2022-08-14 - Morning and the Museum

Internal clocks being set to wildly different schedules, sleep and waking likely aren’t aligned for Jules and Mikaere. When the morning comes, it filters in through the curtains left slightly parted for natural light.

Jules is neither a morning person nor a night owl per se—she simply likes to be awake and doing things, whatever the hour may be. Yet when this morning dawns, she rolls from her side to lie face-down in the pillows. For her, at least, sleep didn’t come easily the night prior thanks to jangling nerves.

A sketch pad left on the desk shows what she was up to when trying to quiet an overactive mind: a semi-abstract sketch of Mikaere sleeping. Or, more accurately, a sketch that starts with those lines but which is soon consumed by the whorls and ridges of the moko. They’re not a true representation of his tattoo, though, because in places the design slides closer to the indigenous art of her own people, a play of line and form, light and dark.

Sheer exhaustion sent Mikaere to sleep pretty early, all things considered, but he's awake long before Jules is: his body's set to New Zealand time, and sleeping much past midday, even exhausted, is unlikely. It means he's awake with those first hints of dawn coming through the curtains which makes it, as it happens, very early indeed. Still, that's a good few horizontal hours he's had, and it's enough.

Wakefulness comes abruptly, then, with eyes that open conscious and alert, both aware of their surrounds and focused on the world. He's careful in rising, though, with the clear aim of not disturbing Jules. This is a bigger bed than they're used to sharing, thankfully, with room on either side, so it's not so difficult to draw himself out to pad to the bathroom for a morning pee and a quick wash of his face.

It's on his way back that he sees that drawing, lifting it up to get a better look. What he sees clearly pleases him, because that's definitely a smile curving across his mouth as he peers over the sketch pad and towards the bed, and then back again.

Jules makes a good show of staying unconscious for several minutes, light blocked out by pillows and with her own stubborn no-I’m-sleeping-here resolution in play. Alas, there’s a drawback to how she’s particularly attuned to physical surroundings and movement through them—she can’t quite ignore it, as much as she might like to.

She turns her head just enough to crack one eye open and squint through the screen of her hair in time to see Mikaere smiling from where he stands. Instead of speaking, Jules just groggily flops a hand like a fish out of water.

Mikaere sets down the sketch pad so that he can step towards Jules, sitting down— still buck naked, naturally— on the edge of the bed and scooping up her hand within his. "Hey," he murmurs. "Why don't I go for a run and then find you a latte while you get some more sleep, mm? We've got loads of time— it's early."

“Okay.” It’s more of a mumble than a clear word of assent. Jules finds more energy when it comes to curling her fingers through Mikaere’s for a small squeeze.

“You’re the best.”

Lattes and sleep, what more could she want.

Never let it be said that Mikaere does not know the true way to a woman's heart.

He presses the lightest of kisses to Jules' knuckles, then releases her hand again. "Back in a bit," he promises. "Get some rest."

He's as quiet as he can be as he pulls on clothes and heads for the exit. Jules gets one last glance over his shoulder before he's gone— off into the early morning.

He's not gone more than an hour or so, and when he comes back, sweaty, he's got two Starbucks takeaway cups, one in each hand. (This is 100% not his coffee of choice— "Mass-produced rubbish!"— but it'll do.) He lets himself in quietly, glancing hesitantly at the bed.

It’s enough time for Jules to truly fall back asleep, and enough time so that when Mikaere returns, she’s ready to stir and sit up. She’s got on a grey t-shirt, old enough to be soft from how worn it is, and the sheets pool around her lap when she pushes herself up against the headboard.

“Good run?”

She’s not picky about her coffee. Her hands are already reaching for that mass-produced elixir of life.

"I had to settle for the treadmill," admits Mikaere, making a face, as he offers over one of the cups. He settles down on the chair at the desk, sitting on it backwards, and takes a sip from his own. "I'd always rather run outside."

Still, he's philosophical about it. "You slept?"

“Me too.” But it gets the job done, as does this Starbucks latte Jules sips from now. “Yeah. How are you feeling? I guess it’ll take a few days before you feel normal again?”

A pause, and then a tease. “Whatever normal means for you.” A smile accompanies it, one that soon turns thoughtful as she reflects, “Though it also sounds like maybe your normal has changed.”

"I feel better for the exercise," admits Mikaere, which is an easier thing to comment on than... well, than the rest.

More slowly, he says, then, "I'm not sure what normal is, now. Or what it will be. I guess that's something to figure out, day by day. 'Normal' is pretty relative at the best of times, though. Pretty sure you wouldn't call any part of your life now normal, based on your experiences of a year or two ago, mm? That's just how it goes."

“True.” Jules doesn’t actually want to philosophize about it, especially not this early in the morning, so she lets it all pass with that easy assent.

