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The Chrysler building, it's just gorgeous. And its observation deck is closed. So that Art Deco crown makes a wonderful place for a flying being to perch and observe the glory of sunset from….though he's down at the base of it, really, sitting atop one of the very stylized gargoyles. He has his wings half-extended, as if enjoying the hearthfire glow of this planet's yellow star. For all the world like a raptor sunning himself.
*
With the sunset comes the end of her shift and the ability to breathe without the hovering presence of the head librarian. The woman's cat is on the mend, so Mrs. Ketch is less ornery than before, but…not by much. Thus, Rosemarie makes her way back to her apartment along the street. She meanders through foot traffic, choosing to stick to the more occupied 42nd Street.
As luck would have it, this route inevitably brings her past the shadow of the Chrysler Building, tall and envious in design — a pinnacle of the modern age of architecture. She pauses to look up at it, spotlit as it is by the light of the settling sun, and sighs to herself. Within her blood, the Otherness cooes its soft appreciation for the height rising into open air. The wistfulness ebbs and flows, bringing her to frown and sigh softly. No wings right now, no feathering behind her ears or along forearms — it's kept tamped low and in control.
Light glows from something high atop and she squints, but her human vision can't make much of it. Too far up. Thus, she gets to walking along again, a bit lost in her own thoughts as she keeps a careful grip about the strap of her courier purse.
*
Someone who knows the glory of life in true 3-D, for whom air is another medium just like water for fish….surely they must be more aware than most when it comes to movement above them. So she might well be the only one to see it - the way the lowering sunset catches on iridescent wings as he takes to the air. For all that they look like they belong to an oversized eagle, he can hover with them, easy as a hummingbird. And so he does, rising a little to examine the dart shaped upper windows refracting the rosy glow of the sunset.
*
A prickling of the Otherness along her scalp gives her reason to frown. It felt like a passing dive of a bumblebee, but why…why is that twinkling sensation suddenly running through her veins?
The brunette happens to glance up in the process of carefully checking her hair for said flying insect and — what. That…whatever that is — it's too big to be an eagle, too solid, too…is it Jay? Well, no…maybe? The wings might be red, but she can't tell from this distance. She glances around. Is anyone else seeing this?
"That's a mighty big seagull," she hears from a passing couple. "I bet it means a good car wash when it does its business." The man's partner scoffs.
Luck? Chance? A good sense of timing? Regardless, the librarian must look just formal enough to pass as one of the building's staff. Into an elevator she goes and without knowing of its closure, she selects the level for the observation deck. After what seems like an eternity within the enclosure of the elevator car, the doors slide open. The velvet rope and sign clearly indicate that no one should be wandering about the room. The janitor has swept and cleaned, replaced trash bags, and so she's alone… Slipping beneath the rope gives her a sense of daring (what a rebel!) and she makes her way over to the windows of one side of the building. But where is the thing she saw? …maybe she's too late. Rosemarie would leave, but…the Otherness insists otherwise, hemming and hawing within her psyche that something is out there!
*
It's come to rest, standing there. Well, on the windows outside, resting his feet on the sill, oh so gently. Seagulls don't wear combat boots, even if there were a gull that big. There's a man's face peering in, but it's shadowed by those immense wings. The rosegold shimmer isn't merely the sunset, it's innate to those otherwise ash-gray wings. And then he meets her gaze, raising his hand in greeting. AS if he had every right to be there, looking in.
*
She turns away for no more than three seconds, eyeing the far side of the room, and turns back to see — OH.
The being is privy to her literally leaving the ground in a startled jump, hands over her mouth, and the sudden rush of adrenaline is precisely what the Otherness was waiting upon. Fans of azurine plumes emerge from behind her ear, one crest on each side, and they furl up high even as those cinnamon-brown irises melt to raptor-gold. Oh — oh god, it's-it's-it's — she blushes madly beneath her freckles, out of sheer surprise more than anything else. Her heart thrums against her ribs and as she drops her hands slowly to mirror that wave, so hesitantly as to barely qualify the movement, her own wings unfurl from their pockets between her shoulder blades. Not nearly as wide as his, far more delicate and showy than functional, they stretch wide before fluttering in silent greeting.
