1964-10-18 - Questioning the Questioner
Summary: In light of recent discoveries, Lucian feels garrulous and Rosemarie stutters her way about, as usual.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
lucian rosemarie 

No one takes well to surprises, Lucian has found in the grand old expanse of his lifetime. Soon as he can usher Michael out the door and Harper on her way, the trust must lie that Rosemarie isn’t running full tilt for Lux’s door. Never safe to run up that many stairs after taking a surprise and the clammy autumn air isn’t bound to be good either.

Blackberry bourbon floats aside, he hands over the care of the bar to a relatively sedate Ana. The strawberry-blonde can take care of herself and handle matters appropriately.

“Shall we take a walk to the terrace?” The inquiry lands almost innocuously between them. Hope like hell this sounds normal.


It takes the cutglass accent to part the busy whirlwind of wonderings that currently occupy Rosemarie’s mind.

Those eyes haven’t bled away their aureus state; in fact, they followed Harper’s departure until impossible to commit to turning her head — but that’s truly staring and that’s rude, even if the Warbird wants to figure out what on earth the angel-offspring is really made of.

Angel offspring. Angels can procreate? These two, at least — Lucian and Michael. At least, according to the barkeep across the pristine slab of black marble. Nephilim. Demons? Her thoughts glance upon and shy away with all the vigor of a snake-startled horse from the possibility of procreation. Creation is beautiful — at least, that’s what Michael has said, more than once, during those airborne jaunts to stretch her fledgling wings. Stretching wings. Oh yes, wings. Brain, what.

Lucian’s offer slices cleanly and brings her to look up at him instead of considering the surface tension of a single droplet of condensation that gathered of to one side of the small glass. This sounds like a proposition and a chance to talk and, frankly, fairly normal given the circumstances. Normal is good, for all that she balks the terminology in her very genome. A nod is accompanied by, “Y-Yes.” After all, trust is her double-edged sword.

A quick last sip to finish off the blackberry bourbon concoction and it coats her tongue even as she’s excusing herself from the barstool. Mmm, tastes like a summer evening.

“Oh. Th-The c-c-cookies…?” she manages, glancing between the barkeep and Ana even as she’s sliding the lid back onto the Tupperware container and snapping it closed with some pressure atop its corners.


“I fully intend to curse anyone who thinks to eat them without permission.” That probably includes Michael. Lucifer is not the sharing kind of angel, for the most part, and punishments upon angels and fallen likely exist in broad strokes in his library.

He offers his hand to Rosemarie, offering to help her back to her feet. The Tupperware container already taken care of, there shall be little issue on his part to lift it from her hand into his own possession.

Got the cookies. Got the girl. Go cry your eyes out, world.

With a nod, the golden-haired proprietor cuts a steady route through the tables and deep booths scattered in a game of horseshoes perpetually frozen. The route up is easy: down a corridor, up a spiral staircase that was probably there before, and into the heights of Lux itself. Around and around goes the world, and the revolutions of the stairs aren’t that odd either.

Fear might raise her slowly to a pinnacle, and he moves carefully to avoid upsetting the house of cards. The Warbird doesn’t need encouragement to start strutting around the Outback and breaking things with a few well placed kicks.

The terrace breathes with autumn, barely lit. Lamps offer terribly little radiance by which to disrupt the copper sheen drawn over everything. Glass walls and doors impart limitlessness, not that he minds. “No doubt that took you rather by surprise. So, ask what you would. I’m in an uncommonly garrulous mood,” he replies, putting the cookies down on the bar but in plain sight. See, refuge in chocolate.


An offered hand is taken with the light and yet committed pressure of her own fingers, a bird settling on a sturdy branch. Bonus points for no light sheen of sweat on her palm. Progress! Still, the familiar tingle travels up unerringly and the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. A good portion of the attraction to the blond barkeep is that inescapable and unfathomable aura he exudes. The cookies are safe in his possession, no doubt, if he could slap someone with a very awful case of the runs and a broken belt buckle all in the same moment. Bad at sharing indeed.

She’s a silent presence beside him as they travel, letting her eyes travel with all the healthy respect for the museum-like collection of artwork to be appreciated. Up the stairs, up and up and up, and her knees are admittedly a little sore by the time they reach the terrace. The curse of wearing the wrong pair of shoes to work is her own quiet burden to bear. Perhaps a warm bath once she’s home and a book. And a glass of wine. Or maybe rum. She’s not about to admit that she attempted to find the very bottle of distilled tropical storms and lightning and slowly-mulled spice that Lucian plies her with, at least not without prompting first. She failed, of course, and what’s at home is second-rate to such a mythical blend.

