along the lines of I get it, the stock majority here is part of the Abildgaard trust, and why the fuck do they think I know jack all about any of this. He always tried to look suitably impressed.

He's not unhappy about the smock and the gloves though. The idea of smelling like salmon in the sun all day is as underwhelming as the smell would be overwhelming.

He grins at Ariadne. "Got your phone ready? Let's get a silly picture for the people back home. One where a fish takes me in the face and I end up confusedly cuddling my new best fish on the floor."

"Oh yeah, phone's ready," confirms the redhead. Oh look, there it is, primed and ready to go. "But you, take a fish to the face? No way. You've got way too much skill for that. We have faith in you, don't we, Sam?"

Look at that perked-eared doggy smile and feathery tail-wag. Yes, humans, what? Doe-brown eyes look between the humans in question. Then, the fishmonger behind the counter is waving Ravn over -- over here, through the waist-high door. And now? We suit up. It's a fairly heavy smock, sleeved and all, which ties at the back. The fishmongers make small talk; it sounds like one of them might be from northern Europe by the accent. Ariadne positions herself for maximum camera-phone video recording ability and thumbs up on the pedestrian side of the counter. She's grinning like a fool.

Annnnnnd of course, the fishmongers have to jazz it up. It's not 'come one, come all', but they make a good-natured rowdy deal out of it once Ravn has his gloves on (over his normal glove). One fishmonger, a portly gent, trots out a king salmon at least three feet long to the other side of the counter, not too far from Ariadne. She hits record and the fishmongers start up a count-down.

"Three! Two! One!"

Flying salmon tossed across the counter at Ravn!

Flying salmon making it to its destination?

...oooh, flying salmon, yikes.

Ravn is 6'3. He's got a natural propensity for basketball, so to speak. And even he can't reach high enough to catch that escapee.

What goes up must come down.

Right?

Ravn looks up. He realises, eventually, that what goes up does in fact not come down because the salmon is sitting quite comfortably up there, stuck in one of those industrial light boxes. It looks smug. It's probably because a salmon's mouth curves that way whether it's trying to look smug or not.

"I... think I may need a bigger boat," Ravn murmurs because pop culture references are indeed go.

"Whah-hah-hah!"

That's Ariadne, now with hand over her mouth, laughing so hard that the video's going to be shaky as shit for a second or two before she controls her shooting arm. "Oh my god!"

"Cain't say've ever seen that'n before," a fairly grizzled older fishmonger announces, looking thoughtful up at the light with gloved hands on his hips, before he busts out laughing too. "Good job, lad, need you fer gettin' into th'top compartments on the boats!" Thankfully, nobody whallops Ravn on the shoulder or back in camaraderie. "Somebody git th'ladder, got to get this escapee down 'fore the next one."

The next one being Ariadne.

Who is still giggling like a fiend. Samwise wags his tail, looking at the tall human behind the veritable field of ocean food and glass. That fish FLEW, tall human!

After Ravn is de-smocked and de-gloved and released back to the shoal of pedestrians, his redhead awaits his return with a grin. "I'm surprised at how that one went...basically over your head. Haven't seen a salmon fly quite like that," she informs him most drolly when he's close enough.

"His name is Rick and he has a date upriver that he's very serious about," Ravn informs his girlfriend with a straight face. "Watch him sit up there and bargain for his freedom. Hell and high water, and fish shops."

Then he has to laugh too. "That was pretty damned funny. Did you get it all?" And out comes his own phone with the pink casing and the Hello Kitty stencil because hell yes, he's getting a video of Ariadne fishing brown bear style.

"Looks like Rick isn't going to come down easily either." Ariadne's diverted, as most of the crowd is, by the art of salmon removal from light box. She snort-giggles again and pat-pats her jean pocket. "But oh yeah, got it all. You'll want to watch it, it's great," she assures Ravn with a bright grin. "Here, take Sam's leash. He can hang with you while I go be a badass salmon-catcher."

Samwise doesn't seem too overminded to watch his leash be handed off. He simply looks expectantly at Ravn. Hi, tall human?

As such, and with a kiss blown half over her shoulder towards Ravn, Ariadne saunters with her grin over to the waist-high door. The same process goes down: smock, heavy-duty gloves, and then she's ready. Is she ready? Countdown begins. It's a smaller salmon, but not by much, and the same portly fishmonger readies the fish.

"Three! Two! One!"

There goes salmon!

It looks like she has it!

She has it!

She has it too much!

Salmon broadside to the face, PLURP! A glancing blow with how she turned her cheek, but now Ariadne sports fish-scale glitter and a bright pink blush while she laughs helplessly.

BUT SHE CAUGHT THE DAMN THING -- by a death grip around the tail.

"Your mistress is looking pretty silly," Ravn informs Samwise with a benevolent smile.

Can he keep a straight face? Oh yes. Can he ever. Watch this straight face. It is the straight face of are you going to argue with the grizzly bear currently armed with a big, dead fish? Because he's not.

He looks at Sam again.

"But if you get a couple of quick licks in now, at least you'll be tasting salmon."

Into a pocket goes the phone, because evidence is evidence, and there are a few folks back home who need to see this.

Sam tilts his head, his attention still steadfastly on the Dane's face. What's a mistress? He does hear Ariadne laugh, however, and turns in place, ears lifted. What is she doing over there? Another glance up at Ravn. Salmon now what?

Handing off the salmon to one of the fishmongers who's laughing just as hard as she is, she then divests of the gloves and smock and thanks the group for humoring her and her out-of-town companion. Well-wishes get called back; after all, a stunt like this draws folks who want to buy the aforementioned snow crab legs. She is offered a moist towelet by a waitress who'd stopped by to watch and the barista accepts this in a heartbeat. She makes small chat over by the door while she wipes what she can feel from her face and the waitress glances over at Ravn. A lean-in and Ariadne laughs, pinking a bit more. A wave of her hand, thank you, and she's finally back over to Ravn and her dog.

With still some salmon scales in her eyebrow.

"Well! That got more exciting than I expected," she then laughs. A wry smirk up at him. "Got your video?"

"Oh yes." Ravn reaches up to pick those scales from Ariadne's eyebrow. "I do think we should get Sam a little fish -- minnow, angmagssat, whatever, he's earned it for putting up with this show."

He returns a grin to the waitress; not a sleazy one but a yep, we're having fun, all is good one. He's pretty certain that arguments happen in a place like this -- particularly when manly men's fish fly off into freedom, failing entirely to let them prove their ability as providers to their girlfriends.

