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Pretty as the night is, the lazy tumble of a few snowflakes and thin veneer of ice make for treacherous footing. The smart walk on the grass. The superior fly. Washington Square Park is floodlit in many places by tall lamps on metal stands and the northern side, being a popular destination for all the artsy-fartsies, is generally bright until midnight. Not so much the southeast end, which certains the master of Lux well enough. He wears a suit, not even a proper warm coat or jeans or boots. Someone teach him about mundane fashion. He also imperiously points at the ground.
"You lie there and wave your arms about." A pause. "On the ground." Subtle emphasis is necessary here. "It shall create a facsimile of your nature imposed upon the sacred earth and la-dee-da."
The only time Michael disagreed with Lucian on a course of action was part of the War in Heaven. So….this time he has no inclination at all to argue. He's in a warm coat - that army surplus greatcoat, fatigue pants, boots, shooting sweater. He looks like a defector who's just snuck through the wall. Obediently, he flops back onto a clear patch of unmarked snow, and obediently kicks up snow to make the required shape. "My wings are bigger than my arms, though," he notes, more musing than arguing.
Not fond in the least of the cold clinging about any bare skin, Rosemarie is bundled up to her nose in an exceedingly-warm winter coat and scarf and hat. With the curls of her hair visible in errant strands here and there atop the beige-hued peacoat, she's got a twinkle in her cinnamon-brown eyes as she watches Lucian explain the finer points of snow-angels.
Beside him, she shuffles in place, eyeing how her boots scuff up ridges in the snow. Her hands are firmly hidden away, gloved as they are, in her pockets. At Michael's nearly audible flump to the ground, a muffled peal of laughter can be heard. Pink at the freckles cheeks, she pulls down her scarf to comment,
"You make a majestic snow-angel regardless, Michael. You'll put everyone else's snow-angel to shame. Even Lucian's." A glance towards the blonde devil isn't devoid of her own brand of mischief. "You could show him how it's done." So innocently-spoken. Poke the proud angel, poke him.
"Not to them, they aren't." Never mind no creature with wings as large as their arms, weighing any significant size, could get off the ground. Lucian smartly considers their surroundings to ensure that no one will cause any trouble by approaching. The snow isn't deep enough, anyways, to acquire a chance of sneaky teenagers showing up to hurl bombs at them.
He pokes his hands into his pockets, absent even gloves. See, chill means less when one is the embodiment of solar wrath and celestial glory. "Stretch your arms out reasonably high. Not fully over your head, though, or else you will look like a deluded baker surrendering via carte blanche cookie sheet. Rather the contrary, Miss Falcroft, I believe you are better suited to such a demonstration."
There's a certain impish brightness in the archangel's eyes. He does his best, and manages a decent one, before getting up, sidling some steps to the side…..and then letting his own wings manifest. Then he's easing himself down on a patch of clear snow, letting them print first. The snow's got enough wetness in it to render even the spread primaries distinctly. Here's the real thing. "Now you, Rosemarie," Michael urges, sitting up again.
The librarian points at herself. "Me? I don't think so." She chuckles again. "You claim to have created a good number of things. Surely your snow-angel would do the concept far better justice," thus the reply to the blonde archangel standing beside her.
But then there's Michael, earnest as he always is in his sense of fun, and she's giving the Archangel of War a beseeching look that quickly fades away into another laugh. A brighter blush beneath her freckles now and after toeing a bit more at the snow by her boots, she finally gives in to peer pressure.
A few steps down from Michael's latest creation, showcasing the fine plumage of the heavenly host, and there she sits and then lies back. Giggling to herself, Rosemarie gets to snow-angel-ing, pushing aside white powder into a skirt and the two wings, no broader in span than her own arms. She's quick to sit up too, with a sudden squeal, and reach back at her neck. "Oh! Snow down my coat, oh! Eee!"
