2022-08-02 - Reunions and New Beginnings

Let's be honest: Jules is impatient as fuck.

There's far more waiting than she would like, between receiving the details of Mikaere's return flight and the actual day-of. Then she has to cope through tedious rush-hour traffic on the drive to SeaTac. By the time the flight from Los Angeles arrives, Jules has taken to pacing at the exit just before baggage claim. Her strides are clipped as she navigates between others waiting for passengers to deplane, staying behind the first row of greeters while watching for a glimpse of a certain tall, brown-skinned man between and over the heads of the other onlookers. All that excess energy has to go somewhere.

Of course, none of this compares to the many hours of travel Mikaere has to endure.

It's been a long, long trip, inevitably made longer by the still-not-perfectly-healed tattoos— though they're much improved, thanks. Mikaere's watched more movies than he probably cares to (most of them sucked), and slept significantly less than he would prefer (ugh, it's so hard with long legs), and though that last leg is a short one, it's also the last one, and that's unhelpful, too.

So he's a little washed out when he appears, his bag slung over his shoulder, but that doesn't mean he doesn't break into a grin when he catches sight of Jules. His steps aren't particularly hurried, but— he's on his way. He's here.

"Jules," is so, so pleased.

Jules spots him through the forest of heads—the advantage of looking for someone tall. She squeezes her way in between an older couple awaiting the arrival of their son or daughter with a quick, “Excuse me!” and practically bounces on her toes while waiting for Mikaere to meet her for those last few steps. “Hey, you.”

She doesn’t try to contain her beam. Jules is dressed in jeans and a blue tank-top with a scalloped hem for the occasion; it’s hot outside, and the airport air conditioning is whirring away. First things first: she intends to greet him with a kiss. Questions about the flight can wait.

Kisses? Kisses he can do. This is absolutely going to be a Love Actually style reunion: the man opening up his arms as he approaches, heedless of the way his bag tries to slide down his shoulder, reaching to wrap them around Jules once he's in reach. He goes for the hongi, first: his nose against hers.

And then it's kissing time. Not the kind of kiss he might give her later, in private, of course, but the kind that leaves no doubt of how much he missed her.

Mikaere murmurs his next words against her skin, just holding on. "Hi."

In turn, Jules wraps her arms around Mikaere’s neck, balancing on the balls of her feet. The hongi is still new to her, though Googling (and there’s been so much Googling in the time Mikaere’s been away) means she recognizes it for what it is. She just keeps smiling, eyes open and steadily meeting Mikaere’s own dark gaze until her lashes flutter closed for that kiss.

“Good to see you again.”

"Feels like it's been ages," admits Mikaere, and arguably that's not untrue: two weeks? Close enough to. Long enough. More than long enough.

He might need to take a few moments, even after that kiss, before he's willing to let go. For a time, it's just enough to be there, in physical proximity, ignoring the world that's moving on around them. He inhales; he exhales.

"You too."

“Yeah.” Jules shares the sentiment, though now she’s examining Mikaere’s expression closely, in the way that FaceTime cameras don’t really allow. “Especially for you, I bet.”

Finally, she lets her arms slip away from his neck, sliding down his arms. She’s careful not to touch his lower back along the way. “We should get your bag. How’re you feeling?” That simple question is now so loaded.

Mostly, Mikaere looks tired, though there's certainly something else about him: that power, ever so slightly stronger, brighter, but in a way that is difficult to quantify. He gives Jules a smile, answering her question with a rueful little laugh, "Tired," he admits. "But okay. It was a long trip, and I'm not going to pretend for a moment I'm not running mostly on caffeine about now."

He reaches, though, to take her hand in his, using the other to adjust his carry-on over his shoulder. "C'mon."

“I bet,” Jules says as her fingers clasp tight. “You’d have to be some kind of weirdo superhuman not to be tired. You feel different, by the way.”

What Jules doesn’t say as she starts to head down the escalator towards baggage claim: You feel more like Tui.

It's a truth universally acknowledged, of course, that every man positively delights in their girlfriends thinking they feel like their mothers... so it's a good thing she doesn't say it, for all that he'd probably understand.

"Yeah?" he says, but nods, too, because— "I feel different to me, too, a bit. Or the world feels different, maybe, and therefore I'm moving through it differently. I'm not sure. How are you, though?"