It helps, not being a manly man.

"But when we get home, expect me to tell everyone I got a video of you bumping faces with a slimy northerner," he warns. Canadian salmon are northerners.

By the way Ariadne's mouth parts, she wasn't expecting to still have salmon scales in her eyebrow. Her pastel-pink blush holds steadfastly at this realization, though she doesn't move away from Ravn's grooming in turn. She's not about to walk around the Market sparkling like that.

"Also, you're terrible," the redhead notes before blurt-laughing once. "What does that make you then, oh Danish one? Not a northerner? You're not slimy, I'll grant you this. The waitress said you were cute anyways, just by the way." And how Ariadne preens at sharing this. "I said you were a good catch."

She's shameless.

"But I bet they have something for Sam, sure." Turns out they do! Plain smoked salmon jerky, nothing else in it, something kept around for the good doggos in particular. Taking the offered piece over the counter, Ariadne thanks the fishmonger and then hands it off to the dog. SCORE. The Windhound eats it with gusto.

"I am not a Canadian, am I now? Unlike that fish that just got face-y with you." Ravn smirks. "Fin-ny?" He wants to proclaim Canada-of-salmons further north than his home town but the truth of the matter? Denmark is a couple of hours north of Seattle, in terms of latitude. It doesn't matter that with the glacial melt off the mountains, Seattle is a bit colder.

He glances back at the waitress, and then forgets her. He's not embarrassed; people are allowed to have their opinions, as long as he doesn't have to care about those opinions. "I've got some practising to do if I'm going to swim upriver like a salmon," the Dane notes. "But I'm willing to work on getting my face wet whenever you say."

And the video of Ariadne getting face finned by a salmon is going to make the rounds, oh yes it is.

Oh, that video -- it'll be a source of amusement for some time, no doubt.

Ariadne laughs again. "You're extra terrible! Getting your face wet." The barista's own face then takes on a coy smile. Leaning in, she thus informs Ravn with a subtle flutter of lashes, "But as the song lyrics from your least favorite movie goes, darling it's better, down where it's wetter, take it from me." The line even gets sung softly.

Extra shameless.

"Here, I'd like your arm." As in to hold it in turn, as if Ravn were escorting her. "Let's go look at the flowers. I bet I can get a small something in my purse to take back. I have a vase in a box...somewhere." To the right of the fishmonger's stall and down the tiled hallway lies the vast (seriously, like, a city-block in length) displays of flowers lining either side of the tiled walkway.

"I plan to," Ravn murmurs softly, for Ariadne's ears alone.

Then he offers her his arm -- with the careful movements that are somewhat his trademark because while he trusts her to have a bit of understanding for the challenges of his condition, he does not trust everyone else to. Walking arm in arm needs to not involve somebody getting to shuffle into them, or a sudden lean in a random direction, or suddenly hauling him off to see something over there. It is, in its own way, a statement of trust.

"I don't know much about flowers," the Dane confesses. "I never managed a whole lot of interest. I do like looking at beautiful colours, though, so take all the time you like. You don't need to know something's name in Latin to appreciate that it's very pretty."

There are far too many people for a proper bantering to be set up. This still doesn't stop a pleased gleam from Ariadne's plan-laden gaze in return. Maybe this time, she's going to cut the Dane some slack because they're out in public.

Taking his arm with care, she tries her absolute best to divide her attention between appreciating the sprawling display of blooms and making sure she's not bumping into Ravn in the process. Samwise decides to stick close to his owner's leg; a wise move with all of the foot traffic. It's not summertime madness, but tourists be tourists. "I'm not a green thumb either. I'm limited to succulents like cacti. Those can be delightful though. I need to get some kalanchoe for my kitchen window." A thought-note to herself by her tone. "Una's yard is just...amazeballs to me. You'll have to tell me if you see anything you particularly like in the stands, especially with colors. I know they do mostly bouquets, but I can't fit that in a purse. I'll have to find something more like a nosegay. Little bouquet."

And then, she leans up to whisper something in Ravn's ear which is not fit for public consumption in any way, shape, or form because really, how to let earlier's comment go without retort.

"Nosegay is such a curious word," Ravn murmurs and then forgets about them entirely as that little voice whispers in his ear. He flat out ignores his own slight blush as he observes, "I intend to practise as often as opportunity allows."

He shakes his head, and coughs lightly. Right. Flowers. "I like to pride myself in the fact that I can kill just about any plant. Røn did give me a tiny little succulent once - and it almost survived the winter. Alas, it was not meant to survive me." His gaze wanders down the isle -- and what an isle it is, indeed, a veritable feast for the eye. "I've always had a thing for purple and blue flowers. Lavender, lilacs, that kind of blue. I almost don't care what they are, whether it's a herb or a bush or a tree. Blue just makes me -- happy? Røn's little thing had a pretty black flower, I recall."

"Woe betide me," murmurs the barista back as she smiles to herself and at Ravn's on the sly.

Ahem, indeed. Flowers.

"I might speak to Una or Ava about a hydrangea bush then, if that's your preferred color scheme. They're native and they'd grow in a bonanza in the yard if you and Aidan wanted one," Ariadne notes as they become truly hemmed in by the riots of floral color. "Lilacs also do very well here. I have my fingers crossed that it is a lilac bush by my kitchen window. I'll have that window cracked all summer if that's the case, rain be damned. I...think you could also get away with English Lavender, but like I said, I'm just going off what I remember from my mom's garden. Something about a lot of sun and we're not exactly the sunniest place on the planet."

She ends up pausing by one of the stalls sporting smaller bouquets and gives the stall minder a briefly smile before starting to at least visually browse. It is...slightly overwhelming, the options, and not many of them are small enough to fit into her purse as planned. A thought: "Do you think something bigger would survive in the sidecar? Here am I limiting myself when I might not need to?" A lift of brows at Ravn.

"I suppose it largely comes down to whether Sam will refrain from trying to dig or nose around while we're driving. Don't hydrangeas turn pink if there's not enough copper in the soil, though? I seem to remember something about that, people complaining that they aren't the colour they thought they were when the bush was planted. Needs to be sufficiently acidic or alkaline soil, whatever?" Ravn scratches his chin. "I seem to remember somebody -- probably a gardener -- talk about that, telling somebody else to bury copper nails around them. And also, dead fish, to make them grow better."