Instead, she reaches for her phone at the bedside table to check the time. There’s still plenty of it, and no need to rush. Still, Jules says, “You should get the first shower.” Because that way she doesn’t have to move or get up yet.

"I'll leave you to your coffee," agrees Mikaere, with a grin: never get between a woman and her bean juice. His is mostly gone already, courtesy of the trip upstairs, and the truth is he's probably not fussed about finishing the rest— he takes another swig, then dumps the cup into the trash, heading for the shower.

(This shower will be significantly less fun than the one last night, but still. Still.)

He takes his time, luxuriating in the endless hot water, finally venturing back out with a towel around his waist and his dark hair dripping down his neck. "All yours."

Smart man.

The long shower is smart, too. More time for Jules to properly wake up, more time to get that caffeine into her bloodstream. She finishes her latte right around the time the water cuts off, and now she’s ready to swing her legs over the side of the bed and get up.

This morning’s showering doesn’t have to be no fun—after all, as Jules passes by on her way to the bathroom, she reaches out to trail her fingers along Mikaere’s hip, just above the towel. And when she takes off the shirt she slept in, she flings it at him instead of just letting it drop to the floor.

Between fingers and shirts, there's a distinct hint coming across, here— and Mikaere's not a stupid man, not when it comes to this. Hit with a shirt, he does the only thing a man really can do in this situation: turns to impose his body between Jules and the wall, and lean in to kiss her soundly, damp skin pressed up against her.

So maybe it takes awhile longer before Jules actually gets her shower. As noted and double-checked: there’s time.

And it undoubtedly means that by the time they do get underway for that morning meeting at the museum, Jules is more relaxed and ready for this entire venture. The sun’s out this morning, sparkling on the lake as they drive by it on the way to the university district. The mountain’s out, as the locals say, Mount Rainier rising behind them to the southeast. Midweek, parking isn’t the problem it could be. If one is the type to look for signs, then they all seem fortuitous thus far.

“They said they’d meet me in the lobby,” Jules says as she pays the meter, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. “We’ve got fifteen-twenty minutes to kill, if you wanna walk around.”

For Mikaere's first actual visit to Seattle, it's a beautiful day for it: he murmurs his quiet appreciation as they approach, eyes drinking in the view of both the mountain and the unfamiliar city. He's relaxed in the car, asking low-voiced questions and making quiet comments intermittently as they weave through the streets.

As he unfolds himself from the car, stretching in the morning sunlight, he acknowledges Jules' comment. "What's to see?" he wonders. "Let's wander. Better than waiting around. C'mon."

Downtown and the city proper will have to wait, though passing through Seattle via I-5 does provide views of the stadiums and the Space Needle—promises of things to visit later. Now, though, they’re near the open green spaces of the University of Washington, and that’s where Jules directs them. “We’re right by campus, so let’s go that way. I’ve never really seen it.” College visits were not really on her radar as a seventeen year old.

Campus extends all the way down to the shores of Union Bay, though it’s too far to walk in their limited time. They can wander through a couple of the quads, however, including the one with the iconic cherry trees—not flowering now, of course, but one of UW’s pride and joys.

"American universities are so different to the ones we have back home," muses Mikaere, as they wander. "And this is different again, I guess, to some of the ones that are not in the middle of major cities— right? This would be beautiful when the cherry trees are blooming." Not that it's not beautiful now, albeit in a different way.

"It just... feels different, to the kinds of universities I'm used to, I think."

“Yeah? How so?” With a glance at her watch, Jules determines it’s time to turn back around and retrace their path back to the Burke, right at the edge of campus at its interface with the city.

“This seems like the classic kind of university you see in movies, to me. What was yours like?”

"The university of Auckland is... mm, a little more utilitarian? Less green space— it's in central Auckland, so there's not a lot of space to be hand— and just... functional. Not that there aren't some nice old buildings, and some fancy new ones, but it's just... it's different."

Mikaere seems to struggle with explaining what that particular difference is, and ultimately shrugs. "It's definitely not like in the American movies. But also, most kids attend a local university, and most don't live on campus, so the vibe is different. There are dorms, but I doubt you'd get more than five or ten per cent of students living in them."

“My grandparents wanted me to at least come up and visit,” Jules remarks as they make their way back. “I kept insisting I’d go to community college and that it made more sense to do two years there first, then transfer.”

She stays quiet for a moment as they walk, then eventually admits, “My ex was not particularly helpful. Not like, outright discouragement. Just—oh, it’s so far away, I’d miss you so much, what would you even do with a degree because aren’t you just going to move back here—that kind of thing. And it’s true, you can get a decent job back home without it. My grandpa did fine, and Alex is okay. Still.” Still.

