2022-05-07 - Chasing Pigeons Pt II

Umai Sushi and Teriyaki it appears to be. A bustling little place tucked inside one of the covered hallways of Pike Place Market, it falls upon Ravn to go inside and see about what to order.

Ariadne had noted, after all, "You said a sushi bar and now's as good a time as ever, right? Here, Sam and I will occupy this bench and keep your seat safe." By which she means, Samwise will sit in Ravn's spot on the bench until the man returns. "Pick whatever, I'm easy-going." Thus, Ravn is sent off with a kiss and a grin.

Now, Ariadne shoots off a text. Her father gets back to her with something about a business evening party, no-go, but next week, please, text your mother!

Her sister, Anastasia?

WELL.

> > HOLY SHIT, UMAI SUSHI, I'M RIGHT DOWN THE BLOCK, ETA SOON.

Ariadne looks up from her phone in the direction of the sushi place looking a little owlish. Oh god.

What does Ariadne like?

Ravn has no idea.

What does he like?

A tiny nibble of this, and of that, and of those, and let's just be honest here, most of this food is not going to be eaten by him because while he's pretty good at faking nonchalant, he's still consciously reminding himself every five minutes or so that Ariadne is the kind of woman who is quite capable of telling him if he does something she doesn't like, and also, why the bloody hell did he say anything about family, yes, he knows this rodeo, doesn't mean, maybe it's too soon, he's probably being pushy, for fuck's sake, man, pull yourself together.

Ahem.

He decides on the coward's way out. "I'm from out of the country," he tells the helpful soul behind the counter, as if his accent didn't make it obvious. "And I'll be honest -- Denmark is not good with sushi. I want to impress the gorgeous woman outside, but I don't even know the names of most of these things. Can I by any means bribe, cajole, or beg my way into having somebody knowledgeable help me put together a selection that isn't the 'vanilla tourist who will be outraged the fish is raw, what is this' package, but also doesn't make me look like I'm some kind of expert on Japanese cuisine?"

A lean to see around Ravn towards the redhead on the distant bench across the courtyard.

A look back at Ravn.

A shrug. Why not. As such, narrating as the bar is set up, the associate behind the counter tells Ravn about the eel in this one, the crab in this one -- this one is deep-fried, ooh -- roe is sprinkled on this one -- and once the to-go bar is complete? About eighteen pieces of sushi, two of each of an assortment of types, and it's a rather nice display even in the white syrofoam container. It's priced as sushi around here will be priced, of course, but the quality is sound. Would anyone like soda to go with? No saki out on the courtyard.

Ariadne continues looking to the left and right. Even Samwise has picked up on the subtle tension. "Christ on a cracker, Ana, from where are you coming from?" the barista mutters as she slides her phone back into her pocket. Nerves. They exist.

Ravn is good at paying attention and taking instruction; an academic background has some perks when it comes to learning to listen. He asks a few questions -- none of them too stupid -- and doesn't pretend to be anything than what he is: A white guy who doesn't know jack all about the Japanese kitchen's finer points but likes what he's tried so far, and who's interested in knowing more. A potential returning customer, if nothing else.

"I think we'll take soda," he agrees. "It's too early in the day to get drunk, and I actually have no idea what her alcohol tolerance levels are like when it comes to stronger stuff. Can you recommend me something that goes well with this food? I feel like asking for two Cokes is cheapening it."

Hope you like ginger soda, Ravn. It's a bit spicier than you're used to, but a great palate cleaner.

He tips extra for the lecture. It's only fair -- time spent should be paid for. And when he does emerge, bag in one hand, it's hard to not notice the tension -- if not in Ariadne, then in Sam. Nervous much, girl?

He settles on the bench next to her. "It'll be fine. I promise. I know how to not stab somebody in the eye with a chopstick."

Ariadne looks back towards the restaurant when the presence of Ravn draws her out of scanning the crowds. She blinks as if honestly surprised and then laughs under her breath; a blush blooms on her cheek darker than the usual pastel hues. Her voice isn't over-loud since the academic is right there beside her.