He points towards a flock of small, very tiny but cheerfully blue flowers. "I remember these. I remember somebody telling me that Lobelias are impossible to kill, at least until frost kills them. And they are a very intense shade of blue."

Sam is given a pensive look. By the subtle shrug, Ariadne thinks he won't bother the blooms after being told to knock if off if he does. He looks up at her in return -- yes, mom? More lamb lung for him, snuggled up between human shins and the stall front-paneling, out of the way of foot traffic.

"Ooh, look at you, dropping names." Ravn's given a bright grin. "Smart cookie. I adore that about you. I think my mom has these too, yes, and I think you're right about the hydrangeas. Check with August though, he sounds like he's the plant-savvy guy around town. I mean, you could Google search, but I like the face-time of asking those who know, y'know?" Reaching out, she gently brushes fingertips along one of the petals of a violently-orange tiger lily, aptly named for its spots. "There are a few flowers which are close to the color of amaranthine, but not too many. My mom has petunias which are this...I'm going to say 'luscious' color of a red so dark it's almost black. They're amazing. But I'm a bit too distracted for delicate flowers. Hence, succulents." Le shrug.

Ravn is given a glance. "So do you have a favorite flower then?"

Ravn shakes his head. "I don't think I do. Can I say a favourite kind of flower instead? I like meadow flowers. The kind you find along ditches and country roads. Wild. Just doing their thing, growing where they please. There's something about them that I associate with just wandering along such a country road, larks in the sky, cotton whiffs of clouds, not a soul in sight."

His fingers try to slip into Ariadne's. "I think we've had those petunias, though. Could have convinced me they're black until you actually hold a petal up against the sun. I never really took an interest in gardening, not going to lie -- but I did take an interest in the gardener because he was an adult who talked to me like a real person and also, my weed dealer."

Can he say? "Of course," Ariadne replies with a fond amusement before hearing the answer. She nods, her smile sweet. Feeling gloved fingers hunting after her own, she stretches them to then interlace in turn. Gentle squeeze -- hello there.

"Well." The barista had to process the hilarity of the gardener being the weed dealer. Cue brief titter and throat-clearing. "Sorry, just...word choice there," admits she with a little grin over at Ravn. "I'm glad you had him as someone to talk to regardless. Just...dude, as impossible as it is, I wish I'd been there somehow to make things...easier? But at the same time, you wouldn't you now and I like the you of now." Another soft hand-squeeze. "And meadow flowers are gorgeous little things. Wait until we go hiking. I won't say more, but I will say you'll be glad you brought your camera if you do."

Her attention slips along to another stall down the way, this one with bouquets of roses scattered throughout the more general blends of daisies, lilies, baby's breath, and carnations. "Ooh." Looks like they're headed this way now, though at no abrupt speed.

"I will definitely bring my camera." Ravn lights up in a smile. "And -- for what it's worth, I was a brat. As a teen, I mean. Bored, neglected kid with too much money, hated everything social, spent most of my time aggressively making people dislike me, smoking weed, and reading. Gardener always left me alone. Just asked, 'how much you want', and told me a price. I often hung around because if he ever said something it'd be 'hand me the shovel' and then he'd talk to the groundskeepers and ignore that I was there entirely."

He has no idea what all these garden flowers are called, and definitely not in English. A number of them he might be able to name in his native -- or even tell stories about. Maybe sometime he will.

"Sounds like a good companion for someone in that mindset," Ariadne agrees as she stops before the booth sporting the spectrum of options. "I was just the perfect child. First kid, couldn't do anything wrong. Made for a very boring childhood, I guess, but not a lot of drama. I never snuck out of a window or was late for curfew or stole a car." A dry little smirk at Ravn. She's heard enough insinuations if not outright stories. "All the chaos was for my sister to concoct. Sometimes, I wish I'd been a better example of what not to do, but there's five years between us. It was hard for us to relate sometimes."

A bouquet sporting roses of an indiscriminate pale lavender-pink with deeper fuchsia fringes catches her eye. She visibly considers it with a squint. "Mmm. Too much. Not enough red in there," she murmurs mostly to herself before continuing to scan options. The scent of this area is heavenly, light, floral, saline, utterly singular. "Would it be odd if I brought you flowers? I'm a modern kind of gal, but I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," she then tells Ravn, glancing over at him again.

"Can't we make our own decisions on what's odd and what's not? I don't think my background is particularly suited for a role model -- I can't think of any time in my life I remember seeing my parents happy." Ravn smiles and squeezes Ariadne's hand slightly. "I'm not good at the whole 'supposed to' game anyhow. Important dates? I forget them. Anniversaries, birthdays? If you want me to remember, remind me. It's not that I don't think they matter but I literally space them -- my own included."

"There's always also spontaneity, I'm going to point out, because one could technically celebrate a birthday all year long. Literally no one is stopping someone from doing this. Mine is the 20th, if you want to put it in your phone," Ariadne notes, her attention all for the gentleman holding her hand. "And I know yours is coming up, so...as they say around here." Dramatic stage-whisper: "Fess up, buddy, because I want to treat you a little bit."

Samwise's ears perk. He's not paying attention to this conversation. He's spotted what he thinks is a familiar face anyhow.

And it is. "Ari!" The young man's voice rings out and Ariadne looks temporarily as shocked as a tasered owl.

She turns in place and puts a hand to her chest in partial relief. "Mathieu, oh my god, hi! What are you in town for?" In town, she says.

The young man is about two inches taller than her, brunet with warm brown eyes, and snug in a plain forest-green hoodie and jeans. He wends his way through foot traffic to offer a big hug. Ariadne laughs and returns it while Samwise cavorts in a polite little space. "Just passing through."

Oh, but Ravn. Ravn isn't getting away with anything. Mathieu looks up and lifts brows as he extricates himself from the hug. A hand is offered out for a shake while Ariadne gets a knowing side-glance. "Mathieu Scullin, I'm Ari's cousin. Her uncle's my dad," he explains. There's a noticeable French-Canadian accent there.

Ravn stiffens; it's probably not visible to anyone who doesn't know him, but he does. Then he carefully extends his gloved hand because his issue is not with common courtesy but the fact that enthusiastic people sometimes squeeze hard or feel some weird urge to slap backs or similar -- and all of those things translate to pain, lots of pain, where the Dane is concerned.