"Still," agrees Mikaere. "If it's something that you want, you should always have the opportunity, and at least consider it. At least decide for yourself if it is what you want, rather than wait. And you're doing it now— I mean, the community college bit. Doing it for yourself, and not for anyone else."

He reaches to claim Jules' hand, if he can: to squeeze it, if he can.

Hand, captured. Jules smiles up at Mikaere in response and briefly leans into him.

“It’s hard to know what you want when you’re seventeen, eighteen,” she says, but her tone’s settled and not troubled. “Anyway. It’s just a little funny to be walking around here and thinking, huh, I would have probably had a really different life if I’d wound up here ten years ago. Maybe I would have done it all differently—but I like the life I have now.”

Mikaere makes a soft sound of agreement. "I definitely didn't," he adds, with a laugh. "But it all worked out. That's the thing— all our decisions lead us to where we are, and most of the time, that's no bad thing. It's hard to imagine how different life could turn out, with different choices. How wrong it feels, too. I like this life, too."

The only appropriate response, in this moment, is another quick hand squeeze.

The timing is just about spot on. A middle-aged woman is waiting for them in the atrium of the Burke, by the built-in benches below the mammoth skeleton of a mastodon. She’s eager to shake hands, introducing herself as the director of the center for Northwest native arts. “I’m Kay,” she says, sharing smiles for both of them, though her attention primarily turns to Jules as the key contact. “I reserved a room on the first floor for us today—if you’ll follow me?”

Up the stairs, beneath the skeleton of the beaked whale. Jules is starting to look a little overwhelmed as their guide gives them the quick introduction to the museum: founded in 1885 by the Young Naturalists’ Society (basically, a bunch of teens and young twenty somethings, many of whom went on to become early professors at the university), then designated the state museum for natural history in 1899. How the Burke today is an active research center with labs and classrooms, plus their engagement with the native peoples as a premier center for the preservation and study of Salish art and culture.

Yes—definitely overwhelmed.

Mikaere's hand squeezes Jules' once more before he lets it go, this time a gesture of silent encouragement: she's got this. This isn't his meeting, but in those initial few minutes he's happy to step up and play the tourist, full of a handful of quick, interested questions about the Burke and its work, commenting only briefly on the work carried out by Te Papa in Wellington and of course the Auckland museum itself. This is nothing more than icebreaking; when it comes to the meeting itself, he's content to stay quiet and let Jules take the lead.

One thing is absolutely certain: they're eager for the artefacts to be returned to native hands, and— at least if their words can be trusted— absolutely committed to supporting the identification of origin for all of them. Naturally, the museum would love to have them, but— "That will have to be up to the tribes in question, I think."

A good meeting. Mikaere comments as much, after the farewells have been said and some next steps discussed.

"They were impressed with you."

Jules relaxes again once they’re actually talking about the details, nerves easing in her eagerness to share how they found the artifacts and what they know of their provenance.

(She actually calls the Asshole Ancestor by his name, for once.)

She leaves out, of course, the little trip they took through time.

For now, the curators have pictures to work with and a promise of further cooperation moving forward as identification gets underway. They want to see the items in person, of course, but that’s for a future date, a later meeting.

“With me.” Standing outside the museum in the sun, Jules raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t do anything.”

"With you," insists Mikaere, without adding further detail, though he's grinning broadly at Jules over the rims of the sunglasses he's pulled out of his pocket and put back on his face. "You did plenty. And you did great. Anyone can see how passionate you are about all of this— how much you care."

It's time to reclaim her hand again. "I demand I get the opportunity to buy you ice cream, to celebrate."

Jules’ mouth twists to the side and her nose wrinkles, like she’d like to deny it, but she looks pleased with Mikaere’s assessment even if she’s slow to smile.

“Well, if you insist.” As if Jules would say no to ice cream. “So—downtown?” It requires getting back in the car, but it’s not so far.

"I do insist," says the Kiwi, grinning. "On both the ice cream and the summation of that meeting front, just to be clear. Consider me downright determined. Which means— yes, downtown. Show me this city of... well, okay, not yours. But you know what I mean."

Tugging at her hand, he aims to steer them back towards the car, and though clearly he can't do any directing from here to downtown, he would if he could, like a kid in a candy shop.

This time Jules grins back, all too happy to let herself be swept up in the enthusiasm.

"Downtown it is," she declares grandly, lifting her chin high.

Seattle bustles with tourism in the summer. The first stop is the iconic Pike Place Market -- where else? -- with its fresh produce and seafood stands (behold, flying salmon!), the barbershop quartet stationed outside of the original Starbucks, the flower and handicrafts market. That totem pole overlooking the waterfront that Jules keeps mentioning, the one stolen from Alaska. Breweries, tea shops, Beechers cheese, and surely someone's selling ice cream somewhere around here. Ideally not in the same passageway as the Wall of Gum.