"Oh, I know you're not going to stab a bitch. That would put a huge pall on our relationship, suddenly starting a chopstick brawl with my little sister." Samwise, having hopped down from the bench when Ravn came over, circles back and sits before him, ears lifted. Ravn's the sucker, right? That sushi sure smells good. Doe-brown eyes attempt to suck the soul of the Dane in turn. "Don't give Sam a thing, I brought something for him," the barista adds, giving the Windhound a flatly-amused look. Out comes what appears to be something akin to a trail-mix bar entirely for dogs. It's redolent of meaty protein as she peels back foil and then offers it to Samwise in turn.

Ooh. Turn thrice and settle down on Ravn's shoes, apparently, is the plan. Samwise begins chewing away, now ignoring the sushi bag.

"If you got ginger soda, we might be friends for life," the barista jokes in an attempt to shake her own nerves. Ravn is given an easy grin. "Settles the stomach, that stuff."

Cue sustained squeal: "ARIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

Ariadne pops her lips and leans around Ravn to look down the courtyard's length. Behold: little sister Anastasia, clad in a sky-blue summer dress and matching low heels. Is she a redhead? Does it run in the family? What a brilliant shade of ginger, lighter than Ariadne's in turn, done up in romantic loose ringlets in a cascade down her back.

Ariadne's eyes return to Ravn. "Hold Sam's leash while I run interference?" Leash is handed off and the barista rises to meet her fate, unable to help laughing.

<<Stop squealing, damnit,>> she calls out in Hungarian, earning herself more laughter in turn. Siblings collide. Oof, that's a hug!

Good Lord on rollerskates, in a minidress, waving pom poms, that's a hug. Ravn is more than happy to hold Sam's leash while Ariadne runs interference. Read: He's more than happy to use Samwise as a body shield while Ariadne runs interference. He can see himself getting randomly glomped like that, and screaming for a week.

He sneaks a chance to study the other woman briefly before beginning negotiations with Sam to let him get up. The windhound is comfortable on his feet and while he's no dog expert, he figures that it's an expression of fondness -- or at least belonging-ness. A cat will lie on things it owns, to infuse them with its scents. Dogs are probably no different -- and he for one is happy enough that Samwise considers him part of the pack.

When he does get up, it's mostly because courtesy says he should, and courtesy's been bred into him along with arrogance, superiority, and privilege, and sometimes, habit responds before brain. The casual thing to do here would obviously be to stay seated, play it cool, might just be some guy that Ariadne randomly knows.

But then, he kind of does want to belong to the pack.

It's probably that Anastasia has heels which saves the collision from being more balance-rocking. Ariadne still oof-laughs and extricates herself out of the hug enough to straighten arms with her hands cupping her little sister's biceps.

<<I can squeal all I want, nobody's around to tell me know,>> the younger redhead retorts in Hungarian, grinning. <<Why are you here? Why didn't you text Mom and Dad?>>

<<It was kind of impromptu,>> Ariadne explains in a white lie. It was...sort of...impromptu. Sort of.

Sibling squint. <<Who's got Sam...?>> Who does have Sam? She looks beyond Ariadne and it's like a cat spotting a shiny object. Perk. Stare. A look back at her older sister which morphs at noticeable speed from confusion to suspicion to enlightenment to a big old eat-shit grin. <<Is that...?>>

Ariadne smirks back, hating how she pinks up again. "Let me introduce you," she tells her sister in English for Ravn to hear. After all, the man has stood up now. Samwise, the dog in question, has recognized little sister and wags his tail. Mini-mom! "He likes his space, give it to him," comes the quick, unbelievably firm missive sotto-voce for Anastasia alone. Little sister reads older sister's face and nods as they return to the bench; older sister was not fucking around with the missive.

"Anastasia? This is Ravn. We met at my work." There, sweet and simple.

"Put her there, mister, you've managed to wrangle the impossible." -- and Anastasia holds out a brazen hand, beaming, while Ariadne sighs in exasperation.

Ravn in turn offers his gloved hand (and like always, braces, because you never know whether somebody is going to be one of those people who think that a proper handshake must break bones -- it's definitely not only big, burly men who have those, in fact, the smaller the person, and so on). "My pleasure, I'm sure," he offers in his light accent.

Well, it's partially true. He follows her around, and he does like the coffee. And here they are, with chocolate, sushi, and roses, and there is no way in hell this little sister hasn't added up the pieces in her mind already because if she hasn't, she's more than averagely clueless. Might as well make a joke of it then, break some ice. "I follow her around for the coffee."