Down they go until the escalator deposits them on the ground floor with all the carousels. Jules scans for the LAX flight on one of the monitors, then announces, “This way.”

Carousel identified, Jules attends to both her own observations and Mikaere’s, looking up at him more than she watches where she’s going. “Hmm. It’s been a week or so? Makes sense to me that you’d feel that way being back home in general after everything that’s happened here—it’ll be interesting how things feel different here.”

She gives his hand a quick squeeze. “I’m fine. Googling stuff like crazy and spending more time at home when I’m not at work, trying to figure out where all the stuff comes from. I set up a meeting tomorrow with one of the curators at the Burke Museum and took pictures of everything. That’s the museum at U-Dub. Someone associated with the Native American center at the university is coming too. It sounds like they’re pretty freaking excited.”

Bleary as he is, Mikaere is quietly grateful for Jules' take-charge attitude (then again, isn't he always?), trailing along with her. "Not going to lie," he admits. "It was weird being back in Auckland, slotting back in to that," or not, as the case may be. "And it'll be weird again, being here. As if I belong in both places, and also... neither, in a way. But I'm glad to be home." Home.

His squeeze returns hers, and he nods, turning his gaze side-long to consider her. "That's great! It must feel good— powerful— to be able to contribute something like that. To have something they want, and to be able to share it with them. I can understand the excitement. Can't wait to see your things for myself, for that matter."

The bags haven’t started appearing yet, so Jules finds a place for them to stand and wait. “They’re not mine,” she notes, but she’s smiling like she knows what he means. “It does feel good. It will feel better when everything is returned to their proper homes.”

The red light mounted on top of carousel starts whirling and flashing along with the sound of a consistent beep, beep, beep as the track starts moving. Bags aren’t long now.

“What do you mean by neither?” Jules asks, thoughtful and frank as she looks up at Mikaere.

"No," agrees Mikaere. Not hers. But. "I bet it will. Not as good as if they'd never been taken in the first place, but— this is good. It's important."

Answering that lets him take his time in coming up with the answer to the last, his gaze focused into the middle distance. "Mm," he says. "Because wherever I am, there's something missing. Where I need to be, where I belong, where— it's just complicated. Home is within me; Ma absolutely reminded me of that. Bu— it's always more than that, too."

“Hmm.” Jules takes her time in answering too. Her thumb idly rubs against the side of Mikaere’s hand, back and forth. “You’ll always belong to New Zealand. Aotearoa.” One maps onto the other geographically, but not in the other ways that matter. “Same way I belong to the Olympic coast.” Is this not the reunion conversation they anticipated? “Which doesn’t mean…well. I think it can mean different things for different people.”

But look, bags!

“Anyway, I want to hear more about it,” Jules says, tone bright with the semi-change of subject. “Unless you just need to zone out until your head hits the pillow. That’s fine too.”

Bags! They're a helpful distraction, because Mikaere looks rather as if he doesn't know what to say in answer to Jules' first remarks: it's true, and it's also... well, something else.

"I've got a few hours to stay awake yet, if I want to get myself back into the right timezone— I'll tell you as much as I can. Show you, too." He doesn't mean anything dirty with that... well, not exclusively, anyway. "You can be the first one to see it properly, healed as much as it is. Oh— that's mine."

He steps forward, tugging Jules with him so that he can lean in and scoop his suitcase. It's definitely more full than it was when he departed; he's brought back with him a few more bits and pieces at least.

“I can help you stay awake.” How can Jules resist? She’s grinning now, and the cheeky look remains as she adds, “You bet I want to see your butt.” If this should be overheard and get a look from whoever’s standing next to them, Jules doesn’t particularly care.

“We have to go back up the escalator and take the sky bridge to the parking lot,” she continues with what’s far more appropriate for public conversation. “I went ahead and booked a room at one of the airport hotels so you don’t have to sit through a two hour drive in traffic. I already told you that, right? And that way I’m already here for going up to the U District tomorrow.”

Who wouldn't want to see Mikaere's butt? Even people who don't know what's there!

"My hero," he teases, and that's perhaps both for helping him to stay awake and for the hotel room (which is definitely preferable to the two hour drive). "You mentioned, and it's a perfect plan. Do you want me to stay scarce tomorrow, while you do your thing? Pretty sure I can find something to occupy myself. Seattle's a new city to me, after all."