Lookielookielookie, host, ANOTHER one!!!
*
He's human enough to know what a smile is….and he offers one, a flash of teeth in a fair face. But her pleasure's so clear, how can he not mirror it? Michael just stays there, letting her come to the glass if she chooses.
*
The crests fully rise and flick flat in regards to the smile offered up. In some amalgamation of its host's caution at an unknown, they remain leveled alongside her skull for a bit longer before flicking up once more and even doing a minute horizontal flutter.
Rosemarie takes a hesitant step closer, her mouth moving slightly as she tries to find words. One hand rises timidly, the human nails transmuted to sharp talons, and she aborts the gesture only for the presence of the glass between them. Her hands closes mostly shut, but remains upraised before her sternum.
"W-W-W-What are y-y-you?" It's a soft murmur, not loud enough at all to carry through the glass — and she seems to have forgotten that the clear barrier is thick enough to keep most sound out in the breathless, disbelieving excitement of those pearlescent wings!
*
There's a kind of good-natured innocence in his face, for all that it's a bit careworn. "I'm an archangel," he says, with the kind of assurance one hears in the voice of someone who's very happy with his career. "I'm Michael." He's ….a hundred percent serious, it looks like.
*
It — he HEARD HER!
Another sharp gasp and Rosemarie blinks, the white of her eyes showing around the aureate irises. "Y-Y-Y-You can't — " Oh, but let her think. Let her carefully review a recent chitchat on the library's steps on a warm, early-summer afternoon with a certain barkeep about the other end of the spectrum entirely. "An…angel? B-B-But — " Nope, the Otherness makes her consider it again. Those dark-blue pinions fold behind her, the primaries long enough to reach past her knees and no more. They rustle as the crests vibrate faintly.
"Michael." She swallows, wondering at the general insanity consuming her life lately. Devils…and now archangels. It's all real. Oh no. Oh, this…this might require a drink later. "I-I'm Rosemarie," she offers back faintly.
*
He considers the name, turning it over mentally. Not, apparently, as quickwitted as his prouder brother. "That's a good name," he says, finally. "The Rose of Mary. She's really amazing, you know, Mary."
*
Forgive her mouth hanging open slightly.
"…r-r-really?!" The librarian squeaks, a brassy avian note within the word. She has a good grip on her shirt now and there's sure to be wrinkles in it by the time she's done bunching it up at her waist. Or holes. Probably those. The talons are hell on clothing in general.
*
"Really," Michael assures her, gently. "Here, come out, fly with me. Surely you can fly?" Not teasing or sneering, but just making sure. He was puzzle when God invented the kiwi, after all.
*
"I — " Her voice fails her. The crests behind her ears seem to deflate, lying flat again like folded fans. The main joints of her wings, miniature arcs, slip lower to nearly disappear behind the lines of her shoulders. With the Otherness and its feathery accents, she's able to showcase despondency with crystal clarity.
"…no," she breathes, her eyes falling to his combat boots. Distantly, she notes the disparity of the clothing with the impossibly-beautiful spread of those ivory wings. Meeting his gaze again is difficult, but she does, feeling very small. "My w-w-wings aren't st-t-trong enough."
*
His expression mirrors her own, transparent as a child's. "I will help you," he says, simply. "I'm sure you could, if they were just a bit stronger. I can carry you. You're not too large." This is a guy who could get into a fistfight with a Super Sabre and win handily, nevermind carry around a fellow humanoid.
*
"Oh!" The vowel half-hides in a sharp inhale. Those atavistic wings snap wide like a peregrine mantling and flap once or twice, making their owner wince and roll her shoulders. A helpless laugh and Rosemarie looks back at Michael, her shy smile fading nearly away entirely again.