A quick little handshake, there and gone. "For the coffee? Geez, Ari, you angling to impress Dad already?" Anastasia asks as she turns her grin on her older sibling.

"Happy happenstance," the barista replies with a subtle tension through her smile. Nice. Pick on the first child, won't you. "Ravn happens to be part of an academic endeavor across seas, so what better place to assist at odd hours than a coffee shop, right?"

"Fair," Anastasia allows. Ravn gets a down-and-up perusal while Samwise gets ear-smooshies a la Scullin sibling. "So. Where you from originally? What brings you to Seattle? Or whatever little city Ari's moved to? Grey Harbor?"

"Yes, Grey Harbor," confirms Ariadne as she stands there, hands in the pocket of her windbreaker.

"Denmark," Ravn says with a smile. This, he expected -- the grilling. And to be fair, if roles were reversed? He'd do the same because the world is full of weirdos and bizarros. "I'm from Denmark. Ariadne offered to give me the basic tourist's tour so here we are, playing tourists. I didn't catch the fish -- it got stuck in a ceiling light box."

He smiles at Ariadne's confirmation and then nods. "Gray Harbor, yes. I ended up there in July '20 -- didn't think I'd be staying for long but the town's got a surprising amount of charm and magnetism once you get to know it. Still telling myself I'm not a permanent resident but I do seem to have bought a house. You must be the little sister I've heard quite a bit about."

And with an almost conspiratorial gleam in blue eyes the Dane adds, "Most of it good. I am given to understand somebody considers herself the well-behaved one, and now I'm kind of dying to see what kind of antics you get up to."

"Oh god, Ari." A lift of brows in the barista's direction. Told the man about her, Anastasia asks without words.

Le shrug. Guess Ariadne's going to be unrepentant about it.

"Antics. You sound like my mom," the younger redhead then returns to Ravn. "I don't think I was too crazy. A girl's going to enjoy college if she knows where to go. Besides, Ari wasn't a total angel."

"Nobody is," laughs Ariadne in turn with a lift of hand out of her windbreaker pocket.

"No, but you should tell him about that one time when you decided you were going to be a pony and stuck yellow cleaning gloves on your hands and feet and reminded Mom that ponies don't wear clothing."

Touché, Anastasia. Cue Ariande splutter: "ANA?!"

"What an interesting proposal," Ravn murmurs with exactly that polite, slightly blank expression. "I feel we should discuss this prospect at a convenient time. Particularly the part about free pony rides."

In about an hour he's going to be asking himself where the hell he found the nerves. For now, he's busy keeping that poker face in place.

A little more seriously, he smiles at Anastasia. "She only said that you were the wild one. She was wise enough to not claim perfection. This is code for tell me all the things and give me all the blackmail options."

Ariadne's laugh chimes now and then. Anastasia's amusement sounds like bells, high and merry. She laughs away with a hand spread over her heart while Ariadne gives Ravn a look equal parts betrayed and impressed. "Oh my god, you -- " is all the barista can manage because she truly wasn't expecting this vein of riposte on his part.

"Seriously, I like this one, keep this one," Anastasia announces to her sibling (and some of the courtyard as a whole). "You want blackmail? Oh man, do I have blackmail."

"Hey, no! No blackmail! All I said is you partied in college! Ravn's making it sound more dramatic than it is," the barista scoff-laughs.

"No blackmail? Nothing like, how you still like Nickelback? And that one time I dared you to get out through the cat flap and you got your head and one shoulder stuck in it? You were seriously, like nine, you have no excuse," the little sister notes while Ariadne pinks up behind one hand pressed to her face. "And how you binge-watch all of those terrible ghost hunting shows? And how you refuse to throw away things with holes in them because you can fix the holes and we all know that you really can't fix the holes in bl -- "

"OH. MY. GOD, Anastasia Marie, you evil little shit!"

Uh-oh, the middle name. Anastasia's just laughing still. "Her middle name is Bellefleur, so definitely call her Belle-Belle," she adds, making Ariadne appear as if she's considering hucking her sister into the Sound.