He pulls out the handle on his suitcase, ready to wheel it onwards. "Lead the way."

Also universally acknowledged: Mikaere has a hot ass.

“You can totally come with me if you want to,” Jules easily replies as she steers them back towards the escalators. Up again, then across to the parking garages. From there, an elevator to take them to the correct floor after she inserts the ticket to pay for parking.

“Either way. I was more thinking, I don’t want to drag you along with me if you’d rather sleep or go down to Pike Place Market and play tourist. The meeting is in the morning, so we could also do that before driving back—I’m just not sure how long the meeting will take. Could also look at taking the ferry from Seattle to Bremerton, then driving the rest of the way. It would be longer, but we’d be on the water and you can get out and stretch your legs. The ferry leaves from downtown, too, which is where the fun touristy stuff is. So it’s up to you,” Jules concludes. “I couldn’t get late check-out, but they also have a day rate if you want to stay at the hotel longer for hookers and blow. I mean, in order to rest.”

'Hookers and blow' makes Mikaere smirk (and, ok, waggle his eyebrows too). "Let's see how I feel in the morning," he says. "I'm hoping a good eight hours and I'll be back on my feet and ready for anything, in which case— I'd be interested, both in your meeting, seeing something of Seattle, and probably that ferry too. But let's see what tomorrow brings, how long the meeting takes, how I feel. All the variables."

"Let me pay for the parking," he adds, setting down his suitcase so he can reach for his wallet.

“Sure,” Jules readily agrees. “We can see what you feel up for. Play it by ear.” Seattle’s far enough away that it’s new-ish to her, too, enough to be a treat.

She makes no complaint when it comes to letting Mikaere pay, and in any case, her car hasn’t been parked long enough for it to cost that much. Once that’s done, Jules seeks out his hand again. With a light tug, she directs, “This way.”

The hotel’s close enough to walk to, just a short distance away. She hasn’t checked in yet, and all in all, it’s probably a nicer place than she’d usually spring for—guests here are paying for the privilege of easy airport access at a reputable global chain. There’s a first time for everything, though, including picking someone up from an international flight after major tattooing in a sensitive area, and this is certainly more comfortable than other budget options.

It's clearly less about the actual paying and more about the gesture, for Mikaere: the recognition that Jules has gone to trouble and expense already, and that he's far from unaware of it. Having paid, he's happy enough to take her hand again and to be directed, wheeling his suitcase behind them. He's quiet as they walk, not because there's nothing to say but perhaps more because there's so much.

There's a flicker of something in his expression at her hotel of choice, and again, there's acknowledgement in his expression: Jules did good. Jules is looking after him. Jules.

He'll wait off to the side (standing! no sitting!) while she checks in, his carry-on piled atop his suitcase, both held up in those big, brown hands of his. He's awake. (Really.)

Check-in is quick and easy, and soon enough, Jules has two keycards, one to pass over to Mikaere and the other for herself. Their room is on one of the upper floors, a decent distance away from the elevators and their noisy traffic (though to be honest, Jules hasn't done enough travel with hotel stays to think to request that -- it's just luck of the draw). With a little beep and click, the door unlocks, and Jules tries to hold the door for Mikaere and his luggage despite the narrow hallway. The room could probably use a face-lift (so much beige!), but it's spacious enough for two. A king bed is probably luxury enough.

"Here we are."

Mikaere half-pushes, half-kicks his luggage into the room, awkward given the tightness of the hallway and the proximity of Jules (not that that is a problem, of course!). Abandoning both articles, he lets the door swing closed again, wandering towards the bed and then simply flopping himself on top of it, his length extended across the width of it.

"Ohhhhh," he says, with a laugh. "Oh that feels good. Maybe I won't move again."

Except for the shower he clearly needs, and the meal, and... okay, fine.

"I bet," Jules answers with laughter in her voice. She sets her keycard by the TV and puts down her own bag (just an overnight tote, for her), stepping out of her sandals along the way. She comes to sit at the corner of the bed, looking down at Mikaere's prone self with amusement.

"Did you get any sleep? Are you hungry at all?" Typical after-flight questions. "I think we can order room service so you don't actually have to move. Or there's UberEats or something." It's dinner time for Jules, at least.

