9409/Who Can Say No to a Lamb Gyro

Who Can Say No to a Lamb Gyro
Date of Scene:	03 October 2019
Location:	Greek Restaurant
Synopsis:	Loki can say no to a lamb gyro! But only after surprising both Sif and Caitlin out for dinner at their favorite Greek restaurant.
Cast of Characters:	Sif, Fairchild, Loki

---

Sif has posed:
When the Lady Sif requires a helpful ear, she doesn't go to her Asgardian cohorts. No, the Valkyrie finds the wisdom of Midgard to be plain and simple, unaffected by the veneer of court or the burgeoning grandiosity of personality inherit to so many of her fellow people.

As such, she's not only texted Caitlin, but managed to convince the young woman to come along to a local Greek restaurant counted among the few absolute favorite places to eat in New York of Sif. The staff know of Sif here as well as her propensity to order in large quantities; Sif had contacted them a day before in case their larder needed restocking or buffing.

In front of her, a platter of lamb gyros, six in total, as well as french fries sprinkled liberally with feta cheese. To one side, a bowl of salad more suited to feed four and a pitcher of ice water rather than any form of alcohol. She makes a point to finish at least one of the gyros before wiping at her mouth with her napkin and giving Caitlin a level look.

"I would have your opinion on something, Lady Caitlin," the Princess says with little preamble.

Fairchild has posed:
'Convincing' Caitlin to eat is like persuading water to run downhill. Even among people of prodigious hunger, Cait's capacity for appetite defies belief.

She's cut out the middle man on her giro; just put all the filling directly *on* a bed of fries, cover it with tzatziki sauce, send it to the table.

Two large bowls worth.

She glances up at Sif in mild surprise at the request, moments after emptying a forkload of fried potatos and lamb in her mouth.

Caitlin chews, swallows, and washes it down with a cola. "Me? I mean, uh, sure," she says, with a shrug. With fall weather arriving, Caitlin's clothing has gone from shorts and comfortable tees to blue jeans and low-heeled riding boots. Her button-down blouse is tucked into a 'distressed leather belt, the fabric a pleasant shade of lilac with half the buttons un-done to reveal a modest white camisole under it.

Sif has posed:
Sif herself appears more that she might have ridden in on a motorcycle, or perhaps been on her way to a rock concert. A clay-red tee shirt hides away beneath a thick black leather jacket with inseams clinging to her ribs for a fitted appeal rather than loose boyfriend visual. Her deeply blue jeans are tucked into knee-high boots with a modest heel at best, all the better to suddenly break into a run and make someone regret fussing any peace around the Valkyrie. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun in a true salute to being comfortable around the young Midgardian woman.

"I will ask firstly if you have ever entertained the idea of courting a man -- or been courted yourself," Sif then continues, looking at Caitlin blithely before taking a monstrous bite of her lamb gyro.

Fairchild has posed:
It's possible Caitlin could literally eat tree bark if she were hungry enough, so when Sif puts the blunt question to her, the sudden choking reflex is substantially more psychological than physiological.

Her green eyes bug and she coughs violently into a hastily seized napkin, then stalls for a few seconds by swiftly consuming all of the soda left in the glass.

"I, uh-- no," Caitlin stammers. The high points of her cheekbones lead the charge of an alarming red flush that works down her cheekbones. "I've had a few guys ask me out, I guess, like, um, in the past," she amends, with that irresistable and deeply-ingrained habit of honesty. "But, uh, never more than once," she clarifies, a second later. "D-dating in the community just seems so risky, y'know, with all the danger and then the drama, and..."

Green eyes water and she clears her throat again, trying to regain her aplomb. Caitlin nibbles a french fry, feigning nonchalance. "W-why do you ask?"

Sif has posed:
Patiently, eyeing Caitlin with minor concern and a slowing of her own eating, the Valkyrie waits until she's certain the young woman's windpipe is clear before she nods. It's apparently in agreement with the ability to breathe properly.

"I did not think it was so dangerous to consider a relationship here on Midgard. You must mean within the community of those devoted to keeping the world at peace. I understand." By her tone, she truly does. The plate of gyros is momentarily ignored whlie she focuses on the french fries. A mouthful is certain to have feta bits in it and she sighs in contentment.

Still, the Valkyrie continues her thought soon enough, looking expressly pensive. "I have recently come to the realization that an interest in another being has grown in me. I did not expect it. Frankly, I was blindsided by the realization as a unit might be by sudden pitfalls to the bowels of molten planetary innards."