Mikaere is delighted by the flying salmon, and clearly fascinated by the rest of it (though perhaps not the Starbucks: he just shakes his head at that and moves on)... even the gum wall gets a vastly amused grin and a, "You people are crazy," that is downright fond. He unerringly ends up finding the retro soda fountain and from there it's a done deal: "I've never had an ice cream soda before, and I think I need to have this experience at least once. It's traditional, right?"

Mikaere in tourist mode is hilarious.

For her part, Jules is happy to oblige Mikaere the tourist and insists on taking pictures, including a selfie with the bronze market pig that can’t quite get the flying fish into the frame. Jules wants to browse for fresh fruit, and although the prices are a good deal higher than what she’s used to paying, it is some of the best local produce available, brought in daily from farms and orchards throughout the state. “I can’t bring myself to buy blackberries or huckleberries when I can pick ‘em for free,” she admits while making her selections, sticking to the peaches and a melon with a name she’s never heard of.

At the soda fountain, she gamely agrees. “Sure,” Jules says, clearly amused by this notion of American traditionalism that she herself doesn’t identify with. Only—“you realize the most traditional ice cream float is with root beer, right?”

Just look at the pained expression Mikaere aims at Jules at this very idea: root beer, ugh. "Nope," he says. "Nope, nope, nope, nope. I'm having a chocolate phosphate soda— I don't know, it sounds positively disgusting, but I'm game anyway— float. I don't know what any of this even is, but I know it isn't root beer, and that's important. The root beer is all yours."

“Lame,” Jules teases, grinning widely. “I thought you wanted the real American experience. Take root beer, plonk a couple scoops of vanilla in there, voila. Maybe you’d change your mind if it was fancy root beer in a glass bottle. Small batch brewed, organic, free range root beer with vanilla beans handpicked only at midnight in Madagascar.”

"Why would you waste perfectly good vanilla beans on that?" counters Mikaere, wrinkling up his entire face for emphasis. "That just sounds ridiculous. No— that's one Americanism I'm going to have to pass on. But please, don't let my distaste stop you!"

“Oh, it won’t,” Jules happily assures. Nothing’s keeping her from her high end root beer. She takes pity on Mikaere and doesn’t even try to get him to take a sip.

“Other than Pike Place,” she says as they enjoy their floats, “we could wander up to Pioneer Square and look into the underground tour, or take the monorail over to the Space Needle. And then there’s the piers just down there, and the aquarium.” Below them, along with a combination of tourist paraphernalia, cruise ships, and ferries. “Up to you what you wanna do.”

It's probably fair to say that ice cream floats are not a taste sensation Mikaere will be attempting to (re?)introduce to New Zealand any time soon, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy his: there are degrees, clearly.

"Hmm," he says. "Well, if we're getting the ferry back, I think we can avoid the piers— besides, cruise ships never really did it for me." Not that he's ever been on one, but it is very much the spirit of the thing. "Show me the monorail and the Space Needle. That's probably the one thing everyone knows about Seattle, right?"

“Yeah, it’s about as iconic as it gets.”

Once their floats are finished, that’s where they’ll head, after a stop by the car in the parking garage so Jules can stash her produce (she’s not carrying a big melon around with her, no thanks). It means walking several city blocks uphill, and that means window shopping until they get to the shopping plaza with the monorail. “It’s just one stop,” Jules explains. “Goes between downtown and the Science Center. My grandparents used to take us up here once a year or so when when we were kids. The Science Center’s great. Alex liked the Laser Dome and the space capsule; I liked the hands on science stuff and the butterfly house.”

"Yeah? We don't have a science museum quite like that, though there's MOTAT— the museum of transport and technology— and of course the aquarium too. Ma used to take us, in school holidays, when we weren't down south with her family. I don't think I've ever been on a monorail before, though."

All these new experiences! Mikaere's not so interested in the window shopping, maybe, but very much interested in this whole monorail thing, and, once they're on board, staring out the window with intent fascination at the city below.

“I haven’t been there in years,” Jules admits. “And I only went to the EMP once—that’s the music museum. Also hands on. Looking back, it’s the least surprising thing ever that I liked stuff I could pick up and mess around with.”

It’s a quick ride on this World Fair attraction. “I kinda wish they’d extend this,” Jules says as they speed along. “Take it down to Pioneer Park or where the trains come in by the stadium. That would be super handy for getting around.” They do indeed go right by—through—the latter museum Jules names, a warped multicolor metallic structure. And then the train comes to rest, and they’ve got the entire park to explore.

Mikaere gives Jules a thoughtful smile, as if (perhaps) he's imagining her as a small child, running around a museum trying things out. If that's what he's imagining, he's clearly pleased with the idea, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I can't think why," he says.

"I wonder why monorails aren't built so much these days. It's like they fell out of fashion. They're so useful, though, you're right. And a better view than trams, not to mention less congestion on the streets."

