1964-07-01 - Clamour Over Manhattan
Summary: Yeah, show off those wings, hotstuff.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
rosemarie michael lucian 

Even archangels gotta have hobbies. And Rose is apparently Michael's. HE understands, if vaguely, things like workshifts. So it's near dusk that they're flying again, over the city, high enough the air is chilly. She's clasped beneath him, to let her wings strengthen, and feel the wind. There's an almost paternal pride in his face, as they turn towards the evening star in a long bank towards Jersey.

The caress of the wind in her feathers is becoming something much loved. Rosemarie hasn't slept so well in months — honestly, since the Shi'ar battle-blood first showed in her system, and it's already heavily sated on the fresh air of the high darkening sky. No chance they'll be seen, not with the falling light and humankind's lack of looking up on a regular basis, and she streamlines herself with arms tucked to her sides.

"Thank you again for doing this," she calls back over her shoulder to him, the gratitude clear in expression and tone alike. Thank goodness she packed that warmer sweater and decided on pants rather than a skirt today. Otherwise, she'd be quite cold.

Archangels have hobbies? They made the bloody world. Creation from the get-go has been their pet project when not standing by a throne singing 'holy holy holy' in dull repetition. Glories of the earth and sky rather dull next to the mysteries of a good book, though. Having completely devoured Carl Jung's "Man and His Symbols." Anyone to lay eyes on the copy is sure to be mortified by the notations and the scripted comments on the side. The Feynman Lectures on Physics are equally scratched over and scribbled upon in a language dead for fourteen hundred millennia. But it keeps him sharp on the memories.

The day is done. The hour is past. Lucifer Morningstar is, as usual, considering things to fill the hours with. For someone who does not sleep, this is an imminent matter.

Standing on the penthouse terrace of Lux, he stares up into the sky as if it has anything to offer him. "You never could leave well enough alone, Father." That's all he has to offer on that account. The wind sings, the stars sparkle, people are turning in space somewhere up there past the gleam and the glow. His eyes narrow slightly. An ember spark of fire opens in his palm, bright as the light of stars and the gleam of daylight because that's exactly what it is.

Of course it calls Michael's eyes. There's only one person in that city that he knows of who can do that. So he's turning hard, enough to make the wind whistle through even those soft feathers. "I just saw my brother," he tells her, cheerfully. "We should go see him. You can meet him. He's very impressive. Do you want to?" He's already gliding down, and flocks of sleepy pigeons rise to greet him in unthinking homage, marking his path across the city.

The abrupt boomerang's arc in the open air has Rosemarie gripping at the archangel's forearms for an icy stab of fear. It was unpredictable and awakes the Otherness from its gluttonous stupor in her subconscious mind. Her crests furl up in surprise, brushing at Michael's chin.

"B-Brother?" So high on the literal half-mile of soaring above the earth, her brain is slow on the draw this time around. Her wings, with their color muted to navy-blue for the lack of light, fold slightly to mimic the beginnings of a stoop. "Y-Y-Yes, I sup-p-p-pose."

There's something niggling at her attention, some connection that's slippery enough to make her heart do an odd pitter-patter in her chest and evade immediate grasp. Brother to…an archangel — another angel? A pity she didn't pay much attention in Sunday School.

Down they come in a rush of wings, followed by the flutter of pigeons rising and falling in their wake. Like the most glorious rollercoaster ride in the world - Coney Island, eat your heart out. And then Michael's landing them both, neatly as a pas de deux, on the roof of Lux. He's beaming at Lucian, as if utterly sure of his welcome. Herp derp, hello.

Lightbringer. Daystar. Light of the Morning. He has been all these things. Proof that he still is lies in the palm of his hand. Fingers spread and shape the flame that can devour as much as warm. None of it touches his skin.

Lucifer closes the digits to his palm, quenching any beacon to those prone to flapping about. Infernal powers might show a very different reaction from the celestial, and the breadth of those represented between the poles of possibility. He's halfway to reaching for his glass of cognac when a certain curve of movement scours the peace of birdkind. Avian wings rustle. Pigeons?

Almost immediately he throws the contents of the glass back, but he still stands squarely upon his terrace in the heart of East Village. Deep is the breath pulled in that he doesn't need to tell him a multitude of factors: wind direction, humidity, moisture content, turn of the maples into a drought cycle, why some stupid freighter belches out effluent into the East River, paper scents and more. It's absurd to assume he is doing other than anything else on a balcony but looking out. Totally absurd. Creation burns and bends to his summons, diminished even as he is. It knows him. He knows it. Golden hair blows in the wind. Perfection.

The snuffing of the bright light is enough to draw Rose's attention as they make their way down towards it. Perhaps it was what drew Michael's attention. She doesn't presume to know the ways of archangels — she's still fighting a sense of joyous disbelief as it is even as they pull up short of the balcony and then land.

In that moment, when she's finding her knees again for the sturdiness of solid balcony flooring beneath her feet, she glances up to the brother of the archangel — and freezes up. Solid.

"Oh my — " and the librarian snaps down on that comment quickly, her golden eyes bright and wide. Oh yes — oh no — but oh yes? BUT OH NO.

"L-L-Lucian?!" Breathless, she stutters, as she always does in the Lightbringer's presence. Her wings tuck in tight around her shoulders and her crests pop up widely-flared. No doubt he could ascertain just how quickly her heart's dancing now.

Of course the archangel Michael had a brother — he just happened to Fall.

And of course, Michael is utterly oblivious to that aspect of her distress. He puts out a hand to help Rosemarie with her balance, smiling with that infuriating serenity. "Oh, you know him?" He sounds so pleased at the prospect. "Lucian, you know Rosemarie?" he asks, blithely. "That saves introductions. We were out for an evening flight, and I saw you, so I thought I'd say hello." He's a drab thing against Lucian's crystalline beauty - not bad looking, but not beautiful. And without the light of sunset to call out that rose-gold iridescence, his wings are like new ash.

"You are in the habit of taking mortals flying over the river where their ground radar and the airport's flight radar will pick you up?" Lucian tips back the glass, staring into the alcohol's depths. Not nearly enough to have more than a momentary effect exists in the cellars of Lux, let alone that vessel, to be sufficient.

He drinks the contents in a go, careless in his easy effort. "As far as I am concerned, do what you will. Just show some care for the installations littered about. They tend to scramble planes or take long-range photos when strange anomalies show up. You're both small enough to intrigue them. Unless you think you can outrun a fighter plane. Things to consider." The glass goes down. "Hello, Miss Falcroft."

She quivers at her name being said, a greeting returned in a voice that does it eminent justice. Her sweater endures the balling within the grasp of those nails-gone-raptor talons in silent death. There will be some interesting shredded holes in the front near her bellybutton once this is all said and done.

"H-Hello L-Lucian. M-Michael is y-your brother? I m-m-mean — " and she bites at the scar on her lip, attempting not to quail. "Of c-course he is, I'm b-being forgetf-ful. He's h-helping me learn how t-t-to f-fly," she explains weakly, gesturing to the archangel with the shrug of her shoulder. Boy, it's hard keeping her eyes on her face when it feels like she's been caught with hand in some metaphorical cookie jar.

That's a conundrum. "I'll have to be more careful," he agrees, no wise dismayed. "I'll let you two talk for a bit. I've something to see to," he says. There's a clap of air, as he launches himself up, up, faster than should be possible. But then, the wings are really only for appearances, surely.

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