"Y-You'd…really?" The plumage behind her ears never lies. It slowly rises up again, betraying her terrified need to take him up on this, bolstered a thousand times over subconsciously by the Otherness within her psyche. Her heart rises nearly into her throat now and she unconsciously takes a half-step forwards, hand rising towards the glass between them.
*
"Of course," he says,soothingly. "I can't get you through the glass, though. Go back down to the stone path on the ground. I'll meet you there."
*
She nods, slowly, and brings her hand back. But then, a realization and she sharply shakes her head. The wings behind her flutter, betraying anxiety.
"I c-c-can't, they'll s-s-see." 'They' being the public and she was last chased into an alleyway with a fellow feathered friend by folk that just don't understand. "W-Wait." Gathering up strings of courage, she makes herself turn and consider the nearest set of doors. Are they…unlocked?
The give of the handle is enough to make her gasp again. The rush of air is brisk at this altitude as she freezes halfway through them.
Be brave, whispers the Otherness, filling her mind with the breathless fervor of free-fall and freedom in the open air. Thus, she emerges out onto one of the small balconies. Azurine feathers nearly hum with the speed of thrilling to the expanse of space before her. She cranes her neck to find this Michael again, hands curled into a ball at her throat. The color in her cheeks is high, reflection of the adrenaline in her veins and toe-curling feeling of the pause before a plunge.
*
He leaps up, and then glides down to a landing, nearly face to face with her. The angel lacks a human's awareness of personal space. The wings are an odd contrast to the clothes he's wearing - the worn fatigue pants and faded t-shirt of a veteran. Though the latter have been cut to admit the wings. He keeps his balance with his own pinions half-spread, like a falcon poised on its perch. His smile is small, but somehow intensely sincere. "Let me hold you," he says, simply. "Around your…." A glance, as he compares remembered anatomy to the specimen before him. "Your ribs. I won't let you fall. And you'll be able to see ahead as you should."
*
A step back grants her space even as the bravado of the atavistic alien-bird within balks, very much wanting to shove back at the archangel. It's a primal thing, slightly silly at times. After all, it wants to pick a fight with said archangel's proud brother on a fairly regular basis. Bad idea, that.
Now that he's so close to her, Rosemarie does have a fleeting moment to consider his clothing. Militaristic in sartorial lean, hmm. Michael…there's some uncertain connection of a memory there, aspects to this particular archangel that she feels she should know. If only she'd paid more attention as a young child. But those wings…!!! Oh, the breadth of them and those crests impart awe by half-flattening even as her wings mirror his in much smaller spread.
"O-O-Okay," she whispers again, the brassy notes sneaking in again. She's not certain of how to stand, but turns a quarter way on the spot, never dropping her attention from his face. She's ready to bolt just as much as fly.
*
As if it were a dance, he turns neatly around her….and then there are arms around her waist, carefully. He tests to make sure that lifting her won't summarily punch the air right out of her chest, a gentle embrace. Then suddenly all the muscle behind her tenses, and there's a clap of air as his leap up coincides with the first heavy beat of his wings. He's not nimble and maneuverable like a falcon, at least…not with a passenger. Rather, he labors into the air like a redtail taking off with a rabbit. She's pressed to him - apparently air resistance is easier to manage when they're effectively one unit.
*
The archangel is privy to a startled 'ARK!' as they suddenly lift from the balcony. Rosemarie can't help but dig her grip further into the forearms crisscrossed about her waist and her wings, trapped between his chest and back, thrum at a high rate of vibration. Crests furl up wide, maybe even tickle beneath his chin, and then…
She dares open her eyes again.
Curling toes within her flats is only the beginning of the delight flowering through her body. It's like a hit of the joie de vivre of living in a moment, crystallized a hundredfold through the young woman's psyche. Oh yes…she's found her release from the stress in everyday life. She's…flying!!!