There are people about, none entirely close enough to claim 'A seraph just messed up the landscaping in my favourite park.' NYPD can barely be bothered to appear when aliens descend from the sky, they won't do it for aliens falling over on foot. Those ones are drunk and the man problem will come from an old man on a bench shouting, "What're you wankers doing on my lawn?"
The cranky old bastard receives no comment from the even crankier, older legitimately conceived first of the firstborn. Whilst he could complain, he chooses instead to veil his unearthly summer-blue eyes and transcend mere mischief. Mostly by mere mischief. "Having made something gives me ultimate reason to see how others approach the matter, their technique, and finding methods for improvement or correction." Not that he says self-correction. Correction in others, of course. A brighter blush present, assuredly, does the trick.
While Rosemarie is kicking up snow, he casually raises an eyebrow. Nothing to see there, except the complaining old man is casually dumped on by the four trees beside and around him in a funnel effect that is terribly skillful in process. He's then crowing about snow down his everywhere, through a faceful of the white stuff. Back to the moment, then, critically appraising the art. "Ah. See, she did the clothes properly. You might want to adjust, Michael."
Which is when Michael hits him with a snowball. A large one, properly packed, square between the shoulderblades. The archangel is grinning like an imp. "Of course, Lu," he says, oh so sweetly. Then he reaches down to offer Rosemarie a hand up, as innocently as if he hadn't just declared war.
Once most of the bit of snowmelt is removed from her skin, she can content herself with merely some moisture stuck in her scarf and one trickle down into her turtleneck. A shame for the need of a low-slung back on the shirt. It tickles madly down her spine. Rosemarie also finds contentment in the compliment. Aw, the Devil likes her snow-art! Cue blush remaining.
The assassin-like snowball is enough to make her chortle, with the sound half-stoppered up by her free hand, given the other is taken by Michael. Pulled to her booted feet, she immediately dances away from the archangel, guessing that a spat full of cold projectiles might ensue. "Eeeep, leave me out of this!" Except the Shi'ar Otherness doesn't let her get too far. And encourages her to gather up a smaller mound of snow all her own between two hands. How she manages to look completely innocent during this process should astound. The twinkle in her dark eyes might give it all away.
The blushing bride and the treacherous brother: sounds like the start of a Swedish folktale, one that will probably involved toothed eagles, dwarves burning down half the forest, and terrible things in the woods at Uppsala raised on a moonless night by a crone with three warts on her nose. The snowball hits Lucian; how not? He is hardly ephemeral or made of nothing more than bad dreams, cat laughter, and the snuffles of bad dogs in their sleep.
A snowball he could bother to pull up from the ground but that means bending. Instead, he brushes the ice and loose powder off his lapel. "This is a Brioni," he says, as though that matters to a man probably comfortable sleeping in dumpsters for the extra human experience. Yeah, well, teaches Michael to listen to rats for advice on housing in this particular market. His ultramarine gaze slants past Mr. McAngel and upon that charming brunette pretending to have nothing to do with it. "I see. For someone left out, armed for bear?"
He has done precisely that. Rested in church pews and surprised at least one priest into tears by noting that his sins are forgiven and really, big brother does not look at all like a red, angry cartoon baby with horns, no matter what the statues show.
Michael makes a noise of false commiseration. He makes an encouraging gesture at Rosemarie. Get 'im, girl.
|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d2 for: 2
Extra innocence projected now, down to the pert rosebud of her lips. With cinnamon-brown eyes downcast, she can't seriously be considering breaking form to whop one of the Brothers Angelic with her created snowball?
Get whom, exactly? Michael receives the first of the barrage, her aim for his general torso. But don't think Lucian's safe. Nope. Even as she's stumbling to one side, she's gathering up a huge handful of snow and, frankly, packing it as fast as she can. The next snowball flies towards him, possibly larger than the one committing her initial fate to that of Potential Target. Apologies for how it spatters high on his collarbones, possibly getting snow down his coat.