"Ravn Abildgaard, not Ariadne's cousin," he returns, acutely aware that he has as much of an accent except it's from another continent. "Pleasure's mine, I'm sure?"

When in doubt, default to your upbringing. Polite, reserved, mask in place.

Mathieu, having no idea about the neuropathy, returns the handshake as one would with a normal stranger. There's no knuckle crunching display of authority or limp-wristed tenderness. Just a happy middling greeting.

"Nah, pleasure's shared. Nice to meet you. Ravn," he then repeats as something of a confirmation. Of course the Quebecois accent warps the name a bit, but it's likely a hell of a lot better than some of the attempts Ravn's heard over the years. "First time in Seattle? Kind of a touristy place here, y'know." He hits the last word much harder than Ariadne does, but it's proof of familial speech patterns.

Another glance at Ariadne. She gives her cousin a look half warning and half wry amusement.

"I came through about two years ago but I only stayed for a short while," Ravn agrees. "Ariadne has agreed to giving me the basic tourist experience -- starting here. Well, at the fish shop. I didn't catch the fish, it decided to get stuck in a ceiling lamp box. Very wild, those Canadian salmon."

Watch one man wait for the other man to ask. It's a game as old as time. And if there is one game Ravn plays very, very well, it's the what, you have questions, oh, I had no idea, silly me, game.

Mathieu laughs, the sound purely falling under the category of 'chortle'. "Of course you'd subject him to that," he says, glancing at Ariadne.

"Hey, look, it's the perfect introduction to this place," the barista idles argues as she grins. "And the salmon really did end up in the ceiling lamp, I was very impressed." She neglects to mention having a recording of it. Some things are for her alone and not family.

"Well done," Mathieu laughs again. A beat and then, of course, a hesitant gesture between the Dane and the barista. "You two...?"

"Yes, Mathieu, we're dating, no blowing the horns about it." A finger pointed at Mathieu not too unlike a sudden belt-dagger on display. Ariadne's cousin holds up both hands palms out in defeat.

"Have some faith in me! I know how your mom is. You can handle that all by yourself," he demurs with a grin. "I know you'd murder me and feed me to the fishes."

"Salmon sharks, buddy," Ariadne confirms with a sharp grin.

"She told you about that one time on the beach yet?" Mathieu then asks of Ravn, earning himself a scoff and "MATHIEU!" and not caring one bit by the open amusement he continues aiming at Ravn.

"She's told me a substantial amount of things about beaches," Ravn confirms with a chuckle. "Not to mention shown me some quite amazing wildlife indigenous to the Pacific, which an Atlantic Ocean boy like me would have have imagined to exist."

Yes, he went there.

"I'm not actually familiar with salmon sharks though?" The interest is genuine. Ravn is no marine biologist but he does love the sea. "I'm generally a hell of a lot more familiar with North Atlantic and Baltic Sea fauna, for somewhat obvious reasons."

'Thank you', mouths Ariadne at Ravn for the save as well as the redirect. Mathieu seems to be an easy one to steer. He glances over at his cousin in turn, expecting her to wax poetic on salmon sharks now.

"Salmon sharks are one of our local species. They don't get too big, around five feet or so in length, and there's not many reported shark attacks with them because who in their fool mind is going to go swimming in the Puget Sound or the Strait at...any time of the year, really. The water's cold as hell. But -- what reports exist aren't exactly comforting. It sounds like they'd swarm like the reef sharks if given an opportunity. Like, chum the waters and they get pretty impulsive. I can imagine someone disappearing pretty quickly."

Pointed look at Mathieu who chortles again. "You could be a mob enforcer, yikes," he retorts, making his cousin grin more honestly. "Well, Ari's going to tell you about some of the shops below deck here and yes, it's worth it. Maybe show him some of the historical district?"

"If we have time, yeah, we're on a bit of a schedule today," Ariadne replies, fudging the timeline because...there's no real timeline, BUT GO AWAY, COUSIN.

"I doubt we'll have time to see everything that's worth seeing in Seattle," Ravn agrees with a small, good-natured smile. "That means she'll have to drag me here more than once, of course. I've only really seen the art museum by the harbour -- there's a couple of good places outside it for busking." With a smile to Ariadne he adds, "Rosencrantz and I have gone a few times." Because of course they have, violin buddies and all.

And then because there's a tiny devil living on the man's shoulder, Ravn cannot resist giving Mathieu his best blue-eyed look. "Goodness, a mob enforcer even? She always seems so quiet and dignified to me."

"Ah, that makes sense." Ariadne can see it, both violinists setting up shop and earning themselves at least a sum or so for their playing efforts. Mathieu glances between the two of them in mild curiosity -- at least until Ravn makes that statement.

More chortling. "I think you're confused. Ari? Quiet and dignified?"

"Excuse your smart ass." A sniff from the barista with her arms folded at her cousin and then a Look for Ravn. Hey. Instigator. I see you. "You know I've got manners."

"Where, in your other pants?" Mathieu retorts with a grin.

"I mean, yours are up your ass and around the corner, so," shrugs Ariadne with a smirk while her cousin snorts.

"My mild mannered muse turns out to secretly be the local mob enforcer. My swan maiden is secretly an alley cat. Woe is me." Ravn looks amused; quite so, even, and by that, at least, reveals that he may actually have a pretty good idea what kind of woman he's met. Even if she keeps claiming that she was the good kid.

"Never one to not have a smartass answer at least." He shoots Mathieu another amused look. "But you know what they say, never bored around a redhead." Why yes, he's a redhead too.

A snort-laugh from Ariadne. "Pot, kettle, black there, mister." Because indeed, he's a redhead too of a different shade.

"It runs in the family, so you're forewarned," Mathieu notes with another good-natured laugh. "But I shouldn't be unkind. Ari's good people, I promise."

"N'aw. Gonna make me blush, stop it." A light tap of knuckles to her cousin's arm from the barista.

"What, you want to be mob enforcer? He's onto you." A grin at Ravn because the revelation of the man knowing was caught by Mathieu. "I'll leave you two alone though. Ari, you didn't see me and I didn't see you. Deal?"

Ariadne squints. "...oh-ho-ho, nobody knows you're in town too, eh?"

"Got it in one. We never saw one another," Mathieu insists, still smiling if more seriously now.

"Deal." They shake hands. "Good luck with whatever, yeah?"

"Thanks, you too. Show him the pigs." Mathieu gives Ravn a curt nod. "I'll see you in the future." How foreboding? And then, like that, cousin Mathieu melts away into the crowd.