*
There's no heartbeat behind her. He doesn't need oxygen, after all. But she can feel the muscles of chest, shoulders, abdomen, all working. The wings aren't merely stuck on as a cosmetic affectation, like some little cardboard winged angel at a Christmas pageant. He gains enough altitude to not be immediately recognizable to the human on the street, and then he glides. North up Manhattan, the sunset rose and gold on their left hand side. "Put your wings out," he tells her. "Feel the air currents."
*
"Okay!" The tentative, airy reply is likely lost to the passing winds beneath her. The Otherness takes over fully for a moment, shoving its host's hesitations aside, and the ocean-blue wings, flashing peacock teals and greens for the play of light from their plumage, spread out in front of Michael's biceps.
Indeed, Rosemarie can…feel the invisible waves beneath them! There's some extra sense for reacting to them and memories come hard on the heels of such a moment. At one time, in another dimension entirely, she managed true flight, but only for the aid of gravity's banishment and the hot, rising thermals within its landscape. This — this is amazing!!! Still not brave enough to release her grip, she's at least got the guts to extend her own meager wings out as far as they can go. Oh, look, pointing toes too — adorable.
*
"Impressive," he observes, mildly. "You're not the usual sort of sentient for this planet, are you? Is that a threat display, or courtship?" Birds aren't humans, he knows that much. Still muddled on how they reproduce here. He's running along the magnetic lines, roughly parallel with the north-south streets. Taking his time, letting the air movements carry him. This isn't a race, a fledgeling's first time in the upper air.
*
Rosemarie has to seriously consider her answer. The Otherness dancing through her body is distracting — the solid arms about her waist and ribs more distracting still. The lazy flaps of the ivory wings limned in the firey light of the setting sun can't be ignored either.
Finally, Michael gets his answer: "I don't know anyone like me!" She turns her face towards him, presenting the profile with its freckles spread like dark stars across her cheeks. "I — I have no idea if it's threat or court — " Her voice fails her as she suddenly laughs, giddy for endorphins and the high of attaining something desperately needed by the alien symbiote. "I have no idea," she finishes, glancing to him and back to the spread of the city below and before them. The wind whips through her hair, thoroughly mussing it, but frankly, she doesn't give a damn. This…this is wondrous.
*
His smile is pleased….but it's almost paternal. As if seeing that wonder in her face is really what he's here for. "No?" he asks, curiously. "No one like you? What pairing did you come from, do you know?" Sex, it's weird…but also fascinating. Biological fusion, a roll of the genetic dice…..and then there's a new soul kindled like a star. Infinite in their variety. Then there's a slow wheeling, and he turns back south. They're moving faster now, and it's a certain tiny island he aims for, the one adorned with the statue.
*
"I'm half-alien!" Is it a shout? A snap? He's awfully nosy for an archangel. An archangel. Her wings flap once, almost experimentally, and hopefully don't jostle the far broader expanse of pearly plumage. She can't stay grumpy — it's impossible, the Otherness isn't having her squander a time like this to the silliness of sore places in conversation. "I don't know what, but I'm stuck with it!"
The impulse takes her and it's impossible to ignore. Rosemarie loosens the grip on his wrists and aligns her arms along her sides, streamlined as much as possible. If she ignores the safety of arms about her…she can almost imagine it's flight powered by her own wings.
*
He's not moving at such speed that her extension will throw things off in any awful way. Far from it - the wind whistles through her primaries, tugging, stretching, almost pulling them into alignment. With the wind now, bearing them both up. "Interesting," he says, mildly. "How old are you, in cycles around this star?" He's got his cocked up and bent, like a kestrel. Almost gliding.
*
The Otherness settles in now, blending nearly seamlessly with its host's mind. It's a bit like finding that a new pair of running shoes enables another mile of delightful endurance. Ah, the enjoyable shifting of feathering along the joints of her wings is akin to a scalp scratch.
"Cycles…? Oh." She answers aright this time, turning to look at him again. "27 years old. You must be…" Forgive her laughing again as the reminder hits her with such preciously-irreverent logic: he's an archangel. "You're…over a thousand years old?" Rosemarie continues to side-eye him, the golden bright and lively within her irises.