Where's a notebook and a pen when you need one? Ravn glances at Samwise; nope, windhound doesn't have a set either. Guess it's time to just commit all of this to memory and bring it up next time he wants to tease out a flush -- or a wrestle.

His grin is turning decidedly lopsided as he looks at Anastasia. "You. I like you. You're hired. We'll leave out the part about the cat trap though because I once did the exact same thing -- except with the dog kennel gate. My father's German shepherds laughed for a week."

There are of course worse canine reactions. "Anyhow, good to meet you, Anastasia Marie You Evil Little Shit. I take it Ana is the conventional shortform?"

"Ana would be the shortform, yes," confirms the little sister. "And what's my reward if I'm hired?"

"Preventing me from pushing you off the nearest pier, I'd bet." Ariadne smirks with a sibling's edge to the expression.

"It'd be the wrath of Mom preventing that. Or Sam's sadness. You'd be eternally sad, wouldn't you, fuzzy boy?" Anastasia asks of the Windhound as she bends at the waist to give him chin scritchies. He wags his tail and looks between all present; I heard no important words there, what? Straightening up, Anastasia then gives Ravn one of those measuring tilts of head. Huh -- must run in the family. "So if you're from Denmark, what's your last name?"

She doesn't have her phone out...yet. Ariadne still gives Ravn one of those expressions silently insinuating the what will come of the question. They'd discussed it before, after all.

"Abildgaard, with a d," Ravn says with an amused look. "And I might as well tell you right away, I'm not the Conservative member of Parliament, may she choke on something spiky. Nor am I the schoolteacher with the semi-famous blog from Greenland." Or a hundred other Abildgaards or Ravns. Just the one that's both.

And just to be a pain he does note, "I do have a blog but it's not very visited. Limited field of interest, minority language, and all that jazz. Or are we going for the criminal record? Because I'm fairly sure I don't have one even if Interpol did at one time consider me a 'person of interest', largely because I left the country before an investigation was closed."

"...I mean, I wasn't going to go looking, but if you've had a brush with Interpol...not going to lie, I'm intrigued." A glance over at Ariadne. "You picked an interesting one. Coffee-stalker and potentially criminal."

"He's not a criminal," the barista laugh-grumbles as she sees about reacquiring Samwise's leash. He pads over and sits down to lean against her leg, keeping half a guardian-eye on the bag of sushi and two ginger sodas still sitting on the bench within arm's reach.

"Criminally handsome, sure, how about that?" Anastasia notes, flashing her sister another grin.

A gesture towards Ravn and a snort of amusement. "He's standing right there, Ana."

"Oh, excuuuuuuuuuuuse me." Ravn is then given a fluttery-lashed, teal-eyed look by the younger sister. "You heard what I said, so. It stands. But let me see if I can think of anymore blackmail..." Tap-tap of finger on chin. "What's the blog about?" she then asks of the Dane.

"Folktales and urban legends," Ravn replies and shoots Ariadne a glance that's part amused and part Help, I am indeed standing right here.

He squats down to give Samwise a proper headscritch because the windhound is a very good boi and it's got nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that his hands are shaking very slightly. Truth is relative; he told Ariadne this wasn't his first rodeo and it certainly isn't. Which is not to say that social anxiety doesn't want a word when it gets the chance. The fact that it actually matters quite a bit to him that Ariadne's family doesn't give her a hard time (in a bad way) about him, is too good an opportunity for anxiety to miss out on. "Somebody's going to expect me to help him stalk pigeons another time, I think."

"Ah, those stories you tell around campfires. I didn't know people still did that," Anastasia says, looking honestly thoughtful. "That's cool, actually." Ariadne quirks her brows and faintly smirks; she might not mind stomping around in knee-high Wellingtons, but her little sister's comfort zone is the city proper without contestation. Both Scullin sisters watch Samwise receive his scritchies, one with a quiet fondness, the other with a facet of the keen contemplation her older sister has shown regularly.

"One day, he'll get a pigeon," Ariadne murmurs mostly to herself.

"Those birds are gross." And so be it, by Anastasia's tone. "But I can't hang around for much longer, I had a nail appointment. I've been on my feet all week and a pedicure is also in the books. Remember that place with the seaweed scrub and foot massage, Ari? Seriously, you and me, next month. I can only afford it the once."