Fairchild has posed:
"I'm crossing my fingers that said being is bipedal and Asgardian-looking." Caitlin manages a wry sarcasm in rebuke to Sif blindsiding *her* with the question.

"But-- yeah, I mean, regular folks are really ... well, squishy," Caitlin says with a resigned shrug. "I mean, imagine tripping and falling on some mortal fellah. You've gotta weigh as much as I do. Crunch, snap, he's in the hospital getting fitted with a sling for a broken collarbone."

It seems the question from left field has settle enough that Caitlin's aplomb is intact again. She starts into her meal, though she watches Sif with a wariness between bites as if readying herself for another surprise question.

"Um... is it anyone I know?" The question's a little hesitant. Caitlin is clearly trying to be circumspect and not pry overmuch into Sif's personal life, but... Sif did bring it up, after all. Clearly it's something the more mature warrior wants to discuss.

Sif has posed:
Despite her supposed courtly composure, Sif allows herself a pert little smile, pleased with at the jibe Caitlin sends her way. She lets the young woman see it in another subtle act of trust towards her -- so often the Aesir royal gives solid claim to having ice in her veins.

"That is true. Those Midgardians without powers or metahuman abilities do appear to be squishy, as you claim. I find it hard to balance the need to speak to them as adults while my instinct is to treat them as babes, fain to fall and skin a knee tripping on a crack on the sidewalk."

The silence between Caitlin's thoughts is filled with enjoyment of the meal at hand. Another gyro disappears before Sif glances up again at the question leveled at her. "You might know him. He has been muchly busy abroad with the state of Asgard and transplanting the population of New Asgard back to our world," she comments, oddly demur as she works at not dumping her fries from her plate now that there's room for them.

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin stares at Sif and shrugs once, helplessly. "Sorry. I got nothin'," she apologizes to her friend. "But, um... that's cool, I guess? It's nice to get asked out," she theorizes. Caitlin's dating life borders on the non-existant.

She scrapes the last few frieds and lamb from her bowl and sets it aside. Another giro salad is pulled over from the table's corner and she digs into it with relish. It's authentic freshly hewn lamb, not pressed and re-shaped with flour and water after sitting in dry storage. Ah, New York. The cuisine capital of the wold.

Sif has posed:
"Oh, no, I have not been asked out." Sif lifts her eyebrows even as she speaks around a mouthful of fries, suprised enough at the assumption to allow her manners to slip. She realizes in hindsight that she is being deliberately vague and color pinks at her cheeks even as she chews more slowly, her glacial-blues off to one side.

"I am sorry, Lady Caitlin. I can tell this is not an easy topic of conversation for you. With your beauty and pleasant nature, I had fully expected you to have much experience in the ways of courtship. I shall make a note to have a bard compose a song in your honor in order to make the Midgardians of this world realize that you are a rare gemstone in the rough." A firm nod of agreement at her own plan follows.

"Though also note that I am not encouraging you to enter into a relationship in any manner -- merely acknowledging how your physical appeal alongside your brilliant mind will make you a catch for anyone who chooses to pursue you -- or you to pursue them."

Fairchild has posed:
A sound something like an erupting kettle escapes Caitlin's mouth, no doubt released in time with the absolutely stunned expression on her face at Sif's effusive praise. She turns a fairly remarkable shade of pink and covers her face.

Sif keeps going; Caitlin starts visibly trying to hide from the world, and scoots her chair back so she can rest her forehead on the table and hide her vermillion ears with her forearms. There she hides, resembling for all the world a 350 pound tortoise, until she's sure Sif's not going to lob any more compliment artillery her way.

She rotates her head just enough to peer up at Sif, chin on the table, and very, very cautiously removes her wrists from her ears. Tumbling red hair is curled into both sets of fingers.

"Sif, I don't-- I don't -date-," she says, finally. "Ever. No one ever paid attention to me in college. Then this--" she gestures at the totality of herself. "--happened and it was... just everyone who asked me out was a weirdo who just wanted to fool around, or they were like, capechasers," she says, struggling.