To the windows first — it may always be a thing with the librarian now, drawn to the expanse of open air to be found beyond the panes by the yearning in Shi’ar blood. She knows better than to leave a palm-print upon the pristine surface and so gathers her hands in some half-formed interlacing of fingers before her chin. Praying? Not exactly, though some other than the Devil might wonder as such. The fine edge of front teeth worry at her knuckle in passing as it breaks the seal of her lips for inwards pressure and eventually, she sighs. Yes, questions. She turns to look back at him, the deep green of her sweater-dress taken another hue darker by the close lighting. Bronze attempts to show in her hair and on her skin. The metal is to be found in her irises.

“G-Grandchild. Angels c-c-can have child-dren. M-Michael has n-n-no children?” There’s the first real question, though all can easily be taken as points to expound upon — granted, he’s already done so. It’s probably her looking for confirmation in the end.


He will watch her, silhouetted in splendor against a city unlike any other in the recent span of human history. Smart lights blur into bend coruscation around her silhouette, as though offering their own kind of veneration to every slipstream in the dress and whorl of Rosemarie's hair.

Light is the best element for worship, giving all manner of intensity and brilliance suitable for the moment. Its rays arrange themselves according to the surface, malleable rather than hard and transformative by force. Rather, the diminished hour assures shadows have their balance coating the turned profile of her noble face or deepening the richness of her lipstick, her nails, those nooks and crannies holding their modest secrets from brash explorers.

“He doesn’t. It would violate the accord with our father,” Lucian replies, looking at her rather than the sky. For all his mind echoes with the old chestnut, fuck you too, Dad.

His hand rests casually against the lid of a waist high pot probably recovered from Sumer, given the designs on it. How much of this art is original, and more importantly, preserved against the ages? Made by his hand, possibly. “Canvass half the Host, you would find very few interested in sporting with anyone. They are certain such activities are not for them. The minority daren't act upon it, and they certainly cannot have children. As I said, Rosemarie, procreation comes through the Fall or because my brother and I were set higher than all the rest.”

Supremely arrogant as it may be, he has a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s not been constituted in the flesh terribly long. It’s all something of a revelation, I am sure.”


“Y-Yes, I’m sure,” she replies faintly, finding safety in looking away and off at the high-rise of buildings rather than into the electrical blue of Lucian’s eyes. Slowly, the city is coming alight in attempt to replace the falling sun and allow those of nocturnal ilk to chase the proverbial carrot longer than would be possible if not for the taming of electricity. Edison, thine is the power.

“But…the y-y-young lady. Y-You…and the accord? Isn’t th-that…” She meets his eyes again, rubbing at the outside of one arm slowly.

Basically flipping God the bird?


It goes against his particular nature not to respond. Lucian has patience, scads of it. He could build a planet out of his patience and devotion to listening before acting, reason before impulse.

Still, now is a fine time to turn and unseal the lid of the ninth revelation. Chocolate greets his fine-tuned senses, a single cookie largely intact plucked from the interior hill. He brings it over to Rosemarie, holding it out for her to take.

“A unique path given my very special punishment,” he replies, keeping most of the acid out of his voice at that long ago wound bleeding still. No fine ropes of scar tissue for him. “Yes, she is one of my line. A very far remove but the bridge exists. The Grigori would remove her for that, though it may be they haven’t any idea whom her forefather is.” Hard to conceal the bitter steel of a sharp smirk at that, the lambent embers igniting magnesium white in those glowing eyes. For once, a challenge.

That said, he adds, “I am old, Rosemarie. My brother and I existed at the dawn of time. My creation defined time, you might say. They were not recent, in any case. Epochs ago. I’ve watched stars rise and die in that time.” Eat the cookie. It will help. Always the case with an older partner and the string of history that might come with one.

“How greatly does this change things for you?”


How greatly does it change things? Just watch her hold that cookie despite the appearance that it’s all but invisible or nonexistent to her. Her brain is telling her that she can feel the crenelation of Maillard browning upon its surface and her ring fingertip has broken a chip, still hiding away warmth and softness within, but it’s Lucian that’s captured her attention most. The flint-spark of clear relish at bestowing a most bitter retort to the Grigorim’s actions is nearly mesmeric. Still —

“Epochs?” No stutter, but instead a breathless squeak. Such a term should be part and parcel to angelic status, but it’s the commitment to consideration that really makes those doe-eyes go wide. Epochs. Aeons. Ages. More than an age, multiple ages.

The archangel must have scads of patience indeed and her processing, consequent weighing of newly-attained conceptualization of his age, hits multiple stopgaps by dint of mortality. Speedbump at his appearance. Pothole at her own age — god, she must be but a babe to him! Collapsed shoulder at the attempt to evaluate the sheer number of years and failure to do so.

Eventually, what might be an aeon later, she blinks and shuts her mouth. Mustn’t catch flies, she is no bullfrog. In regards to change:

“I-I-I-I-I — ” Ahem. “Y-Y-Y-Y — ” Dammit, stutter. “It-t-t-t d-does and d-d-d-doesn’t?” Being truthful always seems best when in the presence of the man who can read her like as not by micromovement alone. Oh, that’s right, the cookie. Rosemarie looks at it before transferring it to the other hand and getting about to meticulously cleaning the smear of melted chocolate from her fingertip. So much cleaning. Do an action, don’t just stand there looking stupid. Must get all of it from beneath her fingernail as well.

