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A longer day on her feet rather than at her desk means that sitting is a sweet reward on top of her shift finally ending. Nestled against the farthest side of the steps cascading down to the broad expanse, beneath the shadow of one of the stone lions vouchsafing the knowledge within, she indulges in some reading herself. It's a simple book on the physiology of birds. Wearing slacks allows her to stretch out a bit and alignment with the cement keeps anyone from tripping over the extension of limbs.
Flipping a page, she considers the diagram of the wings. It all looks so very delicate, the bend of radius to ulna, the expanse of primaries when fully spread. Reaching back, she idly feels towards where said wings would appear upon her own form.
A man has to leave his club sometime. Something about the government, waxing the floors, and not needing him around. Maybe a tailoring appointment to make those impeccable suits. The day finds him turning heads for sheer oddness. The blue, indigo rather than eggshell, velvet coat is certainly part of it. It sweeps down shoulders and tucks into his back, then kicks off into a neat line reaching his knees, with trimmed cuffs in sharp paisley that shouldn't work and does. The front is held shut by only two toggles, revealing his bare chest under a slim slice down the front. He's lounging on the stairs to the library, speaking to a number of people. Not all speak back, but the favourite spot for fashion shoots and meetings suits him just fine. These aren't the hipsters, they are not the protesters. They're more cool kids being shown their place, the banner they're in the process of making without caring it's a public place abandoned for the moment.
"I'm honestly not interested. Leo, there, he might be," he gestures to the lion in question, "and otherwise you can find someone else. I'm not the sort who prefers to be in the spotlight like that."
Cinnamon-browns rise up from mulling over the mysteries of the radiale joint and like a sunflower towards the heavens, she turns at recognizing that familiar voice. Between the milling bodies standing about clustered along a certain section of the steps, she can spot leonine blonde hair and the smile she allows to slip forth is shy, wondering, and the smallest bit coy. Blame the Otherness, ever watchful for the presence of the barkeep.
It sparkles, making her stomach flutter with the brushes of passing plumage, and she places the book in her courier-style purse before rising to her feet. Meandering over means avoiding stepping on other folk lounging on the steps and she finds herself off to his one-o'-clock.
"Holding c-court here, of all p-places?" Maybe he can find her, tucked between and slightly behind one of the popular kids, giving him that same faint curl of lips.
The shining sun favours its maker more than others. The radiance he finds himself in is a break in the clouds, the puffy white tumbles of vapor spoiling the view of the pearly robin's egg sky. For a few hours someone can forget the cares of the night. They can worry less about the sorrows imparted in their empty beds, their creaking pipes and grumbling stomachs. The golden-haired man has his reasons for being out to capture a few minutes in the open air. It's a fine day! He probably stopped for a sandwich or some decadent cheesecake like you do.
He is aware. Aware in ways that mean nothing to others. His head turns slightly to Rosemarie and picks her out from the crowd of others, who aren't reading so much as watching, dining.
The popular kids give her a look. Many but they're all the same. 'Here comes No Fun Girl,' more romantic less. No one is rude enough to say it, but a few huff. Others turn back to one another, freed of the magnetic spill.
"Imagine me ruling over all these wise souls, like Aristotle or Plato?"
"It doesn't t-take much for me to imagine," she replies, the grin flashed appearing and disappearing like a wink of ambient sunlight from reflective surface. "Just out and ab-bout then?" Someone shifts to one side, probably to get away from the ho-hum-doldrums girl who manages to snag the radiant man's attention — how dare she? — and this allows a step or two more's approach on Rosemarie's part. It brings her alongside his ankles.
It's a bit odd observing him from this angle, a bit higher than him, and the indolence of his stance along with that bold view of torso behind deep-blue velvet jacket is more intriguing than it should be. She's like as not caught staring and meeting his eyes again brings that faint flush beneath her freckles, but…this time, there's no averted gaze. Some line has been crossed since their last talk. Miss Piper's grown a bit of spine.
He's more a feline in the sunshine, a great cat of no particular speed or harboured urgency in the supple frame. Lucifer carelessly flicks his hair off his brow. He doesn't need to do it any other way. Careful activity would patronise his existence in a way he is not prepared to acknowledge, not one bit. He nods to Rosemarie, and shoos off the others simply by ignoring them. They'll go elsewhere, eventually.
"Whatever attracted you out from your curatorial desk, Miss Piper? Have you too come to roost us from our spots or will you be joining us?"
"My shift ended," she explains as she, so very boldly, chooses to sit down beside the man. If that's not some blatant signal on her part for the cloud of sparrows to scatter from about them, it may work in combination with the patent invisibility the crowd has suddenly gained from Lucian's perspective. "I'll sit for a b-bit."