A big exhale rolls her shoulders and she massages the back of her neck, head bowing. She strains against her hands to look at the ceiling, then ventures a timid smile and sits upright again. "Plus, like I said, it's-- dating's not easy. It's not like I'm gonna meet someone at my church group, y'know. And in the community, it's... I mean, isn't it weird? You know? Like everyone's dated everyone at some point or another, it seems like. That's just too..." Her button nose wrinkles. "Familiar. I guess. I don't know," she says, with an apologetic defensiveness. "I know it's not my area of expertise."

She starts to stir her food for a bite, then blinks and looks at Sif. "Wait, so-- are you gonna ask /him/ out?"

Sif has posed:
Apparently, the Vanir Princess is going to be completely unrepentant about causing such a shade of color to spring to her friend's cheeks. She doesn't smile, but she does lift her eyebrows and chew quietly as the red-head across the table elucidates on the horrors of dating on Midgard.

A sip of water clears her palate before she takes up the bowl of salad teeming with more feta cheese, tomatoes, olives, onions, all mixed in greenery abounding.

"I am considering it, though it would be a surprising notion. I do not know that he would appreciate it. He may find it overly aggressive...and I would return to square one, as your people say, having to content myself with politics and the idle buzz of courtly chatter rather than something that pleases me." Still, Sif seems resigned to accept this potentiality by the sigh which follows.

"Still, forgive me. I will not commission a bard to write a song. I will commission a poem instead, that it may stay upon paper and be accolades more private."

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin seems to sense now that Sif's yanking her proverbial chain, and shoots the princess a look of prim reprimand. A waitress swings by to top off drinks, buying a little time for Caitlin to recover fully. Something that sounds like a mumbled threat along the lines of 'make YOU a poem' bubbles around her cola while Caitlin sips it.

Once the waitress moves off, Caitlin focuses back on Sif with a more sympathethic expression. "I don't know anything about asking people out, either," she apologizes with sincere regret. It clearly upsets her that she's unable to offer any helpful advice to the Vanir princess. "That's something to ask Carol about. I just know that guys tend to go running the other direction if they think you can out-squat them in the gym. I was always told 'A lady never gives chase'," she adds, and a hint of a clucking Midwestern accent enters her voice. "But that's from the ol' biddies at Sacred Heart, so I don't know how true that is. Either way-- ask Carol," she suggests.

"So, uh, are you gonna tell me his name, or should I take the hint and quit askin'?" she inquires, for a final time.

Loki has posed:
Who is it indeed? /WHO/?

Inquiring minds would like to know.

At the end of the table (it was a large table, considering Sif's orders), an empty chair becomes occupied. A barely there flutter of surreal movement in the air, as if light were bending. It bends around shape of lean shoulder, elegantly perfect black velvet jacket, sleekly groomed black hair, dark silver collared shirt angled nicely to offset the pale god's countenance as he appears to materialize-- at least to one of the women present.

Loki looks exactly like himself, none other; the mortal Midgard garb doesn't do much to detract from it right now. He's seated like he owns the whole place: one arm off the back of the chair, one leg resting across opposite knee, a hand loose and comfortable on the raised knee.

Loki shoots Sif a curious little look, one brow raised just a smidge.

Sif has posed:
It's so worth the polite glare aimed at her across the expanse of the table and Sif finally titters at the threat leveled sotto-voce around the bubbles of soda refilled in Caitlin's glass. "I shall ask Carol then, yes, if she comes recommended in the vein of this particular wisdom."

The Vanir Princess does appear, at this point, slightly remorseful at the manner of her pussyfooting around the subject at hand. She leans back in her chair and gives Caitlin a level look.

"I suppose I have been deliberately avoiding that particular element of my portion of this conversation, haven't I? I apologize. Now that I see you are more unfamiliar with the court of Asgard than I expected, you must attend it with me ere I return." A firm nod seals THAT plan. "You will meet him there."

Sif inhales to continue, but her breath catches on the back of her tongue even as she sees the heatwave-like revelation of cloaking magic disappear from around the Trickster God. Then she appears to try to silently swallow her tongue. Her eyes narrow towards the new arrival before she slides a perfectly polite expression back to her friend.

"Lady Caitlin, this is Prince Loki, of Asgard," she says calmly by way of introductions. "Loki, my friend the Lady Caitlin." Look at that sangfroid -- minus the light blush of surprise, of course.

Fairchild has posed:
"I've only been there the one ti--" Caitlin objections are cut off as Sif reacts to something. Her brow puzzles in concern and reflexively tracks the direction of her friend's alert gaze. It crosses the room and bores into the back of a nice elderly couple walking out the main door.