Ravn watches him go with an amused little smile. And not until he's well out of hearing distance does he inquire, still amused: "So, gay or the family disapproves of his girlfriend?"

He smiles, a little wryly. "I don't know if I should feel relieved that that seems to be the same anywhere, or a little sad. That said, my aunts would probably prefer to think I was gay at this point, rather than just not interested at all. At least a nice little inclusive romance would make such good press."

Both Ariadne and Samwise track the cousin until they too seem very certain he's not done anything vaguely malicious like hide behind a pillar or attempt to circle around. Ravn's hypotheses?

"Nope. Not gay nor does he have a girlfriend. I mean, insofar as I know for either. He's not a big talker in general." Her golden-hazel eyes return to the Dane again. "Also, your aunts can go...do something inappropriate where I'm sure your imagination can fill in. Sorry," she then apologizes with a mild wince. "It's your family, I know...but I struggle a lot with your aunts' behavior. I'm going to be forthright about it too. They really can butt out. I know you are not going to treat me like some...advancement in society or something, but like...heaven help them, really."

A short sigh. "So. My cousin Mathieu. We really are invisible still, he's never broken his word to me. And I still need to find a nice bouquet." Her attention skims down more of the stalls before she frets her bottom lip. Her soft huff is part laugh. "So many choices."

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "I'm not sure I do them justice. I mean, I have a lot of old grudges and wounds to lick. However, if I have to make the introductions some day? I don't want you to change a thing about yourself. I don't get to pick my blood relatives. I do get to pick my girlfriend."

He squeezes Ariadne's hand gently; still haven't let it go. "Advancement in society is overrated, believe me. And I don't mind anyone knowing that we're together. I'm sure you feel mortified at the idea of letting your family inspect me, but I suspect this is entirely natural. I'll silently be laughing my backside off, I promise."

Nodding understanding, Ariadne still lets her gaze drift off to one side. She envisions it, the subtle tell Ravn does when he's laughing and yet entirely straight-faced and straight-laced; it makes her laugh too. Samwise lifts his ears at both humans.

"I believe you'll be laughing. Knowing my luck, my mom will go off to find her scrapbook of newspaper articles and my dad will try and grill you about your coffee preferences. My family has a roastery here in the city. Rightfully so, my dad's a snob." And thus: the redhead's own root of snobbery revealed. "I mean, he'll have things to say to you about the Jamaican Blue." She leaves it at that for the sake of amusing anticipation. "It's...I don't know that it's 'mortified', but definitely annoyed if because it has to happen or else it's one of those things where time goes by and the chance of more and more drastic reactions grows, right?"

A gentle squeeze of his hand and she tils her head to warn him before continuing on down the stalls of flowers. "And I need you to know that I might wear cargo pants in front of your aunts out of sheer cussed spite. But don't tell Dita." Giggle.

"My bird, we can both wear cargo pants. I own a very nice set of cargo pants." Ravn beams. "Dita hates them." Well, they are a very nice set. Because this man may live on a boat and have very few expenses, but due to his neuropathy, he has to make certain allowances for clothing. It's not that he takes any special pleasure in parading Versace around -- it's that the make and quality means less pain. Vyv Vydal spotted him for somebody with money pretty much right away; Vyv Vydal has a keen eye for fashion.

Then he nods and lets himself be lead past one beautiful display after another. "Your father can probably tell me a thing or two, then. I'm not a coffee expert. I'm more -- they send me gourmet coffee? I drink it. Who's going to let good coffee go to waste? But get excited about it? I can't. I drink instant coffee with equal delight."

"Oh god. Don't tell my dad that, he might call you unsalvageable," laughs the daughter of the owner of a roastery in Seattle. "I won't judge you. All I ask is you let me kiss you while you taste like coffee in general." Ariadne's next laugh is softer and a little sheepish, but she continues leading on. Studiously not looking directly at Ravn is going to spare her something deeper than the beginnings of a faintest blush. "But as I'm sure you well know, I happen to like those cargo pants on you. Let Dita give you flack. I think you look good."

Now he gets one of those bright grins. "I mean, you'd look good in about anything, emberem." She needs to stop to let a thicker clot of tourists go by and glances over at the offerings of yet another stall.

"Well." Delight lightens her voice. "How much for this one?" the redhead then asks the stall minder of the bouquet she's pointing at. It's entirely roses, this bouquet, a smaller one in the grand scheme of sizings. Its cluster of blooms numbers six and there are two a-piece of a cream, ruffle-edged baby-pink, and then palest lavender color. It's not overly pricey, a thing for which Ariadne is grateful. She has to extricate her hand from within Ravn's in turn to fish out her wallet, though she takes a moment to lift a pointer finger. "Let me pay for this, I insist, it's for my kitchen table," she tells the Dane with a confident little close-lipped smile to follow.

"I was about to offer, but if you insist it's not that hill I choose to die on," Ravn agrees, laughing, while he mentally pockets that little blush for later treasuring. He also makes a note to read up on Seattle coffee a bit -- this is the town that spawned Starbucks, isn't it? Wait, is this a good thing or a bad thing as far as coffee is concerned? Rip-offs of Italian novelty coffee -- to make even the Italians wince, and they certainly take their coffee very seriously. Yes. Further reading is required.

He admires the fragile colours of the bouquet with a smile; by now he's quite aware that Ariadne has a good eye for colour and its combinations, something which he himself lacks. "Dita's welcome to give me all the flak she likes. I'm sure you've realised -- opining on your attire is one of her love languages. She never comments twice on the clothes of somebody she dislikes, have you noticed? They just don't matter enough to be worth a critical eye."

Money is exchanged in bills through reaching hands. Ariadne signals that change should be kept, please, and takes her bouquet. A burying of nose into it and when she emerges, she's sighing contentedly. "Not summer-thick like the red ones get, but I like the delicacy too," she says of the scent panel. The bouquet is offered up in case Ravn wants to sniff.

"And...you're right, actually," she concludes, brows lifted. "Dita doesn't comment twice on people she has no time for. Aw. Aw. Awww." Tip-tip of her head back and forth while a pleased little smile curls her lips. "I have received flak. We're in like Flynn, as the saying goes." It takes a moment to shift around bouquet and Samwise's leash and make sure he's doing fine -- he's doing just fine, thanks mom -- and then she moves her hand to see about interlacing fingers with the Dane once more. "Alright. Pigs. Pigs and chocolate?" she asks of him, finding his gorgeously-blue eyes. "Or something else?"