She settles, not too close to imply any familiarity beyond first-name basis and bartending trust, and brings out the book again. Presenting it at an angle for him to read the title, she opens it up to her previously perused page and points to the diagram. "I'm researching the ph-physiology of w-wings." No need to expand further as to the basis for said research. "They're…amazing. How they work, the m-muscles and the w-way they allow for lift against g-gravity." Pigeons swirl past overhead and it'd be impossible to miss the wistful twist to her lips.
"Yes, wings are quite the wonder. The detail of the muscle alone is enough to constitute a total flabbergasting of biologists and scientists. It ever has. Look at the developers of planes, and those even making jets today. In fifty years, how far all have come mastering the skies, and still we can be defeated in most cases by the average hawk. No one really sees them crashing into mountainsides accidentally." Deliberately is a whole other situation. Lucian doesn't even really look down at the book, though he seems to know what will be displayed there. "As much seems to be in the nature of the feathers as the rest of the design." His idle uplift of his chin indicates some hopeful seagull panning about on the off chance he might discover a fry. One must never let down their guard and Mr. Beaky up there is hopeful.
But he's not going to have much luck getting close to Rose or Lucifer, for that point. Seagulls are the rats of the sky. They know when to not press their luck….
Rosemarie considers the seagull, said bottomless brutal pit of the skies, with a smile tinged in longing. Silhouetted against the backdrop of the never-ending dome of sky, it is a marvel — at least, to her.
"Lucian." The volume of her voice indicates a private turn to the conversation at hand. She looks to him again, very briefly biting at the scar on her lip. "Can you…fly? With your wings?" She speaks so very softly, a breath of helpless trepidation woven through a near plaintive entreaty. Progress for the shy thing. She's acknowledging the incident in the back hallway covertly in the process.
The proximity of others begs a cautious review to see who might be around, paying attention a little too closely. With your wings isn't exactly code around here. It's not like Rosemarie asks about a plane or something as absurd as a jet pack. Dropping her volume is enough to snag attention from others too. He isn't the kind to shun attention, but some conversations are going to break the minds of those who hear it.
"It would be rather spectacularly sad if I couldn't," he replies, not barbing the words with any sort of rudeness. Shoulders shrug a little, and nothing of a burden even besmirches his shirt. There may be regret for slowing in the modern age, but still… "It's mostly for show in some respects."
A sharp intake of breath betrays the sudden helpless fluttering of Rosemarie's heart against the cage of her ribs. Surely he can see the near-shine of brilliant, helpless interest. Realizing that she's staring with all the vapid bedazzlement she can apprently muster, that blush crests bright red and she averts her gaze to the book.
The Otherness chirrups within her psyche, preens, considers. Very good, the being of interest to its host could at least enable the flight denied to it, trapped as it is within her frame.
"F-F-For show?" she murmurs, risking another glance at Lucian.
The otherness can be as happy as it wants in the corner, Lucian refusing to acknowledge it at the moment. It can do its own little toucan dance where he's not occupied by watching the sun shine intriguingly.
"They aren't necessary for being up there. They simply help." And they're fore xpectations or show, as far as things go. He gives a fantastic opportunity to kick him for being a facetious jerk, if not the fact his statements are so utterly honest in their way.
Rosemarie frowns. "W-Wait…you don't n-n-need them to fly?" Ooh, this is a whole new can of worms if her brain isn't making illogical jumps. Those wings, with their impossible light-shadow interplay and the stretch beyond physical limits of the hallway itself…they aren't needed for flight?
Her fingertip atop the diagram of the skeletal structure of the common jay is all but forgotten for how she attempts to read what she can of his profile. He doesn't sound like he's joking, but… "Are they…magical?" She knows of magic, even if she has the hardest time swallowing down its existance. It's something stuck in her metaphorical craw on a regular basis.
By all means, let her play a game of logical hopscotch. He doesn't even help with that, doesn't need to, not in the least. "I suppose the question lies with you, Miss Piper. Do you believe I am who I say I am? Have you any faith that I am whom I claim to be, or do you register doubts of the truth? Let that be your guide and the answer is in front of your nose." Lucian, the hardest of hearts, is not by definition a man for profound cruelty without reason or justified purpose. He indicates the stairs with a hand.
"Lucifer…?"
The name is breathed again with the appropriate amount of mortal disbelief. She still stares, visibily warring with herself as she takes in the luminous man. Honestly, she shouldn't deny it. He's crafted finely, as if someone stole the best of the Renaissance sculptures and made it impossibly more appealing. They say the devil does show in the best guise…
"B-But you…you're t-too kind. An angel, not…" Cat gets her tongue fast enough for how she minces to silence.
"Not the Devil?" No sympathy for? Of course not.
Lucifer smirks ever so slightly. If she believes, of course, he'll know. He'll know because belief is his cup and his meal, the food that sustains him as if he needs it. Nothing in his make is unnatural to the eyes, and the prospect of his being some red-suited monster with horns and a tail to swing around is grossly overstated. "What, do I not pass muster, Miss Piper?"