1964-11-30 - Flying Lessons at 500 Feet
Summary: Rosemarie is birb. Yellow or blue? You want blue?
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
rosemarie lucian 

A day off is an odd thing. Usually, Rosemarie's not back to her apartment any time before noon. Thus, she finds herself pacing the interior of her living room. Lola the Siamese watches with sublime lack of true interest from the back of the couch, her ruddy-tipped tail flicking back and forth.

Invariably, her mind wanders to the barkeep, that constant source of harrowing enlightenment in her life. A fingernail caught between teeth is held rather than actively chewed as she pauses before the sliding glass door. The balcony overlooks the city, crisp and clear at this higher altitude of view. Lucian. Lucifer. I wonder what he's up to these days…? Visions of sugarplums dance in her head and bring a faint blush to her cheeks even as she turns to collect her cup of coffee from the nearby countertop.

No pigeons to greet her on the porch's railing and she leans on the wall, sipping at the hot drink that visibly steams. Venere. Lucifer Venere. Is that even his true last name? What's real? All but the tips of her fingers hide inside the long sweater sleeves. The lounge-pants are warm, thank goodness. With how the wind floats past, bearing scents of the sea and chill, the Warbird stirs, perking interest. It could be a day for flying. Perhaps.

He was admiring a cake on fire. He wasn't so much admiring the cossetting of his younger brother, but he so rarely does these days. Or any days, quite frankly. The usual background noise afflicting his ability to concentrate is neither louder nor more insistent than usual, which is to say he exists inside a personal wind tunnel of roaring requests and murmured complaints. Some stand out louder than others, and a few get priority flagging at high speed, volume cranked, unignorable.

God the Father has a very peculiar sense of humour when it comes to creation, and more particular, his first great creation.

Soaring on the wing is a bit unfair, especially leaving his bartender on foot. Or, as it happens, in a car, freeing her from her duties by springing the trap and telling her to speed off. Quite frankly he cannot be bothered with land-based transportation, not with the dawn-scaled wings free from their occlusion and catching the air. Something about a rush through his clothes and easy on the skin feels liberating, freeing, the reason to be out of Hell and in the world he long ago forsook as anything but interesting. It's easy enough for him to feel the tug, given the breeze is just about shoving him in the petitioner's way.

Rosemarie drops her eyes, chiding herself quietly with a soft laugh and worry of teeth at the scar on her lip. Of course he's real. Lucian is real. Angels. Devils. Another sip of coffee and she lets it linger, savoring the nuances beneath the cream and sugar stirred in copious amounts. He is the devil… A definite note of hesitant affection wraps about this thought and she looks up from her reminiscing, tucking away images for now. A gust of wind greets her again, tossing about her hair loosened from the cloth band.

The next sip is aborted shy of her mouth. Her cinnamon-brown eyes go wider still, flashing whites before narrowing to further improve her accuity of vision. Is it…?

A spin of the breeze turns harder, as the vagaries of November weather often do. This close to the turn of the season into its darkest hour, he's at a disadvantage if he wishes to remain particularly hidden. Not that flybys at high altitude amount to much, but that billowing gust through the wild heights of New York force him to ply a careful course, speedier than he might like. Banking comes easy; he's been flying longer than gravity existed. A turn here, superb maneuvering to avoid clipping a water tower brings him flat up to a broadside of a building. And a windowpane.

One of these days…

Immense backdrafts of his wings rattle the window so hard, it might warp the metal or possibly shatter the pane, but better than slamming into it like a disoriented pigeon.

As if she's able to hide that tremelo of excitement that dances through her frame, aided on by the Shi'ar twinkle in her blood, consant cheerleader for those aloft on the drifts of pre-winter air — down to the pigeons, yes, vacant things that they are. Rosemarie flushes in delight and steps forwards even as the approach is noted to be a graceful swiftness that a swallow would be hard-pressed to emulate.

"Lu — " Then comes the weft of air from the wings of spun light itself and she flinches, taking a step back by proxy of avoiding falling entirely. A few blinks and she gasps before laughing, a pealing sound of surprised delight. "Lucifer, hello!" Breathless, her freckles are on full display with how she beams at him, still somehow retaining that inherent shyness by slight dip of chin. "How are you?" She's quick to step right out to the railing, placing a hand on it, heedless of the amount of empty space beyond and beneath her. She's got eyes only for him right now, him and those brilliant feathers.