But for now: there's the park, and more of this city to explore.

Jules the wildly rambunctious, Jules who has to touch everything, Jules the endlessly curious—what museum could be better for the kind of child she most likely was? She’d have been an unholy terror in any kind of look-but-don’t-touch scenario.

“Space, I guess. But I’d rather be looking down from above than stuck underground.”

The park is colorful and loud, with kids running about in just the same way that Jules undoubtedly did twenty years prior. “Cotton candy!” she exclaims when a vendor catches her eye on the way to the Space Needle, which rises overhead. “One sec, I definitely need that.”

…like she needs a hole in her head. Between the root beer float and the spun sugar, Jules is headed for one hell of a sugar rush.

"Underground trains and whatever make me nervous. The idea of them, anyway; I've never been on one, not properly. Give me a view any day."

The park is perfect, and Jules' enthusiasm just makes Mikaere grin all over again. "Fairy floss? Look— go nuts. Why not. We're on holiday, just for one day."

This doesn't mean he's going to join in, though: just amble his way after her, enjoying the view. "But please don't sugar crash while driving home, yeah?"

“Fairy floss.” Jules sounds delighted by this new turn of phrase. “As in, fairies floss their teeth with it? I’ve never heard that one.” With the big pink confection in hand, she resolutely agrees, “After this, only protein and carbs.”

Jules consumes her holiday treat slowly, one light-as-a-cloud pinch at a time, leaving her fingers sticky.

The view is just beginning. They haven’t come all this way to remain fixed with their feet on the ground, surely, when the observation deck of the Needle beckons. “How do you feel about heights?” Jules wants to know while heading for the ticket booth.

"I... actually don't know," admits Mikaere, slightly surprised by this, as if he ought to know the etymology of that particular name for that particular piece of confection. "I never actually gave it much thought before. That's... just what we call it."

He doesn't linger on it, though.

"Heights don't bother me," he answers, as to the rest. "Never have. Figure if my mental self can fly, why shouldn't I enjoy what the world looks like from above? Especially on a day like today... I bet we'll be able to see for kilometres." Beat. "Miles. For miles." He pays for them both, then gestures for Jules to lead the way.

“I figured that was probably the case,” Jules says, tipping her head up to look at Mikaere. “How weird would that be—you manifest as a bird who’s afraid of heights.”

Into the line (queue!), to wait their turn for the elevator up. “Your mom said she didn’t like flying,” Jules remarks, more interested in this subject than the details of the Space Needle’s construction. “What does she turn up as? Do you know? Or would that just be too completely weird?”

"Hard to be your true self if you spend most of the time shitting yourself in fear," agrees Mikaere, with a grin.

He's slower to respond to Jules' next question, making a show (a very bad show) of reading the history of the Space Needle, though there's no question even then that he's listening— and thinking. "Ma knows too much about me— and everyone, for that matter— as it is; there's no way I'm letting her get that deep into my subconscious," he says, finally, not without a rueful laugh.

"She is still a bird, though, distaste for flying notwithstanding. Not the tui she shares a name with, though: the ruru or morepork. An owl, and in our mythology, a wise advisor and protector."

“Huh. That sounds fitting, except for the flying part. Maybe she just sits in a tree and waits for people to come to her,” Jules muses as they wait. “I wonder what my grandma is. Or if she even knows.”

And then: ding! The elevator has returned to the ground, steel doors opening for people to spill out. Once it’s emptied, their own guide ushers them aboard. Windows at the back ensure a view as they rise, and the guide’s patter puts any other conversation on hold until they reach the observation deck.

Mikaere's expression turns thoughtful as— presumably— he considers Jules' grandmother, and how she might be represented in the spirit plane. It's probably not surprising that he doesn't have any immediate suggestions: it is, after all, a deeply personal thing.

Any comment he might have, of course, is forestalled, and by the way they've risen to the top (and, ok, he's put his face not quite on the glass but certainly close), he's probably forgotten. "Now that," he murmurs, "is a view."

Nor is it for Jules to answer, though she may have some guesses that she keeps to herself. For now, she puts these thoughts aside in favor of seeing this city from on high.

“Right? The Salish Sea,” Jules names it while looking out at the water beyond Seattle. “Though no one really calls it that. They say it more up in BC. Puget Sound. Salish Sea just sounds better.” She relishes the way it rolls off her tongue, its harmony and sinuous ness echoing the way the water laps around the many islands and the constantly curving coast with its tongues and inlets of seawater.

“This all used to be mudflats, you know,” Jules tells Mikaere, wrapping both her arms around his waist from behind. “Clam and oyster beds. They filled them in to make the city.”