Mikaere extends a hand in Jules' vague direction after the mattress shifts with her weight: hi.

"Not much sleep, if I did. Catnaps, anyway. I could eat. Should eat. Maybe a burger or something? And I should shower, too, because I'm sure I probably smell, plus it'll wake me up at least a little."

Beat. "I'm awake. I promise, I'm awake."

Jules curls her fingers around Mikaere’s extended hand and says, “You are the opposite of awake. I’d smack you on the ass to get you moving towards the shower if it were any other day.” A quick squeeze goes with her humor. Joke as she might, an underlying fondness communicates itself in her gaze, her touch. “Shower before you pass out. I’ll order burgers.”

"Ow," says Mikaere, with the air of a teenage boy who is being expected to get out of bed before midday: noooooo faiiiiiiir. He turns his head to the side to look at Jules, and manages a grin. "Can I tempt you to join me, once you've ordered?" he wants to know.

See, this is important. It might get him moving. (Or not.)

Jules tilts her head, hair falling to one side, as she considers Mikaere with a small, entertained smile. “You thought I was waiting for an invitation? How cute.”

Look at Mikaere smirk. "That's my girl," he says, approvingly. Would he say that, if he were less tired? Who knows. Either way, it has him relinquishing that hand and rolling over onto his side (and wincing: oh yes, he remembers now), and then drawing himself back to his feet.

His shirt drops to the floor as he heads for the shower, and there: there's the first hint of his moko, the waves rising up from his still-covered ass. It's still a little red and raw, but healed enough for those sharp lines to be visible, clear and faintly ridged.

Jules rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning now as she watches Mikaere get up and move towards the bathroom. She’s still watching when the first lines of the moko are made visible, at which point her grin fades as a more speculative look takes over. She watches him until he disappears from view, and only then does she get up to scout out the room service menu at the desk. Sure, she could order delivery from a nearby restaurant, but this is so easy.

“Cheeseburger? With or without bacon?” Jules calls out before punching in the number. “What do you want to drink?” She rattles off her own order in the meantime: one medium-rare cheeseburger with a side order of fries and a root beer, Jules’ soda of choice. And a piece of chocolate cake, because fuck it, she’s on vacation. Or close enough.

Mikaere’s home, and it calls for cake.

Mikaere gives Jules a (tiredly) cheeky grin over his shoulder before he closes the bathroom door behind him. Peeing, presumably, commences— by which we mean, the water is not yet on when she calls out her query, making it infinitely easier for him to hear, and for his only slightly muffled reply to be relayed back: "Cheeseburger with bacon, please. And a coke."

(Root beer is weird. Drink a real soda like L&P, Jules!)

Then the water goes on. All hail the hot water.

Mikaere’s order added, Jules hangs up the phone and heads towards the bathroom herself to report, “Twenty minutes.”

The real question, now: is the moko visible when she steps inside, or hidden behind a shower curtain?

Mikaere faces the shower spray, hunched forward as if to try anything to get more of his body beneath the hot water. His eyes aren't visible from this angle, but they're closed: he may not even have entirely registered Jules' entrance— not, that is, at first.

The curtain's been left open, and there it is, in full: all those whorls and waves and gentle ridges, from the patterning that starts at his mid-back, working its way down his ass. It's still a little red in places, but time and salt water have done their bit: it's healing well.

It's spectacular.

"Hmmm?"

Perhaps he hears how Jules catches her breath, or it might be that it’s too quiet for someone immersed in shower spray.

“Holy shit.”

She sounds awed. This clearly has nothing to do with the room service order or whatever else it may have been that she came in to tell Mikaere.

He must hear something— or maybe it's just that thing he didn't quite hear earlier— because Mikaere turns, glancing at Jules over his shoulder and then, there, catching sight and making registering something of something.

His expression shifts, turning... not embarrassed, maybe, but perhaps shy? It's such a foreign emotion for him.

He hesitates.

Surely there’s no cause for embarrassment when Jules is looking at him like this. Her gaze is clearly admiring as her eyes lift from the lines of the moko to Mikaere’s face.

“That is absolutely stunning,” she tells him with full sincerity.

Jules steps closer, right to the edge of the shower where the spray sprinkles outwards. “Seriously. Wow.”