"Wh--" Her eyes go wide as Sif makes cordial introductions. "Loki? Here?"

The chair scrapes against the floor, twelve inches of movement. Enough to get Caitlin clear of the table in a hurry if need be. "Where?" Even as she speaks she reflexively starts turning so her back is to Sif, so they can cover the widest surveillance possible of the room. "Are you sure it was him?"

Loki has posed:
Loki looks at Sif, then at Cait.

He then looks behind him, in the manner of someone that isn't sure if a wave was truly at him or the people BEHIND him.

Loki turns back around, looking at Sif in a baffled manner. He indicates his chest, with a mouthed 'Me?', and then looks to Caitlin, as if questioning HER sanity.

Then, finally, Loki looks back to Sif, expression slipping to cat-ate-canary, and lifts one finger to his lips, in a 'shhh' gesture... and then stares at her evenly, his smile growing to include smugly white teeth.

Sif has posed:
Sif's mouth moves while no sound comes out. It's like a tennis match, looking between Caitlin's confusion and Loki's coy delight in plain view on his face -- apparently only to the Vanir Princess. Colors deepens at her cheeks even as she wrinkles her lips in something not quite a smile because she's trying very hard to combat the wish to react as she might in a mead hall.

And the homely ambiance of the Greek restaurant is not condusive to mead hall conduct.

"As certain as the rise of the dawn," the Valkyrie replies to poor Caitlin while she drills a gimlet look square between Loki's eyes. "I have not been ensorcelled by him. He sits there," and she points a finger just a breath's touch away from Loki's fine steel-grey shirt collar as if challenging him. "I would not jest about such a thing. He is nothing to jest about. It would be far more charming if he were to show himself and not continue sitting there beneath his magic."

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin starts to look embarassed as well. For one, she can't *see* him, and surely that feeling of being the one person not 'in' on a joke is as bad as being the butt thereof.

Confusion reigns supreme though. Sif's reacting sincerely to Loki's presence, face straining with unidentifiable emotions and a mixture of amusement and irritation that definitely exceeds Caitlin's (comparatively) vastly shorter life experience.

Questions flood Cait's mind, unvoiced despite lips parting in confusion. A game? An attack? Is Sif warning her? The lack of intelligence is confounding her and though Caitlin clearly defers to Sif in every way, there's a rare belligerent streak working to the forefront as Sif is forced to play along with Loki's games. A bullish temper seizes Caitlin in a way she'd never assert for herself.

The decision is made on instinct. Caitlin trusts Sif with her life. How is this any different?

So when Sif jabs a finger at the empty chair, Caitlin reaches for the pitcher of ice water left on the table, leans over, and upends the entire frigid contents thereof over the chair Sif menaces!

Loki has posed:
The dump of water is entirely successful, Loki had been way too overconfident. It happens. Loki appears. The icewater hit mark, and also made him immediately choose to end the spell he'd been working, with a sideways gesture of hand.

Loki is now in full view, and entirely sloshed with ice water.

All of the game dropped out of his expression into a fierce GLARE at Caitlin, including a possibly frightening show of tight lipped tension that turns to a chilling smile: far more chilling than the ice on him. It was a pride hit, not actually all that cold to the god.

"/Charmed/ to meet you," Loki says, plunking a napkin off the table, and elegantly drying his fingers, then dabbing at his neck.

Sif has posed:
By the rictus of her face, Sif is only barely holding onto the reins of her emotional poise. She blinks at the water-sodden Prince seated in the chair she'd indicated moments earlier, her hand now retracted against her sternum in a fist.

A small clearing of her throat precedes her handing over one of the other napkins unused in the placing to her empty opposite side. "Yes, we are all charmed with one another now, I believe." A retained, modulated sound bounces around her mouth before she clears her throat again.

"Lady Caitlin has been my friend for many years now, you see, and I have known the Prince since childhood," the Vanir Princess continues gamely. She's interrupted by someone dropping a plate nearby and scrambling to pick it up -- at least it was empty of food!

Loki's not without dubious recognition after all, not after connections to the Chitauri.

Sif then adds, a bit more brightly, "Would you like a gyro, Loki?"

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin pales a little at Loki's thin-lipped grimace and eases back in her seat at the silent rebuke from the God of Mischief.

Just for prudencency's sake, she scootches her chair another couple inches back. And then a bit closer to Sif, also, putting as much of the table between her and Loki as possible.