"Salish Sea does just sound better," Mikaere agrees, drawing his hands to rest atop of Jules' about his waist. "'Puget Sound' is fine, but Salish Sea has music to it. Hard to imagine what this all would've liked like, two hundred years ago. I hadn't really thought about it— Seattle's only a few decades older than Auckland is. Both've changed the landscape pretty intensely, I guess."

His pause is only for a beat or so. "Both seafaring cities. Ferries and islands and all that they entail."

Mikaere’s too tall for Jules to prop her chin on his shoulder, so she turns her face and rests her cheek against his upper back instead. She’ll sacrifice a better view for this.

“I saw it in a Dream,” Jules says, dreamy herself. “Well, not Seattle and the Sound. But what it was like before. Just forest. And then there was the village.” Nostalgia retreats with that recollection.

“Have you ever seen Aotearoa that way? Before it became New Zealand?”

Mikaere's back is warm and sturdy, muscles only lightly defined beneath his shirt, beneath Jules' cheek. He lets out a low sound of contentment, but doesn't otherwise comment on her presence there. Instead, "That was when you travelled with your carving? You and Ravn?"

And lower still: "No, never. I'd like to. I'd like to walk with my tīpuna, and see my country as they did. I hoped, with the Doors—" But that Door never opened, not for Mikaere.

"I'd go further, too. To see Hawaiki, before our waka even departed for Aotearoa."

“Mmhmm.” Jules hasn’t talked about her brief time in the village much, holding it close like something fragile, something sacred.

She stays quiet for a moment, then ventures, “Maybe you can, one day. I know crossing over can be dangerous, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile. And I don’t think it’s just Here and There, like people talk about. There’s layers. You just have to find a way to go deeper.”

Nor has Mikaere pushed— not more than a few listening questions, early on. "Mm," is all he says now, gaze still fixed on the distant horizon.

"Maybe," he agrees. "Finding the right place, the right moment, the right— I don't know. I expect there are a lot of variables that I don't understand, because I'm not skilled that way. Have you tried?"

Deliberately, he means, though he doesn't specify it outright.

“Not yet,” Jules replies. There’s something funny about having this conversation in such a public venue, but each tourist is engaged in their own little world, too. It leaves a strange sort of privacy in the middle of the whir of motion and excitement.

“I don’t want to try unless there’s someone there who can pull me out if I need it. There’s a few experienced people back in Gray Harbor. I was going to hit one of them up when we get back. The guy who showed Ravn. I don’t want to be stupid about it.”

"That's wise," Mikaere says by way of answer, nodding his head though it may not be possible for Jules to see— or even feel— that. "Getting someone to spot you, as it were. Seems like it's an easy thing to get wrong, completely accidentally."

He's silent for a moment, then adds, "But seems like it's worth knowing. There's— it didn't seem to matter so much, back in Auckland, but in Gray Harbor? It feels like it's better to be trained, to know what you can do, just in case."

Jules slips around, scooting under Mikaere’s arm so she can stand side-by-side with him, one arm still around his waist. She’s careful, like she’s not sure just how much the pressure might irritate.

“To know what you can do, and be able to trust yourself to do it right in the moment,” she says in agreement. “Della still doesn’t seem to feel like she can touch stuff safely, you know. Maybe you should talk to her.”

Mikaere draws one arm around Jules' shoulder in return, and if he's discomforted at all by her arm, there's no show of it in gesture or expression.

"Yes," he agrees. "Before coming to Gray Harbor, I'd never used by abilities in... mm, offensively, I suppose you'd say. I'd never needed to. And it's still something I think I need to come to terms with, because when those moments arise, you have to just do, not react. But equally, they're tools, and tools can be used lots of ways. Sometimes you have to train yourself to think outside the box, too."

He's slower to comment on Della, gaze trained off into the distance again. "I can try. If she wants my help."

“Della likes knowing,” Jules replies, just a little wry as she describes her housemate. “I’d think she’d want to know herself, too.”

She lets out a little huff of self-deprecating laughter. “I don’t think I’m very good at the outside the box thinking. I’m more like, hammer, nail, bang! I don’t know how you train yourself to think in curves instead of straight lines.”

"True," agrees Mikaere with a smirky little laugh. "Queen of the Google search that she is. If I've an opportunity to speak to her, properly, I'll raise it. I don't see all that much of your housemates, most of the time."

But maybe he'll make the effort.

"It takes work, I think. For most of us. And there's nothing wrong with using tools in the way that feels natural. It's more— mm. Like with Haggleford, in that Dream. If we'd just gone in and attacked, we wouldn't have found anything out, you know? Fighting isn't always the answer."

Without really thinking, Jules gives the obvious answer: “So come over more.”

She nods, looking out at the Olympics as they rise beyond Seattle, beyond the Sound. “We did the right thing then,” Jules agrees. “Still haven’t gotten that package—or heard anything else from him lately.”