Wild, how light should move the wind? Indeed, how any photon pushes back against the atoms of the air, and has a tangible presence. Now consider the fifteen foot span — at least — reeled in, and that the undulating beats aren't even necessary for him in the first place. Lucifer wears a most unusual outfit. For one, no shirt; the military-style red frock coat has the most interesting double barreled line of gold buttons and braided trim crossing his abdomen up to the bottom of his sternum. Black pants, black boosts. It's not a ringmaster look by any means, unless one is the allegory of master of creation. He might well be up for the phantasmagoria.

It's her. Because of course it is. He labours only a little to hang suspended in space, regarding Rosemarie from on high, backlit by the faded sun and stealing all the radiance for his own borrowed mantle. "I see you have no particular emergency condemning you to this place." His hand extends, not quite making the gap. For that, she'll have to do it herself. "Today is dreadfully dull all around. Before some carrier tries to blow a sad city off the face of the map, shall we see if there is anything worth catching higher up?"

Ah, that droll humor. Enough to make her giggle once and glance away, still — her blood sings as to the offer. The Warbird might side-eye the angel, but only for a passing second. The lure of the open air is far too much to resist, the worst of temptations for the creature from beyond this world embedded deeply in her psyche and cells.

"Oh, yes!" He's heard that airily-beseeching tone elsewhere. Thank goodness for the low-dropping back of the sweater, a new style picked up by necessity. The coffee cup is set aside on the metal-and-glass deck-table and then she stands, momentarily paused. With far less anguish and concern, her expression goes rapturous for a fleeting second as far-smaller wings expand into view. The crests behind her ears unfurl, of course, and now eyes of gilded-peach look upon the Morningstar. Fearless, her next move? In part, but the trepidation is countered by adrenaline. Up onto a chair and then to the railing itself, balancing with a few flicks of her own wings, and she reaches out, into space, to clasp his hand. The Warbird screams 'jump' — and so she does, towards that bright point in space consumed by his presence.

The warbird doesn't even know the diminished grace, the multitudes reduced and compressed into a four-dimensional creature instead of one that occupied the time stream and moved freely back and forth as the mood took him. For he is the devil of the Multiverse as much as Michael is the Michael of the Multiverse, and theirs are foibles and cares expanded, thinned, and bothersome. Except when trying to try sushi or Girl Scout cookies or this particular librarian's patience.

Droopy sweaters will serve their purposes, and he waits where he is, hovering easier than any hummingbird ever has. The beats of his wings give a bit of updraft to deliberately circulate the gusts needed to get her heavier body off the ground, doubly so when she cannot fly of her own volition or ease so restricted by weight. No, he's not judgmental. He's simply used to being a composite collection of collocated energy particles, can he be blamed? The devil smirks ever so slightly, eyes radiant with a thousand shades of tropical blue that reflects the endless sky. Springing into the air and having the pinions to at least catch the atmospheric up drafts helps.

So do the three violent beats that spring him back and forth like a demented buoy, but for good purposes! It throws her skyborne a little more and there snapping onto her waist — never the wrists, that would be winging her — is easy. Unless she tips back and then he has an ankle; acceptable, but then she's being tossed up in the air right-side up and caught.

The spread of azurine jealously clings to what updrafts they catch as long as possible before flapping, forcing her to bob along after him like a little inflatable after a speedboat. As if it's a terrible thing! Listen to that rill of near-shrieking laughter, joy nearing the purity that Michael exudes with little to no effort regularly, and thankfully, no backwards lean means a snag by an ankle wearing nothing more than a thick woolen sock.

Rosemarie buries her grip deeply into that spectular and singular jacket as she's drawn close, her own wings working on instinct and frenetic freedom of extension, and hey, she's defying gravity now! Take that, gravity. The belting of his grip is firm, comforting, and those eyes do terribly wonderful things to her. The beat of her heart is wings against the cage of her ribs, the pink high on her cheeks a thing impossible to hide or defy.