Surely there's not— and yet. Mikaere's dark eyes are so very watchful, cataloguing all of Jules' reactions. His little exhale may not quite be relief, but there's some element of something in there: a release of something. "I still haven't looked at it properly," he admits, though there's a mirror right there, and surely he's caught glimpses. "It's my skin, my body, and yet... it's foreign, too. Like— part of me has been dedicated to something else, too."

He's still hesitant as he adds, "You can touch it. If you want."

The first admission startles Jules, and she immediately asks, “Why not?” As Mikaere continues, her expression shifts to one more thoughtful. This particular kind of carefulness isn’t something she associates with Mikaere, and it has her looking at him anew.

“One sec.”

Jules pulls her tank top over her head and steps back to fold it neatly and set it on the counter, along with the other clothes that follow. As someone who communicates so much by touch, she needs no further invitation. Nonetheless, Jules is tentative in her own right when she joins Mikaere in the shower and reaches for his hip where those inked waves curl and claim his torso. Her touch is feather-light. “Does this hurt?”

Mikaere shakes his head, lacking the words to explain why— perhaps he's not even sure why.

While Jules undresses, the Kiwi turns his head back, letting the water run down his face, down his shoulders, down his torso. He's still facing that direction when she steps in to join him, taking in a gentle breath as her fingers first brush against the raised lines upon his skin.

"No," he murmurs. "It doesn't hurt. It feels strange, though— I can't explain it. Sensitive, but not in a bad way."

Jules doesn’t reply, at least not in words. Her fingers do the talking, tracing the faint ridges as they flow up his back and then down again, complementing and accentuating the curvature of his body. She touches Mikaere like she would a precious thing, like she too senses that foreignness and respects it, like she’s learning his body all over again.

At last, she leans closer, her lips against Mikaere’s shoulder blade. Jules lingers there, arms drawing around to encircle his waist and her hands coming to rest on the muscles of his abdomen.

For Mikaere, it's like seeing the moko for the first time: Jules' fingers laying out the topography of those curves, placing them upon his mental map. It's a moment of solemness and silence, aside from the trickle of water as it hits their bodies and the tiles, and slides away down the drain. His eyes are closed: he doesn't need to see for this.

As she draws up against him, he releases a low sigh, his own hands reaching to clasp at hers as, finally, he turns his head back towards her, aiming to try and angle his head so that— if she lifts hers— he can claim a kiss.

Jules feels the shift before she sees it and tilts her face up, blinking against the water that gets in her eyes. Her kiss is as gentle as her touch was, the reverence of that moment carrying into this one.

“We have fifteen minutes until food gets here,” Jules tells him thereafter.

"Then," says Mikaere, sounding (and looking) rather more like his normal self, now, "Let's be quick."

(He really missed her, okay.)

From the look Jules gives him, as her fingers now dig in with every intent of prompting Mikaere to turn fully to face her, this is exactly what she had in mind.

The details don’t matter—whether the water gets shut off, what gets wet. Mikaere already has her full attention, and the mood isn’t one that quickly dissipates, even with that undercurrent of desire now given free rein. Something’s different. It’s in the way Jules looks at him, kisses him, though perhaps it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what that difference is.

Mikaere doesn't need a second prompt, tired though he surely is: tired is nothing compared to this, as fast and furious as it will inevitably be.

It is different, but the specifics of that will need to wait— if he's aware in any conscious way, it's certainly a back-of-the-mind passing thought, otherwise lost beneath more pressing matters, though the mood's less urgent and more simply intense.

Afterwards, Mikaere's murmured, "God, I missed you," could so easily sound as though it's just about the sex (great as it was), but there's an undercurrent even then: it's so much more than that.

With her face buried in Mikaere’s neck and her breath still coming fast and heavy, Jules is ill-inclined to untangle, let alone move and clean up before the inevitable knock on the door. Her response escapes her as just a quiet little sound, and it takes a few seconds more before she actually strings together words. “And I missed you.”

It’s so much more than just a couple weeks apart. It’s all that’s happened in that time frame, for both of them separately. It’s that lingering sense that somehow, something has changed. Jules finally starts to shift, though first it’s just to kiss Mikaere one more time. “I’m glad you went—but I’m more glad you’re back.”