Lucian cheats. Right? It's in the good books, in gospels and bibles and all the stories conveyed across Christendom. Beyond that, the adversary in all cultures and places and times never keeps to the straight and true path. Trickery and deceit are his daggers, his true intentions forever concealed behind that smiling poker face that means one's ill. Fling those big, bad balls, Rosemarie; Michael already got a mark, but the second one arises while he is prepared. The unseen lurks around him, an unfair advantage. See, cheating through superiority. His wings remain unseen, no halo erupts, but things fall apart a few inches away from his skin and the back burst of a collision spews the ice pellets conveniently away from him rather than up or around. A few gentle curves fix things entirely.
"See, I've been an outstanding influence," he agrees. "Attacking both is certainly an excellent approach, but what you do when you are taken from both sides?"
"Oh, you traitor," Michael says to Rose, but it's cheerful rather than accusing. He's got a splotch on his coat, now, right over where his heart would be, had he one for real. Then he's circling around Lucian, as if merely getting behind his back would be enough to deceive the Morningstar.
Much traitorous! Very back-stabbing! Rosemarie giggles, scariest of snowball assassins.
But uh oh. Lucian's got a point. A true and moderately connotative point. While she had briefly considered this turn of the tides, Rosemarie does pause while packing another handful of snow, half-crouched as she is.
Indeed, what to do?
Why, clearly follow the Olde and Honorable adage of: Those who fight and run away live to fight another day. And thus, she attempts to sprint off for the nearest tree or brush, any form of natural cover, in order to put a shielding between herself and the archangels. It's not a graceful retreat by any means, her boots granting her a slip-shod grip on the snowy grass. There's more than enough time for someone with excellent aim to ping her with a snowball.
"She dashed off. You have gone and made a snow angel by tossing that ball at me. Is it really necessary to wrestle you to the ground?" Yes, ask those questions. Lucian turns, mild-mannered as much as one can be, upon Michael. That younger brother taking in the chilly air and smug as a golden retriever gnawing on an expensive Italian loafer must be dealt with. Well, in time, then, after the elder angel takes a pleasant walk over to that grassy knoll that Rosemarie has selected for her last stand. Oh yes. Play fair? Never.
"There's no place like home for the holidays," he allows him to murmur, and that would be enough to charm birds from the sky and stop lions from chewing out the tender bits of a zebra, given the eloquence shaped in the laziest of syllables is still far and away beyond any mortal ken. A look up to the starless sky, for the clouds hover orange and angry and low, doesn't broadcast any other option. Turn around, around again. Really quite lazy.
Mike doesn't quite pout. But he does look just a hair forlorn. And then he's turning to go after Rosemarie, too. "Nah," he tells Lucian, blithe. "I'll stop. I guess it is an expensive suit." Says the creature with no real idea of how money makes a difference.
Curse that sly Devil. Curse him something good, because even as he elaborates on the comfort of home, it's frankly mesmerizing to hear. Rosemarie stands bolt upright and the newly-collected, half-formed ball of snow falls from her nerveless gloves. How she stares, bird before a snake, and she swallows against a suddenly tacky tongue.
"That's not fair," she manages to reply rather winsomely. But hey, she's far down the metaphysical power scale in comparison to the brothers. Michael receives a beseeching look and subtle tilt of her head towards Lucian, expressive eyebrows on full display. Your turn, git'em! she seems to imply. Strike while the iron's hot?
Oh no, look, a sad angel. Droopy wings, too, a feather gone crooked to bespeak a measure of dismay at a decision? Lucian won't play! Why won't puppers play? The unfairness of the situation will be decided in coming moments, between the woman peeking out at the Devil and the one who has his wide-open back to bap with a snowball.
"'Cause no matter how far away you roam," continues that languid song, though his breath barely permeates the air with any humidity or moisture. Not actually having conceiveable lungs will do that for a person. Another quarter of a circle turned, and he holds out his hand, almost to be taken. Hmm, throw a warbird?
Probably a bad idea. Summon every last snowflake in the vicinity to pile on brother? Yes!