He probably ought to offer her a napkin. Paper serviette at the ready, one printed by bats.

Mazikeen has a sense of humour or a ghoulish appreciation for the idea of warm, dark spaces high in the air. Evidently she is responsible, for Lucian stares down at the decorative motif and sighs, handing over the option to clean her fingers with. Only the briefest of exchanges necessary there, but he grazes his long digits across the back of her knuckles where every ridge leads into low, gentle valleys rendered smooth by palpable erosion.

“What it means for you concerns me a touch more than my own history,” he prompts her gently. Must remember that humans aren’t good at measuring anything more than twenty, or comprehending what a century means, much less a full millennium or a quadrillion seconds or worse. Don’t ask him how he knows what those feel like.

Withdrawing his touch is a slow, lingering thing like the burning sunset extending every second above the horizon to colour the clouds in quiet adoration.


Cue a blush for the napkin. Indeed, much better manners to have one and she immediately goes away finishing off the task of wiping fingertips upon the printed surface. Bats. How…quaint? And seasonal! The cookie is then half-entombed in the serviette, all the better for its natural grease to be soaked in there rather than upon her skin.

Lucian gets another somewhat hangdog look for the retreated touch. Oh, it was…but it was wonderful while it lasted. More dancing of goosebumps along her body and those knees haven’t exactly gone anywhere but joint to joint, even if her posture is still decidedly upright and attentive.

“I…” Hey, no stutter, even if she’s still trying to figure out exactly how to explain her thoughts on things. “I underst-t-tand…and accept it-t. I kn-know of p-people who h-h-have children of th-their own and st-t-till d-date. And th-that others accept-t-t th-this.” Even if it’s that single fathers are more venerated than mothers in this time and age. “Ch-Chastity d-d-doesn’t…” Oh god, be brave. “D-Doesn’t m-m-make sense w-w-with y-you and-and-and who y-y-you are.”

Oh god, that sounded so much better in her head. Cue the duck of a chin and immediate spike of concern that she’s overstepped bounds or prickled a nerve. The cookie cracks in the upswing of her grip and would fall to the floor but for the caging of napkin. There be the unfurling of the feathery crests, flip, to spread at neutral angle. Did Maz ever find that ten-gallon hat?


Single anyone with children, other than widows, are given the darkest of looks in a society obsessed with white picket, Leave It To Beaver perfection. Mind that his most graceful evilness does not live up to any high standards because no one in their right mind considers the Devil subject to such lofty goals, do they?

Lucian turns a bit, looking out the window with his hands tucked back into the pockets of his trousers. A disarmingly casual posture does nothing to blunt the intense focus turned upon Rosemarie, the stammer back causing him to sink into a more receptive position. Active listening skills aren’t lacking here.

“I’m certainly not frequenting witches’ sabbats, if that is what you want to know.” What she seeks to discover is something of a mystery, really, plumbed by line and query. “Does this alter us in any sense?”


“No.” A whisper, confession to the line of his pristine pants and footwear and the small space between them, conversational distance in relative comfort. Rosemarie takes a moment to take the cookie in both hands, all the better to avoid crumbs falling to the flooring. Heaven forbid any sort of pest finds sustenance here on her fault.

“No,” she repeats herself a smidge more loudly, slowly bringing up her golden gaze and meeting his. A little quailing at the intensity of his interest in her, but not as much as there used to be — either that or the Shi’ar is having its little say. It’s present enough as is given that low fan of azurine behind each of her ears, no more able to lie by action than she is before the barkeep.

While Lucian might probably reckon this doesn’t improve the situation any, unless the warbird is still measuring up potential candidates for making excellent future hatching decisions. No comment from the Firstborn about that.

Aww, look, the feather rims are flat and her ears are still visible. Barometers of excellence there, all said and done. The archangel doesn’t puff up or flit his own wings wide, no need.

Rather, he wraps an arm easily around Rosemarie's shoulder and pulls her in for one of those embraces done carelessly, an easy practice of drawing her to him. “I assure you, it’s not an everyday experience. Should there be others I know of, I will warn you in advance.”


Nod. Remember to nod. And breathe, breathing’s important too. Oh god, and make sure not to crush the cookie against his coat, chocolate stains so badly. In the end, she’s an easy gathering in his arm, impressed to the line of his body with the curves of her own giving against the more triangular build of his chest.

“That w-would b-be g-g-g-good,” Rosemarie contrives as response. Indeed, few folks like surprises like suddenly-appearing offspring. Feeling the cookie move within the confines of the napkin, she flicks attention to it and remembers that it’s meant to be eaten. Her eyes are for the skyline again as she slowly chews her bite, finding the means to savor the chocolate and pastry richness within her frazzled nerves. Oh, the things that barkeep does to her.


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