Ravn carefully curls his fingers around Ariadne's. This is always going to be a conscious gesture from him, and one that he looks at while carrying it out. It will never come naturally, and on some level he absolutely hates that -- and at the same time, he is awash in relief that Ariadne understands. It's not that her touch and her caresses don't hold meaning to him. It's that he has to be careful lest they cause him pain, and yet he wants them enough to accept the risk.

Not to mention the fact that she's picked up quickly on how it works; she lets him see her movements coming. He's reminded once again of how she spoke of a relative who was hard of hearing, and it makes perfect sense in his mind. Don't startle the hard of hearing, either. No one likes living in constant fear that something is going to pop up in their face at any given moment.

"I want to see what you want to show me the most," he says, smiling. "When you say pigs, do you mean literal pigs as in, very large, smelly animals that somehow turn into delicious bacon? Or are we talking plushies or figures?"

"Figures. Statues, actually, but that's if they have them all out and about right now. Could just be Rachel is the only one right now. She gets decorated for major holidays around here. There are other statues that are dressed to the nines, but only for really special days." Giving Ravn's hand a gentle squeeze, she then leads the way down the remaining one half (only one half!) of the floral aisle before taking a right out into the courtyard once more. There, down the way a bit, stands a bronze statue of a pig. Her hide is weather-tarnished and pet-worn, lightened in places where hands have traveled again and again. Samwise isn't one of those dogs to bark at the statue; he probably got it out of his system in his adolescent stage. He merely sniffs and blinks -- ah, right, metal statue thingie.

A stage-woman's gesture at the statue with bouquet in-hand. "Zee pig," Ariadne announces, beaming with hometown pride. It's the weird little things. "Rachel's been around for...gosh a long time. There, you've seen her, the clock tower, the fish market... I mean, there's the gum wall, I guess." Her smile goes cheeky. "It is, in fact, precisely what you think: a wall covered in prechewed gum. I think it started in the eighties, but now it's...some...modern art establishment, in a way. Or the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Their turtles are amazeballs."

"I'm going to guess there's a story for Rachel." Ravn looks at the statue; it's definitely not the kind of statue that commemorates some battle or industrial baron. "And a tradition? Half the cities of Europe has some statue that you rub for luck or fertility. If it's luck it's typically the nose. If it's fertility, well, they don't call them the golden balls of Florence for nothing."

He cants his head. "I better not get involved in a war about chocolate turtles. Have you had a Tom's chocolate turtle? It's a Danish thing, and I am not ready to go to war for my country. Seattle does give me this feeling of -- innovation. Like this is a city for people who try out weird things -- throw ideas on the wall, see which ones stick. It makes sense that a lot of big industries started here, that's a very fertile culture for ideas."

Good question -- and Ariadne gestures again towards the pig after Ravn asks. A little flock of tourists pass by and somebody rubs the flat of the pig's snout. Must be a good luck thing indeed. "What you do is rub her nose and then go make a donation to the Market. If you do it specifically in Rachel's name, it goes towards social services. I know she's been around since before my family moved here, but not exactly when she showed up."

Samwise watches another trio of pigeons nearby with the interest of a sighthound. Dumb birds, come here. He shuffles his front feet, but otherwise does nothing more than give them a hairy (furry) eyeballing.

Chuckling, Ariadne dimples up at the Dane. "Seattle's been the birthplace for a lot of things known worldwide, yes. We'll start with Bill Gates and I think that one explains itself. Grunge music, with the lauded Kurt Cobain. Chihuly glass, which you probably know? The museum is wonderful; Tacoma is the artist's home-city. Not only Kurt Cobain though, but Jimi Hendrix and Bing Crosby, to cross generations. Ready for a little secret?" She leans in a bit. "I...have touched one of Jimi Hendrix's guitars." Solemn nod. "That's what you get for having a friend who works for the MoPOP. Museum of Pop Culture, over by the Seattle Science Center."

A beat. "But also, your chocolate turtles are paltry until I've had one of these Tom's chocolate turtles. For now, you must suffer my American variant," she teases.

Ravn laughs. Challenge accepted; later, his aunt is going to get a text requesting a box of Toms Skildpadder with the next inevitable shipment of gourmet coffee. And knowing her, he's going to receive half a dozen other very Danish treats, because this will be the first time in almost three years he's actually asked her to send him anything. It's been only six months since he even gave her his street address.

He's duly impressed though. "I mean, this is what makes me laugh when people back home scoff at American culture. Yes, yes, compared to some European countries, the US is very young. But guess where most of our modern culture originates? There's something to be said for fertile ground for fresh ideas -- things that happen a lot slower in an environment that's got too much tradition."

Still talking about culture. Right? Right.

Ah, to hear him laugh. It makes a part of her melt every time. One can see it about the barista's edges and in how her cheeky smile softens. Another squeeze of his gloved hand.

"Eh...yeah, all of this is younger, but...innovation's a thing around here. Boeing and aeronautics. Tech especially. I mean, hell, think of my dad and coffee, right? Coffee culture in the United State got off the ground here," and she points off the bouquet down the block to the north. "Down there? First Starbucks ever. It was big news and the world didn't know it until they did. If you can secure a roastery here? You're...I mean, unless you fuck up badly, this is a great place to have a business like that. Dad got lucky, in a way. He had a connection here when we moved up here and he had just...god, in retrospect, he was getting the place up and running exactly when he should have been." She laughs quietly and looks down into the roses. "I should amend with it's not like I grew up with money. The business ebbs and flows like any business does. Things got dicey when I was a teenager, but we were comfortable in the long run."

A directional tilt of her head in forewarning and then they're drifting in the direction of the parking garage, though by the diagonal pathway, Ariadne intends to lead around the corner rather than up the slope again.

Ravn is more than content to let himself be dragged in any direction; after all, what Ariadne chooses to show him also tells him a lot about her -- what she thinks is important, what she thinks is amazing, what she thinks will impress a foreigner.

"Starbucks is a kind of funny thing back home," the Dane agrees. "In Copenhagen where there's a number of them, it's much the same as here. It's coffee, there's worse, it's not winning the lottery. And then you go to the small provincial towns that don't have Starbucks -- and suddenly it's a status symbol. I've known people who'd go to a large town to order something -- and then rinse out their cup and use it for weeks for other coffee, in order to make it seem like they'd had the time and energy to drive an hour for coffee. Signals hot to trot, up and coming business person, entrepreneur."