"And I have to save up, yeah, but it's a plan. Their foot massages are divine." Such a sigh from the barista.

Ravn gets another grin from Anastasia, however, as precursor to her attention returning to him. "But I've got two more questions before I go bliss out. You, sir: Have you ever farted and then blamed it on someone else? And if you could choose only one cuss word to use the rest of your life, what is it?"

Not laughing. Ariadne is not laughing -- just chewing on the knuckles of her fist against her mouth, you know, like you do when you're not laughing at all.

Ravn has had some pretty bizarre questions over the years. Most of them happened after people'd run the inevitable Google search or had the inevitable elbow and whisper from a classmate. He blinks and then pretends to consider the questions.

"I think I once tried to blame a burp on my plushie," he admits, with a suitably shameful expression. Truth of the matter? He learned to not make noises before he learned about the option of blaming someone else. He's a quiet kind of fellow. Some people do their damnedest best to pass by unnoticed. Farts get you noticed. "And, 'bloody'. It's the perfect swear. Say it with a proper British accent and it's fuck times a hundred. Say it in any other accent and it's on par with dangnabbit and goshdarnit. I used to drive my English teacher nuts."

And then, a small smirk because surely, this game goes both ways. "Have you, and blamed someone not Ariadne?"

Anastasia gives her older sibling a Significant Sibling Look. Apparently, whatever Ariadne translates from it is enough to make her unfurl the fist to cover her eyes for a second and just shake shoulders in silent, cheek-pinking laughter.

"Be forewarned that it's not always Sam gassing out a room," Ravn is then loftily informed. "She'll say it was Sam. Anyways, pedicures. You and me, girl? We'll talk." It sounds like a promise and threat in one.

"Yeah, yeah, Ana, git," the barista replies with a laugh and shooing wave of hand. "Go enjoy yourself, you need the break."

"Hell yes, I do." A last grunt-squeezing hug for her sibling and a last polite handshake offered to Ravn and then, there goes the young sibling on down the courtyard towards the upwards slope of the street beyond. Her phone is indeed already out and thumbs flying. Ravn spelled his surname. Start your timers. Ariadne watches her go and then looks at Ravn again.

"Sooooooooo...my little sister," she then murmurs before laughing more than a little sheepishly. "She's, um...a bit much sometimes, but she means well even if she comes off as abrasive sometimes."

"I see what you mean," Ravn murmurs, eyes glittering blue with amusement. He shakes his head and then finally gives in to silent laughter. "She's going to be texting you in less than five, yes. I thought you were exaggerating, but now I absolutely believe it."

He straightens up and then slips a hand to Ariadne's arm. "For what it's worth though?" He leans in and says, for her ear alone, "You all, 'this is mine, like it or not'? That was hot."

Some men like French lingerie. Some men like feeling wanted enough to stand up for.

A cheeky smile as he straightens up a second time. "Now, then, shall we find a place to share our sushi bounty?"

"Yeeeeeeeah, no exaggeration, what I said about the texting." Ariadne's even still eyeing the distanced figure of her sister as if she's half-expecting the younger Scullin to suddenly thrown on the brakes and bumblebee her way back over to shove a phone screen out like, WHAT IS THIS.

But then, Ravn's leaning in to murmur in the shell of her ear. He earns himself a little hitched breath-laugh in return and the pastel-pink blush lingers rather than melts away from her cheeks. "That bench right there is fine by me unless you want to go somewhere else. There might be a bench overlooking the Sound if we're damn lucky," the barista stresses as she smooshes up a Samwise ear. He groans, leans into her leg, the usual. "And buddy?"

Her smile gains confidence and cheekiness both. "You're all mine," comes the low confirmation, just loud enough for his own ears to catch. Of course she holds his eyes when she says this. Match, struck.

"Bench is that way though, if you want to go see?" How whiplash-light her question is, innocent, as if she hadn't just been all but curling a finger at Ravn in turn.

"Let's. And if it's not free, we'll grab this one over there." Ravn grins slightly and makes to follow. The slight darkening of blue-grey eyes is for no one else to notice, and his thoughts are certainly too private for public consumption.