Snow angel, indeed. There was a Michael. Now there's a heap of snow, man tall, and wider for certain, smooth and symmetrical, as if it'd just happened to drift that way.
IT does not immediately explode in a cloud of flurries, nor are there muffled mumbles of protest. Apparently that's all you have to do to subdue an angel of war; it's like hooding a falcon. Presumably he's just standing in there bemused, enjoying the sensation.
So…take the hand? Shi'ar Warbird in her subconscious says don't take the hand, because then there could be some crazy jujitu nonsense and she'll end up sprawled in a nearby snowbank.
Rosemarie reaches out in a bit of a daze regardless, limpid of eye and nearly completely charmed by the singing. The resulting mummification of Michael is enough to make her pause, fingers hovering above Lucian's outstretched palm, and blink a few times.
"Michael?" she asks softly, taken aback that there's actually an archangel underneath that mound of rapidly-condensed snow.
"He's quite all right. He can breathe in there, and besides, I technically didn't tackle him." See? Rules abided by! Lucifer Morningstar, the keeper of all such things. "Shall I leave you to check upon him?"
An untethered question, really, laid out in the planest of swirls and whorls.
Which is when the column of snow does explode, puffing out in a cloud. Mike's wings are open, spread, glowing like coals in the dimness of the park, vast, shadowy pinions. But his expression is delighted. "That was fun," he says, pleasantly. They'll have to start looking for him in snow drifts.
"Oh. ….no," replies Rosemarie quietly, looking back to the archangel and then alighting her grip upon his hand with gentle pressure. "How do you do that? Sing like — "
Cue sudden detonation of nearby pile of snow containing the brother-angel. Sprayed with snow, the librarian squeals and laughs, nearly dancing away entirely from Lucian but for the holding of his hand. "Michael!" Mildly remonstrative by tone, she still continues chuckling, shaking flurries from her scarf. Snowflakes linger in her lashes and the pink under her freckles is all from cold and good humor.
Snow hasn't yet fallen in any accumulation to call a snow drift. More like a snow credit union, maybe a snow pock, but nothing greater. A few inches come and go all over the month of December, leading into January, and the really epic accumulations wait until a certain white-haired woman named Ororo shows up. Right?
Well, snow is everywhere and Lucian coveated with it form the side, his hand raised a tad protectively. Enough to stop his face from being swept over, at least, that seems to satisfy his intentions thereabove. "See? Quite." A flick of his fingers over his brow. He's already falling into that remote space again. "Perfectly fine."
He's still got snow in his hair, even arched over his brows. Ridiculous, and it seems to bother him not at all. One pinion extends to brush the snow from Rose in a few brief strokes, polite as a gentleman dusting down his lady companion. "I should say sorry. But I'm not ," he admits, smugly.
"Of course you're not," and the librarian giggles for the brush of dawn-hued plumage across her coat. Finding a small accumulation on Lucian's shoulder, she reaches up and brushes that from his fine suit — which he wears; it does not wear him, silly fashionable material.
"I'm sorry that I didn't bring any hot chocolate. A thermos of it would be wonderful about now." A little shiver dances through Rosemarie's frame and causes her to squeeze at Lucian's hand incidentally. She seems in no real discomfort, however, simply beaming back and forth between the two angelic brothers.
Snow absolutely everywhere, and how delightful it is. Michael has been subject to one dump, and another for a cranky fellow stumbling off after cursing the trees. See, new discoveries to be made at every turn. Lucian holds little concern for that snow on him. It will melt or it won't, and the suit will be damaged very little upon that.
"It's quite fine," he says, though he blinks into the moment at that squeeze. Ground control, are you there, Lucian? As it matters, mostly, though he flashes a look at Rosemarie. Eyebrows rise. Then back to Michael.
He's glanced between them, and there's that extra glint in his eyes. Another layer of pleasure. "We could go get some," he suggests. "I have some money. I could buy them. There has to be somewhere near here that sells it…"
Rosemarie looks off towards the entrance to the Park and back to the two angelic gentlemen.