He can't resist a small smile. "And to absolutely no one's surprise, my peers would probably rather eat raw coffee beans than be seen with a Starbucks cup -- lest somebody thinks they're faking it."

"I'm...a little surprised to hear that about your peers, but not overly so at the same time," the young woman muses. "If it's a status symbol of the 'commoners'," -- eyeroll -- "There's surely something better out there for anybody who can afford it. I'm sure if I thought hard enough, I could come up with an example of something around here where the same concept applies. Maybe purses or something. I have no idea." Her shrug is lackadaisical. This one will need a serious round of My Fair Lady training, should push come to shove.

"Now. I'm also going to be that person and note like with most businesses which grow to large corporations, their coffee used to be better. You can tell it's big batch stuff now. Not on the same plain as McDonald's, but still." Little nose wrinkle and wry smirk up at Ravn as they round the corner. "My dad has spoiled me a lot." At least she's not afraid to admit this. The chocolate shop isn't a quarter of a block around the corner. Glass walls to its front showcase innards, a narrower rectangle hemmed in with shelves on one side and counters on the other. From the solid awning in front of it hangs the sign with its known symbol of an orange swirled cup.

Samwise looks between them both as Ariadne stops and sighs. "So. Sticky wicket: we've got Sam and rightly so, no animals in the shop. You brave enough to sally inside if I send you on an errand? Or would you rather hold Sam and the roses while I zip in and out?"

"I think Sam and I will be just fine over here," Ravn agrees with another chuckle. "If we stay close to each other we won't get lost. Right, Sam? I depend on you to save my life, Sam."

Then he hitches a shoulder; not dismissively, just -- stating facts. "It's always best at first. That's where the passion is. The craftsmanship. Then somebody with money notices, and for a short while, it's the new thing. Somebody thinks, there's money in this -- and why wouldn't they? It's nice to not have to worry about bills and mortgages. Production is organised, expanded. It's still a good product but the mom and pop love is gone. That's how trends work."

He looks at the shop with curiosity nonetheless. "So, I am going to be taking notes on what you buy today. Expect me to return the favour sometime. And also, don't ever let anyone tell you that white chocolate is sub-par -- it's true that it's not proper chocolate but it's good on its own merit, thanks."

Sam looks up at Ravn, ears perked. What, tall human? Pigeons. We need to address the pigeons. Feathery tail-wag at the Dane.

"That's exactly how a trend works," agrees the barista as she hands off the leash and bouquet both to Ravn. "I do get spoiled in this. Dad brings home samples and we all try it and weigh in. Every time I go back home? Pounds of coffee. So spoiled," she laughs softly. "And...I...guess...about white chocolate." Dubious. We are dubious. "It's...adequate," Ariadne continues with a cheeky grin; the challenge is issued with something of a lazy circling of banter-sword. "I'll forewarn you, however, that it'll be...six turtles and one of their caramel-dipped apples because lord." Bottom lip fret. "Those things are dangerous."

Samwise's face is held and his forehead kissed. "Okay, you watch him, mister." The sighthound utterly fails and watches Ariadne disappear into the shop instead. His doe-brown eyes shift back to Ravn. To his owner inside. To Ravn. A soft puff of a bark with ears perked. Um. Excuse me. You let her go inside and I am out here.

Ravn reaches down to offer an ear scritch. "It's all right," he tells the windhound. "I'm very fond of your human, and we're going to wait right here for her to come back, right? Because that's what loyal dogs like us do."

He glances at the pigeons. "Well, I suppose we could sneak up on the pigeons too. I can move very silently, you realise."

Okay, ear scritches make things a little better. Cue quiet groan of appreciation as the dog leans into the gesture. But then.

But then -- Ravn says 'pigeons'. Suddenly, those doe-brown eyes are sharp up at him. Sir, you said a magical word. The dog looks from the birds to the man again and prances his little white front feet. Ravn isn't mom. Surely there are slightly different rules? Or maybe totally different rules? Or maybe there are NO rules.

Ariadne is heedless. She's busy laughing with one of the chocolatiers behind the counter about something involving the candy apples.

If anyone else wonders about the tall copper blond with the feather-tailed dog inching closer and closer to the pigeons together, they say nothing. Fidgeting boyfriend parked with the dog? Probably not so unusual a sight.

Ravn doesn't intend to catch one. But he's more than happy to play the game of sneak up on the feathery little bastards and scare the bejeebers out of them with Sam. There's something offensive about them. Their smug little faces, the way they walk, the absolute helpless stupid of a city pigeon.

These things only survive in the arms race of evolution because for every egg they lose to putting their nest on two twigs or in someone's garden planter or some other stupid place, three eggs amazingly survive. They are the ultimate example of breed fast enough that even evolution can't keep you down.

And it's true. Watch them take off in a huff just before he's close enough to tap one with a foot. Or a dog.

Watch a pigeon barely avoid missing a mouthful of tail feathers. Sam bark-bark-barks at the scattering flock without hitting the end of his leash and then returns to Ravn with a proud prance in his steps. Triangle-ears perk and his feathery tail wags high. We showed them, didn't we, tall human? Okay, next group. -- of pigeons, apparently. Trust a sighthound to start scanning the environment again.

"Cute dog!" Like Ravn was going to avoid any call like this. A trio of young woman dressed and aged as if they might be seniors in college, two blondes and one brunette, giggle as they float past. "He's so cute, what is he?" The brunette holds out a palm, assuming that she'll be greeted. Samwise, your standard sighthound, merely looks at her in a very cat-like manner; I do not know you, you must be assessed.

Got the candy apple inside. Ariadne's allowed to point out which turtles, apparently.

"Windhound," Ravn returns. "He's kind enough to let me hold his leash while my girlfriend picks out what she wants." His smile is friendly enough -- always happy to strike up a chat with a stranger -- but beneath that, there's a very polished figure who's been schooled by and for life on how to handle public attention.

His upbringing taught him a lot. His social anxiety, even more. His very jealous and somewhat deceased ex, all of it. Never ever let a woman think for a second that you might be flirting unless you really intend to be.

Only one of the trio has enough gall to let disappointment flash through her face; a pout, there and gone. The brunette, realizing she's only going to get a sniff, lets up on greeting Sam. She's not disappointed; she must have a dog too by the knowing little smile she gives the sighthound.