Good thing Samwise couldn't care less. Safe to keep his hand on the leash and follow the windhound. Beach. View of Puget Sound. Yes. Focus, buddy. Oh yes, he caught that look. He will be discussing it at length later, in private.

Samwise doesn't care much at all. He's all eyes for another nearby clumping of pigeons. Come here again, dumb birds. Still, the humans move on and so does he, promising himself a mouthful of dumb pigeon tail-feathers by the end of this trip.

Turns out that the bench in question, tucked into an alcove of architecture on one of the steep slopes hosting the Market, is free after all. Such luck! It's not private, by any means, perfectly visible from multiple angles of stairs leading down to the street below and multiple tall business buildings with their tarnished windows, but it does afford that view Ariadne was talking about. She sits down and sighs before glancing over at Ravn again.

"Tah-dah: zee view. There's the Ferris Wheel if you're a fan of those things. That's one of the ferries which goes to Vashon Island across the water. Olympic Mountain Range is that way," and Ariadne points towards the distance carpeting of clouds in the distance. "Rainier is somewhere in that clusterfuck over there." The opposite direction, east now instead of west, where the large and dormant volcano hides away in a near-daily curtaining of cloud as well. She sips at the soda and makes a face of surprise, looking down at it. "Ooh, ginger." Another testing sip. "Woof, that's got kick. I like it." She then starts rifling around in the brown bag, giving away that she was hungrier than appearances belied.

"Takhoma," Ravn corrects with a small grin. "I've done my reading recently. Something something British admiral who never even saw the damned mountain. Blame Jules, she's got me more interested than I already was, when it comes to the indigenous names."

He's happy to hand over the bag and then receive whatever bits go his way -- soda, disposable chopsticks, the works. "It's a gorgeous view, though. Sound's about as wide as our Little Belt back home, looks like. Probably less current given it only connects with the ocean in one direction -- we have the entire Baltic receiving water off continental Europe and then pressing into the Atlantic through the two Belts and Øresund."

No one cares but it distracts him from thinking about other things. Afterthought: "I'll wait if you want to go up on the Ferris Wheel but I'm not going with you. I've got all the fear of heights from down here, thanks."

Ariadne scoots down a bit from being elbow-to-elbow with the man to set out boxes of sushi on the bench in turn. She's got a pair of chopsticks offered out when Ravn reveals his concerns. "Oh. I mean, I'd feel a little badly with you waiting, but sure. I'd rather you not put yourself into any uncomfortable circumstance for me, please -- I mean, in the vein of a fear of heights and all." Soda for him as well, scooted in a gentle push along the bench seat as not to knock it over. "Takhoma though, yes, that's right. I'm trying to remember it."

The barista's eyes find the spot where the mountain hides away with a local's ease. She knows it's there, behind the clouds, majestic in its glacial hues of blues and purple and snowcap-white.

Picking up one of the trays of sushi, she makes a cooing sound of delight. Chopsticks click-click in readiness. "Eel, I can tell, and the salmon roe. Look at the color, ooh."

BZZZT. Pausing, the barista closes her eyes. BZZZT. Such an expression of forced serenity. BZZZT BZZZT BZZT.

One-handed, she fishes her phone out of her pocket. The screen is considered and away the phone goes. "Welp." Ravn is given a helpless half-smile. "Google has given you up again, sir."

"I really doubt the mountain actually cares," Ravn notes and sips his ginger soda. He sends a quiet thought of gratitude to the sushi vendor; thank you, sir, for taking pity on a miserable sod of a foreigner who can't tell jasmin rice from basmiri.

He's just reaching for his tray when the noise begins. The expression on Ariadne's face makes him bite his cheek to not laugh out loud. "How bad is it? On a scale from OMFG to screeching banshee?"

"I mean, she's using Hungarian interspersed in the middle of English, so we're near the screeching banshee end of the spectrum. Whoever's getting the pedicure is probably going to get ranted at. She demands a phone call now, apparently, but."

And a round of sushi is put into her mouth. "I'm eating right now." Those words work their way around the food chipmunked in her cheek and Ariadne shrugs. "Too bad. Maybe later tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning. I might be busy tonight."

Might be, she says. They've got to beat traffic first anyways and after that? Who knows, but one thing's for certain: Anastasia is just going to have to wait. Poor thing. Simmering away. Siblings.