"There's the little shop across the street that sells the powdered form of it? Also chocolate chips, I guess? And milk. My apartment isn't too far either, if you don't mind walking." Though even as she says this, she remembers that both of them have far more functional wings than her and bites at her lip briefly. "Well, we could walk. Or f-fly." There goes the stutter and moreso the deeper blush.
"Would you care to take your chances with somewhere that might be open, or the powder? I'm not certain what is meant to be consumed as a powder other than spices or toxins to human physiology," Lucian points out. He adjusts the collar of his shirt to sit mostly straight, the tapering, angled lines doing wonders for his chest beneath that rather handsome jacket. Snow won't help him much to achieve a better fit, but at least it's classy and dark. "Is flying what you wish, Miss Falcroft?"
"Let's fly," Michael says, eager as a child. "Do you want me to carry you? Or Lu, you would, if she wanted?" Not an iota of jealousy in him…..or consideration. "We could have it there. You've got a nice apartment."
Rosemarie toes again at the snow beneath her boots, still warming at her cheeks something fierce.
"I d-don't m-mind who c-c-carries m-me, but y-yes, f-flying w-w-would be v-very nice," she manages to reply, looking up and between the two brothers again. "I also d-d-do have the chips and m-milk, at m-my apartment." Oh yes, that's right — Michael has been to her apartment before. Cue a deeper blush yet!
Now get a clothesline from somewhere in East Village and then let Rosemarie hold onto it. Clip her on. One angel per end. Sail away, sail away, to the East River flow….
She's scuffing her boots. Oh for his sake, Lucian brushes off his hands and extends them to Rosemarie. "Consider the upper atmosphere will be very cold, and the lower very busy. Not that I care remotely if the press catches me, but let's keep it to a dull roar?" Wings? What wings? the terrestrial definition of wings is thoroughly absent until they aren't, his formed of the starlight that doesn't make it through the clouds and the ambient radiance stolen from the nearest dimming lamps to weave into a matrix of tarnished majesty.
There's a funny little simper at that. Michael….perhaps a hair envious, or admiring. "Do you want my coat?" he offers to her, as Lucian claims the honor of being her escort in the empyrean. "Excellent," he says, re: milk and chocolate.
Oh, he must mean the nearly-incessant squealing of parts-fear and -joy that she makes whenever she's bouyed through the open air of the city by either angelic brother. Rosemarie does smile, mostly to herself with her ducked chin, but she does take up Lucian's hands. Stepping into his space, she takes a moment to appreciate both sets of magnificent wings, her sigh ghosting white and with a hint of longing.
"Beautiful," she whispers, enamored in totality for the lightspun feathers. "Oh. No, I sh-should b-b-be okay. Thank y-you, M-Michael." She gives him a big smile with apple-cheeks.
How to adjust then? No difficulty to measure the trajectory and the speed needed to take to the air with Rosemarie's additional weight. He allows the good shake of those expanding plumes to catch the air, stirring up little devils that spiral flakes lazily around. Another quickened flicker beat and he tests the buoyancy against the ground, practiced at snapping open and shadowing the rotation of those sublime appendages. Give him another moment or two with his hands set firmly upon Rosemarie's. He abandons the grip to her hands, going for her waist, and that forestalls the need for a running leap, as long as he can bend his knees and kick straight up. What is the city traversed compared to that beginning? A lot smoother, and a lot more interesting.
With Michael as literal wingman, springing into the air a beat behind Lucian. How long has it been since they fell into that unconscious formation. Angels aren't meant to be long alone.
The flight is swift, Michael leading the way after a little, landing lightly on her balcony to open the door for the both of them.
Flight alone is nothing. A lifetime alone? A thousand thousand lifetimes alone? Ask again in a few generations how he feels about that and Lucian might not even scoff. He is comfortable in the air as he is on foot or in a torture chamber or a grocery store. Sky at least seethes the words away, and he has to ensure that Rosemarie is not turned into a rigid icicle deposited onto her rooftop or the front door. However warm he might be, she still has her temperature limits. They are limits understood and respected, just like Lola exploding into a cat-shaped fur cloud in her departure is not taken personally.