*
He laughs at that, softly, but there's no note of unkindness there. "I'm aeons old," he tells her. "I remember when all this…." And a sweep of a wing takes in the glittering city, veined with fire, "Was a disc of dusk in the dark. I remember when the first stars of this galaxy were kindled and began to sing."
*
"…oh." The breathless sound is likely lost to the rushing of the wind beneath and around them, like an old friend to the archangel and a new love for the librarian with feathers of ocean-blue. Her wings flap once, testing the currents again, before spreading wide and offering what lift they can. Rosemarie falls silent for a time, watching the gemstone flickering of fading sunlight from metal and glass and passing cars below in the small streets.
"That sounds beautiful," she finally says, forgetting to turn her face towards him. It doesn't seem like nearly enough poetic expansion on the concept and a new blush follows the internal fluster.
*
"It was," he says, and his voice is as placid as a stone. "Creation almost always is. That is the gift the mortals share with him. Angels do not create, save at his specific direction. But we are permitted to help….and to watch. Some took such joy in it that that's all they do, of their own will. Watch and observe and praise."
*
The small island in the distance seems to be nearing for their meandering glide, even at speed. The air at this altitude is cooling rapidly for the near vanishing of the sun beneath the distant horizon of the American continent.
Rosemarie considers his answer even as her wings flap lazily again. The crests behind her ears lay streamlined, soothed to half-fans by the lullaby of the wind and the simple joy of being airbourne. There — the flash of green she was awaiting. The sparkle of the last ray of light reaches her eyes, impossible to miss at this height, and her laughter is soft and full of wonder.
"I see why they might take joy," she says back at him.
*
Down they come, landing lightly as fallen leaves at the base. Her torch glows softly in the darkening air. "Yes," he says, simply. "That's why I'm here. I've never taken time to do so. But humans will war without my help. I suppose the term used here is….vacation?"
*
The Otherness, surprisingly enough, seems content for the flight to end. It's had its fill of salt-kissed air above the smog of the city and cooes softly in the psyche of the librarian. The landing is controlled, gentle despite the speed, and she needs to keep a hold on his forearm to keep jellied knees from giving in.
Still, the archangel's term of choice gains him another laugh, slightly screechy. "Vacation? In New York? Why here?" Her wings relax slightly curved about her shoulders, not quite a cape of feathers. The plumage behind her ears rises up, lazy interest conveyed by the alien-bird mutagenics.
*
"It's one of the greatest convocations of sentients on this planet. And it seems more orderly. Humans like ninety degree angles, I observe," he shares, sounding pleased at her interest. "A good place to start researching them. I know so little in a practical sense." He flexes his wings lazily, as if cooling down the muscles.
*
Her gaze strays from him across the harbor, not busy after the beginning of evening darkening the sky. A few tugboats head back to their berths and one pleasure boat zips past them distantly.
"We're…complicated," she says with a faint laugh, glancing to his face again. Her attention unerringly strays to his wings as they flex and that faint blush returns again. "Your feathers are l-lovely, by the way. M-M-May I?" She extends a hand towards the primaries and deliberately pauses, waiting for his permission.
*
He wasn't aware that he was waving them, apparently. But he stops, blinks at her, and then nods. He even extends one towards her, carefully. With the sun gone, they're a dim, ashen light gray. "IF you like," he says, amiably.
*
The pinion between her fingertips is nearly so velvety as to defy description. Finest silk masquerading as owl feathers might do it justice, but only in passing. The bards of humanity would weep for the inability. Perhaps the gloaming of dawn woven into substance…?
Rosemarie bites at her lip for a moment before uttering an enamored sigh. "It's…so soft," she says, stepping closer still and forgetting entirely of propriety in the moment. Her palm skims along the spread of the primaries, drifting up into the secondaries and even the coverlets. She's enamored, plain and simple.
