The chefs here are not arrogant in their pride, but they take much care in their work. It would be a shame to waste it. Still, there is a plate of bruschetta and calamari on the way, if it pleases you.
( Bucciarati nods his head in demure agreement, before eyeing the waiter, giving him a signal that he is relieved.
Bucciarati looks the man over in the pause that pulses between this and his eventual explanation, and his first impressions are not the most suspect, but certainly curious. Noriaki Kakyoin speaks in carefully-assembled Italian, and Bruno doesn't initially settle on any suspicion about the man's familiarity with Italy as a whole. but he does think, if Signore Kakyoin is not a resident here...that this request, actively being laid out piece by piece before him like a meal of its own, is even more strange as a complete composition than the individual factors that comprise it.
this Frenchman was in this area, and there's an anchor point there. the cogs in Bucciarati's mind begin to churn, face flat and his features set in deeper with serious attention, but as his thoughts begin to queue, it's as is Signore Kakyoin can sense them — perceptive, either on whatever vaguest shifts occur in Bucciarati's face, or in himself and the story he is displaying.
he appreciates it, no matter the direction it's coming from. )
For being the authority to bound injustice, the police, in reality, often find their own hands shackled by policy. ( the words could advocate for the devil, but Bucciarati's tone is neutral to the point of sounding unimpressed with what he speaks on. ) You might have felt as though you had wasted your time attempting them, but you've saved me from having to ask that you do so.
( Bucciarati's eyes don't leave Signore Kakyoin's face yet, eyeing him as if weighing everything he's been given, like some dusty road merchant seeking trade. is that really not the case, though, inherently?
he seems to settle with a decision; his eyes relax and slip into a brief and musing closure as he looks away, taking his glass of wine and indulging briefly. what has been brought to him, what he has weighed, has at least begun to convince him of its validity. ) And I don't intend to waste more of your time. Tell me about your friend. Show me what you have.
no subject
( Bucciarati nods his head in demure agreement, before eyeing the waiter, giving him a signal that he is relieved.
Bucciarati looks the man over in the pause that pulses between this and his eventual explanation, and his first impressions are not the most suspect, but certainly curious. Noriaki Kakyoin speaks in carefully-assembled Italian, and Bruno doesn't initially settle on any suspicion about the man's familiarity with Italy as a whole. but he does think, if Signore Kakyoin is not a resident here...that this request, actively being laid out piece by piece before him like a meal of its own, is even more strange as a complete composition than the individual factors that comprise it.
this Frenchman was in this area, and there's an anchor point there. the cogs in Bucciarati's mind begin to churn, face flat and his features set in deeper with serious attention, but as his thoughts begin to queue, it's as is Signore Kakyoin can sense them — perceptive, either on whatever vaguest shifts occur in Bucciarati's face, or in himself and the story he is displaying.
he appreciates it, no matter the direction it's coming from. )
For being the authority to bound injustice, the police, in reality, often find their own hands shackled by policy. ( the words could advocate for the devil, but Bucciarati's tone is neutral to the point of sounding unimpressed with what he speaks on. ) You might have felt as though you had wasted your time attempting them, but you've saved me from having to ask that you do so.
( Bucciarati's eyes don't leave Signore Kakyoin's face yet, eyeing him as if weighing everything he's been given, like some dusty road merchant seeking trade. is that really not the case, though, inherently?
he seems to settle with a decision; his eyes relax and slip into a brief and musing closure as he looks away, taking his glass of wine and indulging briefly. what has been brought to him, what he has weighed, has at least begun to convince him of its validity. ) And I don't intend to waste more of your time. Tell me about your friend. Show me what you have.