Mikaere nudges his hip against Jules by way of reply. "Maybe I will," he says.

He's slower with the rest, though there's a sharpness to his gaze and a determination. "Once you've learned how to open a door," he says. "We'll go and get that package. And... sort that shit out. It was the right thing, and if we can do anything to fix things, well. That's what we're going to do."

“It’s not the opening,” Jules says wryly. “Pretty sure I can do that. You’ve seen me do that. I don’t think I need the tool to do it, either. It’s the coming back part.”

Here, though, her mouth draws into a thin line and her face takes on a pensive cast. “Della saw something while you were gone,” Jules notes. “The Veil is thin. Thinner. Thinner than it should be. I wouldn’t be surprised if opening from both sides is easier now. And closing harder.”

This is true, and Mikaere acknowledges it with a tip of his chin. Jules' latest bombshell, however, is what draws his gaze away from the view and back to the brunette herself.

"Shit," he says. "That... um, doesn't sound good. It was already thin."

Jules looks up at him, feeling the movement and sensing his gaze. Her own regard is troubled.

“Yeah. Definitely not good. Double plus un-good. No idea what to do.”

"For now?" Mikaere hesitates, then shakes his head. "We keep an eye on it. I can ask Ma, too, see if she has any ideas of what it might mean, or what we can do about it. Wasn't— mm, I'm sure Ravn mentioned at some point about the Addingtons and the, um, whatever the other family is. That the deaths of one made it thinner, or something?"

The details are beyond him, though, and his head shakes again. "It's okay. We'll work it out. There's a whole lot of people in town who'll care, right? And maybe it doesn't mean anything at all."

Liar.

“We can only hope.”

That it means nothing. That people will care. That people will be able to do something—beyond taking flight.

Jules makes a face. “Addingtons and Baxters. Their feud with people ending up in the wood chipper. But I don’t think that was ever just it. It’s what happened to the indigenous people, too. Like a perfect storm, one event after another, in a place we already know people could find the spirit world—or if not in Gray Harbor exactly, where they had the knowledge of it and even some tools to do it. That’s my working theory, anyway.”

Her shoulders shrug beneath Mikaere’s arm. “Anyway. We’re being tourists today, right? Look, we’re slowly slowly spinning.”

"No," agrees Mikaere. "It was never just that. But it connects to this, somehow, I think: if it is thinner, then something is making it so, and that's a continuation of all of that history. Maybe something specific happened, this time, or maybe it's the culmination—"

He seems only then to register that Jules is moving the conversation on, a little belatedly. "Huh," he says, firmly. "So we are. I hadn't even properly noticed. Point out landmarks to me? Be my tour guide for the day."

Jules does make a noise at the back of her throat, a hum of sorts, as she absorbs Mikaere’s point. It’s something to return to, another time. For now, she says, “To the extent that I can. I don’t come up here that often. But…”

First thing’s first, and it’s not Seattle. “Those are the Olympics over there,” Jules says, lifting her free hand to point. “We’re seeing them from the other side.” Than their side, she means, the Pacific side. On the other side, there’s the Cascades.” She slips loose, only to find Mikaere’s hand and tug him along with her to the east-facing windows that look out on the other mountain range, Washington’s spine. “If you follow them south a bit, you hit Mount Rainier—that’s the big one that’s closest to us, right there.” The glacier-capped mountain is unmistakeable, both given how it features on so much Washington paraphernalia (including license plates) and how it seems to stand alone.

“As for Seattle…” Here, she hesitates in her own relative unfamiliarity. “Well, across that lake to the east, you get Bellevue and Renton,” Jules says, since they’re on that side now. “Where Microsoft is headquartered. Up north, Everett, where Boeing is. And if you look south, you get the stadiums and Boeing Field. I think it’s mostly used for rich people’s private planes, but I don’t really know. That’s about the extent of my ability to point things out. We were down there,” the waterfront to the west, “when we were downtown at the market.”

"Volcano, yes?" Mikaere's followed— physically and intellectually— Jules' little tour, but he's turning his attention more directly towards Mount Rainier, now, studying it with the interest of one who knows his volcanos (as one does, when one's city-of-birth is literally littered with them). "Named after some white guy, I assume, though it probably had a different name before that?"

“Yeah. They all are.” This time, her free hand sweeps out to encompass the entirety of the range. “Mt. Saint Helens blew in 1980, and if Rainier blows, Seattle’s fucked, along with most of the South Sound. They’re still considered active, so it’ll happen someday. That and-or earthquakes. Those happen more frequently, and there’s been a lot of talk about the Big One we’re all waiting for.”

Jules is matter-of-fact about it all; it’s all part of belonging to this region. “And yes, Rainier’s true name is Tahoma.” Mikaere may have heard or seen it before; there’s a decent amount of branding that uses the mountain’s native name, and Tacoma is the city in its shadow.