*
It's perhaps proof of his utter inhumanity that he has no shame at all. No shyness. "Are they?" he asks, watching her with curiosity. She seems to be enjoying herself. They don't feel like feathers used for real flight. More like down…..or the absurdities of chickens bred for novelty. "Yours aren't?" he adds, after a moment, craning his head to examine hers as best he can.
*
Even as the librarian takes another step in, both hands carefully exploring the celestial texture of the archangel's plumage, the Otherness proudly extends one wing out for further observation, should Michael be so inclined. Her feathers are far rougher, with the essence of their barbs being biologically inclined to another type of atmosphere entirely, one thicker than that of Earth proper. Fledgling feathers, not fully formed, stuck forever at this demi-juvenile state.
The crests might be a bit softer, simply due to decorative and communicative purposes, and they rise in fall in mute conversation in reflection of their host's emotions. They can't lie: Rosemarie is enjoying the everliving hell out of how the ash-pale feathers feel against her skin. She's about five seconds to shyly rubbing one against her cheek.
*
Archangels - soft as kittens, apparently. Whole piles of kittens. He touches her own feathers with light fingers, curious. "Remarkable," he says. "No, these weren't made for this world. No wonder it's hard for you to fly here."
*
"Huh?" His comment brings her from her reverie in mink-soft coverlets. No, she wasn't aligning his feathers in a certain manner at all out of some weird habit. Nope. …maybe. The Otherness has no compulsions in encouraging this behavior in its host, clearly. "Oh…y-yes, I w-wondered." Rosemarie drops her hands and steps back, giving Michael's wings a winsome look. "H-Hence the alien m-moniker. N-N-Not f-from this w-w-world."
*
Michael cocks hi head at her. "What's wrong with your speech? Are you in distress of some kind?" he asks. It's still kindly meant, despite that bluntness. And then he adds, "You can keep grooming me, if it gives you comfort. I understand that the more social species find it soothing….even necessary for health."
*
"I st-t-t-t-tutter." She machine-guns this word in a particularly painful flavor of irony. "Nervous. It's ok-k-kay, I w-was intruding." Well, not quite the word she was going for, but it'll do. The faint smile she gives the archangel asks for forgiveness for some transgression she's certain has occurred for the lingering about his wings. The Otherness wraps about her shoulders again in that cape-like manner, though the plumage behind her ear remains spread wide.
The Otherness isn't sorry. Peep.
*
"You don't need to fear me. Not right now," he assures her, all earnestness. Like that little coda isn't enough to tweak anyone's nerves. "No, you weren't intruding," he adds. "You seem pleased, in fact. You can't hurt me. Speak more slowly, if that would make you feel easier."
*
Rosemarie remains mum as she looks up into his face. The sincerity reflected there is encouraging and she nibbles at the little scar on her lip before trying again.
"It's n-not a matter of speak-king slowly. It's w-w-w — " Sighing, she scratches carefully at the base of one of the crests before continuing, the other arm tucked away across her body. "When I get f-flustered." General humanity would probably run with the implications and so used to this is she that she finds his combat boots fascinating while the blush heats the tips of her ears.
*
Where did he find them? A dumpster? Did he mug someone and got shopping in an Army Navy surplus? They seem worn, but okay. Or maybe he's trying to blend in. Who knows. "I don't mean to fluster you," he says, lightly.
*
Those raptor-gold eyes slowly rise to meet his. It's getting difficult to tell what color they are in the darkening of evening. The lights about the small park of the Statue of Liberty only shed so much illumination.
"I know." Hey, no stutter there! "I think…it was the f-flying. That was…" Her expression melts into serene contentment. The azurine wings are deeply hued now, the shadowed curl of deep-sea waves, and they flutter, lightly rustling their pinions like the hush of a breeze through leaves.
"…wonderful." She sounds pleased as pie and gives him a half-lidded, lazy smile for it all. All without thinking, truly.