"....hi," Caitlin says, the sound barely audible. Fingers uncurl near her shoulder in a momentary flickering and she puts her hand back in her lap. Tossing a pitcher of water on some illusory figment was one thing; the reality of having just accosted the junior Prince of Asgard with a container of ice water in a gyro shack seems to catch up to her rather abruptly.

So Caitlin elects to sit very still, and be very attentive, and let Sif take point on talking to the sopping-wet Asgardian princeling.

Loki has posed:
"I thought I'd just have ice water," Loki answers dryly, clearly still affronted by the terrible treatment to his royal personage. Sif knows full well he could magically dry himself. Or at least, he could before Asgard's restoration sapped him so greatly.

"You have known her long, then? Perhaps you might know; does she want to be turned into a frog?" Loki asks Sif as an aside, in an expression of his irritation. "Or a worm? I haven't done a slow worm shapeshift in a while. It's unforgettably eerie." Sif may recognize he's posturing: Loki's threats sound different when they're real. The insulted prince moves the tip of his tongue along the inside of his teeth, and rather than actually sit there wet, he curves his hands up and back towards himself. He doesn't dry himself: he changes his clothes. The previous attire shimmers in a flow over his body to become a black suit, instead. A dry one.

That does leave Loki's hair wet, but he serenely sweeps it back with his hand, deliberately into slight dark disarray. A little look from jade eyes flicks to Sif, then at the gyros. His insulted highness hasn't decided if he'll deign to partake, clearly, as he tosses the damp cloth napkin onto the table in front of him, as if tossing in the towel on the whole encounter.

Sif has posed:
"Lady Caitlin does not want to be privy to any form of magic, I believe," Sif answers calmly as to the moderately rhetorical question. She does recognize a hollow threat from the mage, but in her experience, a Loki ruffled is a Loki full of sweet venom regardless of the stance on things. Still, as if she would save the day by dint of manners and the subtle psychological influence of shame coming of breaking them, she forks a gyro onto her unused salad plate and sets it before the Prince now in a svelte suit of black.

"I suggest you try the gyros regardless, Loki. You may find that you like them and this is a favored eatery of mine here on Midgard. Lady Caitlin and I attend it regularly along with several other friends of ours, the Lady Diana and Carol included. Is this not correct, Lady Caitlin?"

Fairchild has posed:
"Ahh... yep," Caitlin confirms. It might take a little nudge under the table to get her tongue in motion, and she wags her chin a little over-enthusiastically at the prompt from Sif. "Me, Diana, Carol, all the, uh, whole gang, comes here. For eating."

She retrieves a fry and nibbles on it with a sudden and uncharacteristic lack of appetite. It probably won't last for long.

But she's not volunteering much beyond that. The expression on her face is precisely what one would expect if one had interjected to aid a friend being accosted, and then realized that they'd bumbled right into a domestic squabble among family members.

Which leaves Cait in the incredibly uncomfortable position of knowing she's clearly grievously insulted Loki, probably complicated things for Sif, and definitely earned the ire of Asgard's most notorious repeat offender.

She reaches for another french fry to nibble upon. Maybe it's settling her stomach.

Loki has posed:
Loki picks up a fork to prod at the gyro as if it were roadkill. His expression would be laughably arrogant -- if laughing at Loki were a safe thing to ever be doing. "I /suppose/, if you're recommending it so highly, Lady Sif," Loki says, with an extreme level of tolerant generosity extended towards the Asgardian princess.

Loki then flippantly also gestures with his free hand, and a pitcher of what is very obviously Asgardian ale manifests on the table, next to the glass of wine he adds next to it. He prefers his wine. And it isn't like the restaurant management get to say anything to Loki about magically summoning his own beverages. It's slightly different than if he'd dumped a package of kool-aid into the water.

He can't, since Caitlin poured it over him.

Sif has posed:
Very gently does Sif prod Caitlin's shin with the noticeably familiar touch at her angle and the density of her boot -- it's clearly her doing the touching. The young woman continues talking and Sif takes a sip of her water, her eyes averted down to one side as she quickly tries to think of ways to further salvage the situation.

"I do recommend it highly, yes," she confirms in a tone now subtly more melodious, as if she might utilize her own musical abilities to further soothe ruffled feathers all around. "Lady Caitlin does share my tastes in matters." Her eyes flicker up to the sudden appearance of the ale along with the glass of wine. The impression of thinned lips is shield against another knee-jerk smile and she instead nods demurely towards Loki. "And I thank you for enriching the table further. Is there news of Asgard this evening, Loki?"