"Just like Auckland," concludes Mikaere, whose tone is as matter-of-fact as Jules': that's just the way it is. "Sooner or later, it'll happen, and there's nothing we can do about it. That's just the risk we take, building cities in volcanic fields. They make for stunning peaks, though."

More slowly, he repeats, "Tahoma. Of course— that's faintly familiar. Tahoma. It's good to use the proper names for things."

Not being a computer person, he fails to register the other place he might know the name from— oh well.

“And fertile soil,” Jules adds with a crooked smile of her own. “I could get very circle of life-y, here. Settle, built, blow, regenerate. Everything on a non-human timescale.”

Her smile’s still there when it comes to the practices of naming. “Seattle is named after a tribal chief,” she notes. “Maybe you’ve already heard that? Chief Sealth, in another version of his name. It’s good that most of the places around here still have their native names. Gray Harbor being an exception.”

"What?!" says Mikaere, teasingly, those dark brows raised as he turns to look at Jules directly. "Are you trying to imply that some things happen in this world that have nothing to do with humanity, and might continue even after we're all dead and gone? Blasphemy."

Of Chief Sealth, however, he can only shake his head. "I didn't know that one. I like that a lot of the native names are still in place— it's important. Names matter. Reclaiming Aotearoa mattered, but it's better yet if you don't need to reclaim at all. Do you know what the original name for the Gray Harbor area was, or is that lost too?"

“I would never,” Jules replies, miming shock with wide eyes and her hand going to her heart.

The joking fades as she shakes her head. “I don’t. Hoquiam’s a native word, obviously. I looked it up once. If I remember correctly, it has to do with the logging industry.”

Jules smiles, but there’s something rather bitter about it. “I have to wonder how much of the Chief Seattle story is the kind of myth that grows up from a white perspective. He’s made out to be this peace-loving, ecologically conscious figure. But how much of that is just him wanting to avoid conflict and war and actually involves making concessions, I don’t know.”

Mikaere's smile, too, is less than bright. "Yeah," he says. "I imagine there's a lot of... ascribing meaning, I guess, to the actions of a historical figure who's motivations we can't be sure of. It's nice to portray him that way, for some people, even if it's not strictly true. It feels shitty, though, not knowing the reality of it. Creating myths."

Though his expression is thoughtful for this, too. After all, that's what myths are.

"Auckland's traditional name is Tāmaki-makau-rau, and makau-rau? That's 'to have lots of lovers'." It's a lighter thing, maybe to draw them back to something less serious, though the smile doesn't entirely extend to Mikaere's eyes.

It does get a laugh out of Jules, though, as she looks up with a brighter, slyer smile. “And is that a myth?” she asks teasingly. “Or are Māori warriors known for their good lovin’? Or maybe it’s the women.”

Those brows go up again, and with them, a smirky little smile makes itself known. "I don't know," he says. "You'll have to tell me... since you're the one with the studly Māori warrior for a lover, right?"

Jules makes a show of rolling her eyes, but it’s all part of the amusement written all over her expression. “Verdict’s out,” she declares. “More research necessary.”

She masters her own smile, managing a straight face for a minute. “And you know, if it’s a real experiment, I need more data points. You might just be a fluke. The only way to do this right is to sleep my way through Auckland, clearly.”

Look at Mikaere's brows raise now. "Oh no," he says. "No no no no, no further research is required. I promise; you've got the best possible specimen, right here. Nope. No."

“No?”

Jules can only hold that tone and look of moderate surprise for a few seconds before she breaks.

“Well, if you say so,” she capitulates with a laugh, letting her weight fall against Mikaere in a companionable, affectionate lean. “I’m inclined to believe you.”

Dry (so dry): "I'm relieved to hear it."

Mikaere can't hold his expression either, breaking into an abrupt and amused grin as he captures Jules closer against him, never mind that there are families with young children about who are beginning to eye the couple dubiously. (Was it something they said?)

“Mama, what’s Auckland?” chimes a young voice nearby. “Why does she want to go to sleep there?”

Jules turns her face into Mikaere to stifle her giggle, which proves impossible when yet another toddler suddenly declares from another corner, “For fuck’s sake, Daniel Tiger!”

At least the corruption of the youth isn’t entirely their fault.

The first comment makes Mikaere's expression twitch, but that second?

Now he's laughing outright, no shame.

"Kids," he murmurs in Jules' direction. "Are great. Should we escape, while we can?" Before anyone decides to blame them for anything?

Through her own laughter, Jules agrees. "Yeah, we better."

Run, run for the elevator.

Flee.

Mikaere manages to be all smiles as he takes off for the elevator, never mind the dark and dubious glances they get on their way.

Well. Well. So be it!