"Fly me?" Her words are nearly lost to the air cutting around them.

If he tosses her, he might even appreciate the squealing and ridiculously-ineffective thrumming of her wings.

He could tether her with a rope around the waist and let her flap precariously, had he a rope. On the other hand, he has an advantage there. "Smooth out your pace! That fast, all you will do is wear out your shoulders and promptly fall back," he advises Rosemarie. Not rude, no; this is merely from someone with an instinctive awareness of biological conformations down to the atomic level because he quite literally remembers the formation of mortals and all the mistakes that preceded and followed. What! Builders and machines know nothing, those illustrious beasts of the divine low compared to the seraphim.

He scoops her up closer to under the arms rather than leaving her to go unsupported entirely, though obviously the placement of her feathers is far more archaeopteryx than nuthatch. A mild adjustment and then he plants his hand against her stomach, one at the armpit, to hoist her up parallel and throw her like a paper plane. The arc at least goes up, rather than nose-diving fourteen inches later into the ground. To be fair, he's got ghastly strength behind his arm to be able to do it, if he has to.

Entirely trusting, the librarian, and thus, she allows herself to be lifted with a strength and grace surpassing that of the Russian ballet — well, at least from the archangel's end of things. She's entirely uncertain in how to align her limbs, doing a bit of flailing and uncertain as to how this qualifies as —

Slow down the flapping of her wings? Maybe if there wasn't naught but empty air beneath her now, high enough that the cars are the size of pencil eraser. Catching a draft, Rosemarie works to remain aloft. The sound emitted from her is some admixture of fright and wonder. Warbird approval is prominant, at least in those handful of seconds that she's actually doing it! Inevitably, the heavier bones are her downfall, planking even as she is to minimize the effort and strain at her shoulders. Clawing at space is useless and the brassy shrilling ascends into the ultrasonic range as the tug of gravity begins a yank on her stomach.

Beholden to gravity is a sin, a loss. Not that Lucian would dare to allow the fleshly concerns of mortals to bother him unless somehow they slammed into a lamppost or a flagpole, and he might discover he really can be shot, or run through, in the worst possible ways. Rosemarie is gravity's ally, but ever out to be helpful, he lofts her up again through a clap of his hands and bump! Up she goes, the paper airplane attached to a jet fighter by a silver cord.

It could be worse as he lazily opens his wings to their current maximum extent. From below, they appear vaguely blue and from above, they are near to transparent in every sense. He lazily catches the downdraft at angles, throwing his bobbing airplane about, letting her rise above the rooftops rather than falling to smack into the pavement. It wouldn't be very subtle and she might want to have some kind of secret identity, wear a pink leotard, and save the world from bookworms and dog-eared pages.

"We aren't invisible, my dear. Need I send you above the cloud tops for safety?" It's cold, though.

The rise and fall of pitch coincides with each toss and her faith in him grows. The librarian is even beginning to get used to that brain-warping second or two of freefall when the strength of her wings gives to earth's pull.

"No!" At the arc of flight, she manages this on an exhale, attempting to keep her spread of plumage rather than blurring feathers like an oversized hummingbird. "Eeeeeee-eep!" Adrenaline is keeping her heated about the edges of her skin, a thin resistance against the late-autumn air along with her clothing. A particularly sharp cut of wind, drawn past by currents, buffets her steady glide into something akimbo and the strength in her shoulders gives. A soundless keen this time around, down towards him, and his catch is a thing of art, defusing the momentum into a caesura.

Her grip finds the lapels of his jacket this time and she gasps, "Pause, please!" The proof of weary wings is in their relative droop; muscles burn from lack of regular use, but it's a fond and minor pain, proof of a job well-done…at least, inasmuch as it can be done. The Shi'ar sparkle in her blood can accept this little jaunt.

Upwards they go, not the smoothest motion, but then most fledglings come built in with the feathers and the programming of how flappy wings work. Rosemarie is neither as bouncy or as cute as the smallest of birds learning their way around the forest floor. He might be amused to bounce Michael, but the creatures with breakable bones and slow healing do not recover from the pavement well.