*
He glances up at the darkening sky. "You are only….remembering what you already know," he says, serenely. "The knowledge has always been in you." Then he looks back at her, and smiles, lovingly. "But it can be a surprise, to break through to those memories."
*
"But…I wasn't flying, y-you were. You did all of the…the flapping and gliding." Rosemarie is properly befuddled now. Is she misremembering? "Oh, b-but you meant…yes, it was wonderful. You are v-very kind. You know that you d-didn't have to take m-me flying…right?"
The crests behind her ears fail slightly, ready for some dismissive comment per past experience, but then perk up again, communicating hope. Ah, hope, the caged bird that sings.
*
That's puzzled him, it's evident. "But …." he takes a breath. "I'm not using words right, I think. I did the work. But you are meant to fly on your own. You will. The knowledge is in you. The strength isn't, not yet. But that will change. I don't have to do anything. I'm choosing to. I….have only been out to creation to destroy things. I don't want to any more. I don't lose training or skills. When the last battle comes, I will be ready. But in the meantime….I want to look at it. All the….the creation. To know it. IT's not my job, it's not my duty. But…..I don't think it's wrong."
*
Her hands cover her mouth and Michael is subjected to the brightest, most glittering stare possible from the librarian. Those delicate wings quiver again before stretching out and flapping a few times, if simply to give Rosemarie reason to feel her balance shift and need to catch herself, arms somewhat spread.
"Y-Y-You — you mean it? On my own?!" The elation takes her to a nearly heady state and she blinks a few times. "Oh…my god. But…creation, what? I'm s-sorry, I d-don't understand. Y-You…"
It makes sense suddenly, after those memories suddenly arise. Michael. Archangel of War. "Oh." Her understanding is implied all in that single breathless syllable.
*
"You do see." It's not a question, or an order. Just a statement. "We don't get vacations," he adds, a little drily. "But….I've had no direct orders for a long time. I think I am…am allowed," he says, but he sounds tentative. "I don't bemoan my lot. I know what I was made for…."
*
"But…c-creation too," the librarian is quick to add, never wanting anyone to be uncomfortable in her presence. Being empathetic comes with the double-edged sword of taking on said discomfort by odd proxy. "You said y-you were here for creation?"
She hazards a step in again, hands clapsed before her chest shyly. Still want to touch those feathers…must not touch the feathers.
*
He obligingly offers her a wing. It makes this fledgeling happy, she can groom him. Preen him. "Yes. I don't ever get to see it. I hear …..well, it's bragging, honestly, to hear some of the ones who got to work on it. Especially sentients. So….I'm going to take a few centuries, look at it."
*
It's as if the archangel knew of the itch that lies in her palms. Timidly, Rosemarie reaches out again and begins aligning what feathers lay askew — which are few, admittedly, and she's hard-pressed to find them. Oh well. At least it's all texturally-pleasing.
"Centuries. That's a l-l-long time…" At least, to humanity, she thinks. This is an archangel. A vacation indeed. Her crests rise and fall again. "Michael, I…n-n-need to ask you a f-favor." She glances up at him again with those big golden eyes, fingers lingering in the coverlet-plumage in ivory.
*
"Ask," he says, without hesitation. "I don't know that I can grant it, but I will at least hear it." He offers the other wing. So this is what mortals are like, it seems.
*
Oh, the other wing now. Rosemarie gets to aligning long primaries, shorter secondaries, all as if she were putting away titles on the shelves of the library. The parallels are going to haunt her later, rest assured.
"I n-need to g-g-get home. It's l-late," and she laughs, blushing, before continuing softly, " — and I c-can't fly b-b-back to m-my apartment. My home. There's a b-balcony, you c-can drop me off there…?" She knows it's asking yet another favor of a being who, frankly, could owe her nothing and be entirely within his right to be so.
*
"Oh, of course," he says, startled. "I wasn't going to leave you here. The boats don't come again until next morning, and it requires currency exchange to use them, I think? Now, come, and I'll take you home." As if she were a lost kitten.