Mikaere leans down to meet that kiss, just one more before it's time to separate (at least for now). "Me too," he agrees, simply.

It'll take him a few moments more to recover himself enough to move much further: to rinse down under the shower's spray, and, finally, to turn the water off and locate a towel. Just in time, too, with the inevitable knock on the door not long off— and then, of course, the burgers to be consumed.

It's after that, having wiped the remaining burger grease off of his hands and leaned back, replete in more way than one, that he grins across the little table at Jules. "I've got something for you," he says, now.

By now, after burgers and fries and root beer (drink of champions), with cake in the offing, Jules is sufficiently herself to answer without missing a beat, “You mean besides your dick?”

She’s claimed the chair for herself, ensconced in a terry cloth robe because putting clothes back on is not part of her agenda tonight.

In answer, Mikaere puts on a mock thoughtful face, and reaches in to the folds of his robe— but no, alas. "Mind is willing," he grins at her, "but the flesh is, sadly, weak. Anyway, no. Hang on."

It means he has to get up, which is the worst, but there's not far to go, and after a few moments of poking at his suitcase he's back, with a small jewellery box to slide across towards Jules.

(Lest anyone be concerned, it is the wrong size— too long and narrow— to be a ring box.)

Jules’ look of amusement soon shifts into open curiosity as Mikaere goes looking in his suitcase for whatever it may be. The box he presents her with is just curiouser and curiouser, and when she peers up at Mikaere before transferring her attention to the box itself, her expression is equal parts inquiring and intrigued.

This expression would probably be rather different if it were the right size and shape for a ring.

Jules tucks her legs under her, sitting up a bit straighter, and lifts the lid.

Mikaere seems both mildly apprehensive about the gift and also— excited? There's a seriousness there, too, as he waits, watching her open the lid of the little box.

Inside is a pendant, made from the same semi-translucent green stone as the token Mikaere carries with his keys, though this one is a different shape altogether. "It's pounamu," he explains. "Greenstone. Full of mana. The shape is called a toki; it's a weapon, or an ax. It's a symbol of strength and bravery and power. The spiral is koru," seen, too, in the curving lines of his moko, "and they're supposed to look like the uncurling fronds of our native ferns. They symbolise new beginnings: life and hope."

He hesitates for a moment, as if deciding whether to say more, or to let Jules actually respond. Finally, "My uncle— well, some kind of relative, anyway, I'm not entirely sure— carves them. For tourists, but also for us."

As Mikaere explains, Jules lifts the pendant and holds it in the palm of her hand for a closer look, tracing the koru with her forefinger when it’s named. “It’s beautiful,” she says when Mikaere falls quiet. “Thank you.”

Jules unfolds her legs and stands, scooting across to pair the verbal thanks with a kiss. Then, turning around and lifting her hair out of the way, she requests, “Will you put it on for me?”

It's a kiss Mikaere's happy to receive (then again, when is he not?)— and the instruction, too. He takes the pendant, and with fingers that linger only briefly upon the bare skin of her neck, he puts it on for her, reaching around to make sure the toki lays flat upon her skin above the folds of her robe.

"There," he says. "Now may you be blessed with strength and bravery, and with hope and confidence in all new beginnings, whatever life brings."

Quietly, then: "My uncle's tohunga, too. Your kind of power, rather than mine. I don't know that he can really imbue his work with any real power, but— Ma swears by them."

“Thank you,” Jules says as gravely as the benediction deserves. She reaches up to touch the pendant one more time and feel it where it lies before she turns back to face Mikaere.

With good humor, she says, “I think I’ve learned enough by now not to question the idea that something might hold some kind of power—or to question your mom.”

That makes Mikaere laugh, having relinquished his hands. "You have a point," he allows. "Ma gave me my hei matau before I sailed away, and all things considered, you could argue it has kept me safe in my travels across water— it was only after I stopped being on the water that I started being the target for bullets and swords, ay?"

He's still smiling, but it's a little more rueful. "It suits you. The green, against your skin."

“It’s perfect,” Jules replies with feeling. “Seriously. You didn’t have to bring me anything, and I really appreciate it.” She finds one of his hands to give it a squeeze.