"I haven't heard of that breed, but he's cute as hell," one of the other blondes says. "Lucky you, getting to babysit."

"He really is adorable. Lookit those ears," baby-talks the other. Samwise looks between them. Indeed, I am furry.

"Thanks for letting us say hi." This is the brunette again, apparently in charge of herding the group on. Ravn gets a last wave and bright grin before the ladies indeed move on, twittering like birds over the man with the Very Cute Dog(TM). It is a thing, this trope. Maybe Ravn can catch the comment about, 'ohmygod, he has roses, so romantic!' and 'His accent, geez, where's my Romanian guy'.

Chocolates are acquired. Ariadne starts walking towards the door and gets stopped once more by a comment from the chocolatier. She can be seen to laugh and thumb outside. Uh oh: now the staff is looking at Ravn plus his Very Cute Dog(TM).

Grifter and drifter Ravn knows very well that he's good looking and cuts a striking figure in all black. He also knows that if you prop up a template, people will fill it with whatever their own fantasy might be; the best way to secure actual invisibility is to simply say and do very little -- those girls are going to go home talking about some handsome European who, four streets down, might carry only a passing resemblance. The chocolatier staff is going to see handsome man waiting for the woman he's obviously in love with, fill in some blanks, and once again, two hours later, he might as well be the dashing Brit with the bright green eyes, because he gives very little to remember.

There's a reason Hollywood romantic heroes all look like the same thirty year old white man. Templates. Handsome European With a Scruff, Model 2.

"Come on, boy, stop picking up all the girls," he tells Samwise with a laugh. "I can't wing man them all for you."

But. You're the human. I am a dog. They had no pigeons or treats, Samwise seems to say back to Ravn, tilting his head back and forth while he looks up into the Dane's face.

Ariadne finally escapes from the chocolate shop and she's laughing as she exits. She brings her a whiff of the shop's interior, sweet and bitter baker's chocolate combined with the even sweeter scent of glazes and the brisk of coffee. "Sorry, they wanted to talk a bit," she tells Ravn. The wax-lined brown bag sports the shop logo and requires a sniff from Samwise to pass muster. He sneezes. It passes muster. "Here, I'll take him and the roses back." It will definitely require some shuffling of objects around and hopefully nothing will get dropped in the process. Maybe she has enough hands? "Okay, how are you holding up? Do we need to think about sushi now?"

"Why don't we? I think Sam might be up for a bit of food as well. He tried rather hard to convince me that pigeons are good eating. Not that I disagree, as it happens, just, I prefer mine cooked and in cream sauce." Ravn scritches the dog's head once more and then assists in the swap -- lash to you, roses to you, and he'll carry the bag. That's what men are for, right? Let him have this, he tries so hard to not force his instinct to white knight on people. "Also, if I ever need to find a date and you're not available? I'm borrowing Sam. Best wingman ever."

Barista looks down at dog when informed about pigeons. Dog looks back up. What?

"You're a butt, mister," Ariadne mutters fondly to him. Tail wag-wag. That's me, yes, lamb lung? No lamb lung forthcoming yet.

Instead, she glances back up at Ravn again and can't help the laugh. "Really. He does make a good wingman, doesn't he. Those chicks, right? I glanced over and I figured he'd attracted attention. He's a cutie-bean. Aren't you." Baby-talk at the dog who wags his tail again. "And I mean, you're a handsome lug, so." Such shrug, much grin at Ravn again. "It figures someone would try and talk to you about him." If there's any hesitation about having Ravn hold the chocolates, none is seen or forthcoming; only so many hands are available.

"Now, sushi." Ariadne looks left and right and thoughtful all. "Might as well see what Google has to say. I'm not too picky unless you have a preference about the place at all?" Out comes her phone and she pulls up a listing of the local sushi eateries within five blocks or so.

"No, not at all. I'm very, very easy going. Some of the best meals I've had were heated in a used tin over a fire, in some remote parking lot." Ravn laughs and exchanges a last glance with Sam. Later, buddy. We'll get those filthy pigeons. "Also, I'm pretty sure my insides are lined with stainless steel or I'd have died from food poisoning a long time ago."

Here's to some health issues the man doesn't have, then.

"So, tell me -- are we going to jump to it and go have coffee with your parents after, or do you prefer to keep dodging?" Is that a challenge? Maybe it is a little bit a challenge. Going to come out to the family about the stray cat that wandered into Ariadne's life?

"Geez," Ariadne laughs under her breath with a shake of her head. "No intestinal parasites, please." She sounds a bit distracted while she scrolls down her phone's screen.

At least until Ravn all but flourishes his own banter-sword.

Her glance up from the screen is led through the veiling of dark lashes and ends with a patiently amused expression. "Is that how it's going to be? A cousin wasn't enough, you want me to text my sister that we're in town now? She'll blow up my phone. It won't be a quiet dinner. All you'll hear is bzzt -- bzzt -- bzzt -- bzzt -- while I ignore my phone like I'm notorious for doing." A cant of her head without losing eye contact. "I'm fine about seeing about whether or not my parents are available. You threw down the handkerchief, bud." Her smile is cheeky if a little...nervous still, yes. It is her parents, after all.

Ravn smirks. It's not a big deal. He's certainly in no rush to inflict his family on Ariadne. But at the same time it is just a tiny bit. Is she willing to inflict him on hers?

He'll sort through those emotions later.

"I think you should do what feels best," he says, earnestly. "Will I laugh if your phone keeps buzzing for two hours while you ignore it? Yes. Can we do this some other time, maybe when we're past our one week anniversary? Also yes."

Ariadne continues holding his eyes with a subtle squint.

"If you're standing there thinking that I'm embarrassed or anything, that is incorrect, sir. Like I said before, they're going to like you. What I am thinking is we don't do abrupt too well in my family. But." A sigh as she considers her phone again. "If anyone's going to be available, it's my sister, sooooo... I can always text her and see if she's available. Though you are going to get Google'd and twittered at by mimi-Mom if I do this, I basically guarantee it."

Ravn leans in and, not very subtly, steals a kiss.

Only then does he say, "Horrible. I promise, it's not my first rodeo. As long as the introduction is Ravn, some guy I met at work, and not Count Whatshisface, everything will be fine. There'll be five minutes of weird awkward, then somebody makes a horrible faux pas, we all laugh about it, and then life's back to normal."