Loki has posed:
"Perhaps another time. Well, I will not distract from your... conversation, for long," Loki says, with a courtly elegance that Sif has begun as she attempted to salvage everything. A mood Sif set and Loki has continued, seeming to accept her wish to ease out of awkwardness.

Loki nods once to Sif as she thanks him for his generosity. Accepted. "The 'news' that I chose to bring to you personally, was that I have moved the feast three nights hence," Loki comments, as if he were still mildly put out by the whole situation. He looks over the various food, taking a deep drink of his wine. "In that manner, the whole of the city may partake in some form." Loki considers the table, setting the wine down, and moves to stand.

"Enjoy that as you will," he says of the ale. As he stands, he also starts to dematerialize. "You know where to find me."

It might feel like the answer is 'everywhere', to Sif, as of late!

Sif has posed:
With her poise regained and impeccable conduct on display yet again, Sif inclines her chin to acknowledge the the politesse from Loki in turn. Inwardly, she's about to crumple in relief. The mercurial Trickster God still might follow through upon the musing about frogs or worms or other variants on non-human form.

Still, his news makes her pause in the act of //cutting up her gyro//, instead of handling it like the deliciously sloppy mess it could be in her bare hands. "Ah, I am aware now. Thank you, I shall see that my commissioned outfit is finished before the three nights have passed."

She opens her mouth to thank Loki yet again for the ale and, apparently, the wine, but then the mage evaporates out of sight yet again -- entirely this time.

A slow sigh escapes the Vanir Princess and she allows herself a fairly dramatic slump backwards over her chair with her palms to her face.

And then she starts to laugh helplessly.

"Seven hells, Lady Caitlin -- if you could have seen -- if only you knew -- " A hand blindly reaches out to patpat Caitlin's shoulder if she can. "It will be fine," Sif gasps between chuckles, turning deeply pink now in relief. "It will be fine, I assure you."

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin falls against Sif when the Vanir slumps, and emits a helpless laugh. Relief like surviving a near-death experience washes over her and she draws some strength from Sif's support and reassurances.

"Cheese and /crackers/, I don't know what I was thinking," she declares, with a mournful giggle, and hugs the other woman tightly for mutual reassurance. "I was less scared when we ran into that demon outside of Oslo. I know what to do with slobbery fangs, but I thought I was gonna clear faint when he said he'd turn me into a toad."

Caitlin touches her bracelet and expands a holographic keyboard; her fingers wriggle through the air to commit some note or idea to memory to follow up upon later. "I'm pretty sure if that ever happens, it's gonna be you and Diana who're gonna have to come save me," she says, wryly. "I don't know a lick of magic except for how to make coffee on an Asgardian skiff."

She eyes Loki's abandoned ale, then thinks better of it and shakes her head minutely at herself. "Golly, if there's anything that makes me want a drink," she mutters, and trails off with another shake of her head. "Anyway. C'mon, we might as well get out of here," Caitlin says. She digs in her purse for a pair of $20s to lay across the table, an apology for the mess and the water. "I should let the Justice League know we bumped into Loki today, if nothing else. It's the sort of thing they like to be kept informed of." Ever civic-minded, Caitlin is!

Sif has posed:
While Sif returns the hug to grant further promise that immediately everything will be fine, she's wise enough not to grant further reassurances as to the future. It is a sobering thing to recognize, but with Caitlin apparently soothed for the time being, the Vanir Princess does not disturb her further. After all, there is further soothing to do if she can in regards to the pride of the youngest princeling.

"If Loki did attempt anything, you may be pleased to know that I would be unfailingly present to call for your return," Sif says even as she weighs the abandoned gyro left by the Trickster God. It would be a shame to waste it...but then again, she is full.

Reaching for the Asgardian ale, however, the Valkyrie claims this for herself without a lick of shame. It gets tucked to her chest as she rises and Caitlin is given a nod almost distracted. "Yes, do as you must." She isn't about to go attempting to convince Caitlin otherwise -- both have their duties to attend upon within their respective spheres as is.

"I am simply glad to have shared a fine repast in good company." Linking arms with Caitlin and giving her a pleased smile, Sif then exits the restaurant after leaving a goodly amount of Midgardian cash behind along with her friend's tip.