“How is your mom? And the rest of your family? I know she must be really proud of you—how did the rest of them take it? You said there’d be details,” Jules adds, sliding into a small tease. Her questions keep coming, a watershed of wanting to know, wanting to envision it all. “And what was meeting with the tohunga like? What did you tell them?”

Mikaere's fingers twine around Jules' in reply, squeezing gently.

"Oh— she's good. They're all good. Nik was really only interested in the US and what I was doing here; he didn't even ask why I'd come back to visit, go figure. Maia— she was less impressed, I think. Angela, though: she sussed it out immediately. She's a good kid, my niece. It was weird, how few questions the rest of them asked. I mean, not that weird. It's always been that way. Still."

His shrug is an easy one, relatively untroubled despite his words. "The tohunga asked a lot of questions about Gray Harbor, and everything that happens here. They seemed— troubled, a little, but they didn't explain why."

“Siblings can be weird,” Jules says, clearly thinking of their own. “Or rather, they’re so involved in their own lives that sometimes they don’t catch everything or think to ask.” The mention of Mikaere’s gifted niece just gets a smile.

Her smile fades away as he continues. “Hm.” Unbeknownst to her, Jules’ hand slips up to play with the pendant again. “These tohunga are all like us? Gray Harbor is a troubling place.”

"And," Mikaere acknowledges, "a lot of the time people who's brains don't hold power the way ours do— they just slide past things that don't make sense to them. I get it, but it's hard. I think Maia can just sense enough to know that she's missing out on something, and that's why her relationship with ma, and with me, can be so tricky. And now there's Angela..."

His gaze drops towards her pendant, lingering for a moment or two. Then, "These ones are, yeah. Not all tohunga are, of course. I think— Gray Harbor is more troubling than what they're used to, and some of the things I had to share... it's weird, thinking about being back. When you're away, even in another place of power, it feels... you detach a little, I think. It feels remote."

“Yeah?” That certainly intrigues Jules. “I wonder how long it takes for that to go into effect. Or how far. Quick trips around the area haven’t changed anything for me, as far as I know, but I know for people who stay out, like here around Seattle, it’s enough.”

Like her mother. But also Una’s mother, and any other number of those who have fled Gray Harbor and its environs.

"I do too. I don't think I noticed, consciously, until... until I did. Maybe it was how far I went, or being away a certain amount of time, or... I don't know. Bet you'd never properly be able to quantify it, either; They'd make sure of that." It's a thoughtful expression on Mikaere's face, now.

He shakes it off, emotionally, mentally and even physically. "How're you feeling about tomorrow?"

“Good, I think.” Jules sounds thoughtful as she considers the question. “Someone indigenous is going to be there. That matters. And makes me feel less like the museum’s going to try to pressure me into handing stuff over. Rationally, I know that places like this are trying to be responsible and work with native communities instead of steamrolling them, but…” It’s a big but. She shrugs one shoulder. “Hard to put all that history aside, you know? And it’s the first time I’ve ever done something like this.”

Here, a smile pops up. “And that feels a little weird. This was never what I was really into, you know? I just worked at the hatchery and did my own thing.”

Look at Mikaere grin this time. "And here you are," he agrees. "Bet you'd never have imagined that, six months, a year ago. Representing your people, helping to right an old wrong. Bet it's a good feeling, as weird as it is."

He tilts his head to the side. "The history of it's hard, definitely. You're right, though: the fact that someone indigenous is involved is a good thing. And ultimately, if it's absolutely awful, you're under no obligation to hand anything over to anyone. Which— you know. Obviously you know."

“The reminder never hurts.” And all the rest of it is true, too.

Jules wrinkles her nose, humorously self-deprecating as she adds, “Watch, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Or don’t watch, because you’ll be out the second your head hits the pillow.”

"Snoring my head off, probably," teases Mikaere. "Just to keep you awake and make you remember how much peaceful it was without me around."

This is a lie, of course: he (mostly) doesn't snore.

“This is what sharp elbows and well-placed feet are for.”

And pillows for smothering, but that mercifully doesn’t make the list.

By way of reply, Mikaere has only his tongue, stuck out dramatically.

This just makes Jules lean in with a playful snap of her teeth, a warning that ends with a nip at Mikaere’s lower lip. He asked for it.

Evidently he's not so tired that he can't turn that into a kiss... and if other things follow? Well.