Her yelps are entertaining enough, in a sense, but then he manages to allow her to feel out the air herself with nothing more than the occasional updraft and telekinetic push to keep her going along. It's more a glider effect until the unstable flapping buildings into something of a rhythm.

"Pause?" That's heavy as he sweeps his arm around her waist and then wings upwards on a sharp parabola trajectory to get them out of people's windows.

"Yes, please." Spoken into the searing warmth of his chest, her lips can feel the subtle workings of his muscles even as they dart briskly out of immediate sight of the nearby towers filled with busy desk-workers.

Side note that someone staring at the odd gopher-like reveal and disappear of a fledgling flyer from their point of view finally drops the phone from their ear and the clunk starts them from their reverie.

"Shoulders, tired," Rosemarie pants, legs dragging up about his waist as best she can manage and attempting to lock ankles to further steady herself. An adorable winged squirrel this one, near wrapped about the archangel. The ocean-blue wings still flutter now and then, but mostly remain tucked against her back, attempting to streamline him and his burden. "You were right — too fast." She means in regards to his earlier warning as to burning through small stores of energy, logical as it was. "Thank you," is added, ever polite as she is, daring a glance upwards to his face.

See, politeness gets a person everywhere. Never underestimate the social power of a handshake and a nod, or a word of honour between men. It's the reason why someone like Victor von Doom is marginally horrible rather than mostly horrible, in no small part to the willingness on his part to keep to his word. It counts.

The archangel has little trouble moving his shoulders, but then his shoulders are bearing up the cumulative weight of a quarter cup of light, if light could be compressed into such a volume. It really doesn't have a lot of mass, given the spacing, and he further buoys himself up that way with easy, languid flicks of those long, long feathers. Up, then, allowing them to reach a few hundred feats up. "It helps to eat those granola bars and bags popular in some of the markets. You will recover better by hydration and having a proper meal throughout the day." Aww, he's worried about her diet. Him, it's another matter altogether. As long as the sun shines, he has the pleasure of absorbing all he needs, lucky bastard. Her weight is hardly troubling to him, and he nods back at her, giving Rosemarie one of those ironic smiles.

His sharp grin is returned with a hesitant warmth, as always. Impossible to do anything but press her cheek against his skin now because he's far warmer than the air surrounding them. Still, needs of speech must mean peeling herself away from that addictive and soothing heat.

"You could have lunch at my apartment?" Rosemarie makes the offer lightly, for all that her stomach does a weebly flip-flop of nerves, none of it caused by the smooth carry of her person in the open air above the city proper. Her stomach does add the addendum of a gurgle; someone didn't have enough breakfast anyways.

Razor sharpness and the softness implicit in Rosemarie do not create an explosion. Lucian sheds a great deal of heat, the more so because he drinks in the ambient sunlight and those wings, much like photovoltaic cells, absorb a good amount of sunlight to power and heat him to a pleasant reach. Needs must; she won't have a supply better than that in any quick vicinity.

"We could, yes, Are you done with the sky, or would you have me carry you on a loop over the water? That shouldn't take long." This is but a fraction of how fast he can go, though she might be stumble bumping her way to flight or landing at this rate. Oh well!

Rosemarie flashes a quick grin before dropping her chin again, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Over the water? Please?" Mind, there's a heavy influence of Warbird at play here, and those crests perk high in obvious interest as to this diversion. Food can wait. This could turn out spectacularly. After all, she's cozy tucked up against him, even if her pointed toes in their wooly socks might be a little nippy for the wind.

"Over the water? Naturally." Lucian laughs, and he flips her in midair. It matters not how her arms are stretched or legs turned; if they have to drop to be apart or spinning like a missile, so it will happen. Neat swerve, and go.

Her freefall shall only last a moment as he scoops her up, holding her back to his chest like the best paper airplane missile ever captured. All he needs is this remarkable paper clip and they will be invincible and inseparable. His streamlined profile breaks only insomuch as he needs to get altitude and bank; otherwise they're going to smash into a building and while that's fine for him, probably less so for her explaining how she crashed a garden party on the thirteenth floor. Because that's how weird New York is.

With a whoop, he sprints for Long Island. She might have a bit of change of heart; a sprint for him? Well, it's really a cursory jog… at Mach 1.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License