He has to shuck off that coat, anyways, and fix a bit of dampened wool by a good blotting. Inside the house, the wings have to fold; her apartment wouldn't contain their full volume in this form, anyways.
"Thank you," says Michael. The cat's fleeing panic only earns her a cluck of his tongue. "Poor thing," he says, in sympathy. "That happens every time. She takes it personally, I think. Like I'm the father of all pigeons come to extract vengeance on all bad kitties." There's an image. Maybe the pigeons of New York do worship him, in their birdbrained way.
If Michael were to try to convince Rosemarie that pigeons worshipped him, she would probably believe it — at least until someone informed her otherwise. Who is she to judge the proclivities of the odd birds? She's an odd enough bird, in her way.
The young woman simply shakes her head at her cat's actions. "She only ever liked one friend of mine, and only in passing. She's a terrible snob." A little shiver wracks her in passing, holdover from the playing in the snow, and she tucks a hand beneath her arm as she stirs the chocolate. It's nearly there, just a few lumps left. She deems it safe enough to depart briefly from the burners to find the milk in the fridge. The glass jug is set on the countertop beside the pot and she resumes stirring. "Do you boys like your hot chocolate very rich? Should I use less milk?" Oh yes, she's grinning over her shoulder at them both. Boys. As if they were ever as such.
"You could ask her. I am sure she would tell you that she is alarmed by sudden motions." Or it could be something of that sort, but Lucian would rather talk to Lola without anyone in the room. Cats have secrets and what being has more than He? Shut up, Dad. No one asked You.
Let it be said the angels aren't supposed to be worshipped anymore than saints, and the very idea of that shoudl be concerning. He won't comment, tugging on his sleeves, straightening them up from the flight. Chocolate preparation is easier by powder and chips than the way he recalls among others; grinding down beans with a monostone on a volcanic slab imported from the far wilds of Central America. "I enjoy something favoured bitter to overly sweet. Rich is fine, when not overtaken by too much sugar. If it's pure sugar, give it to him." A nod at Michael. "Have you eaten four or five chocolate bars in a row?"
Oh yes. Sugar high Michael? Devilish.
……guilt. Michael looks like a golden retriever who's shredded the hallway carpet because he just couldn't help himself. "…..just once," he offers, lamely. "I do like sugar." He doesn't need it, but this body's homegrown enough to have its own opinions on the subject. One he heeds. "So….rich is fine, for me."
"I'll ask Lola, yes," she replies to Lucian. What a thought, actually conversing with the cat. It would be interesting to hear what she has to say. The Archangel of War is given a fond smile. "Rich is doable then."
Considering that it's baker's chocolate in chip form, Lucian can have his bitterly-hot brew nearly right out of the pot itself. Once the cocoa chips are completely melted, she pours and stirs in the milk until it's a uniform mixture. Mugs are gathered and the first goes to the eldest archangel, with only a single spoonful of sugar stirred into it. Next goes to Rosemarie, who spoons in enough sugar to grant it sweetness as well as a few drops of vanilla extract. Lastly, Michael, with any thicker dregs of the chocolate spooned into his mug and at least four spoonfuls of sugar worked into a light froth.
To each is given his mug and Rosemarie lifts her own in a little toast. "To…the holidays? And company," she adds, her smile something softer in regards to both angels.
That poor cat. Oh no. Lucian has a fondness for cats, there is that. His expression shutters slightly at the consideration of earning the cat's respect and thus an ally in the war on Christmas. Err, trouble. Pigeons. There may not be a defined sense of who the war is on, other than terrible jingles and crappy presents, but his plan is already forming nonetheless. Aversion of a crisis will come, in time, courtesy of Lola.
Mug taken, he says his thanks and peers into the glass. Considering the subatomic structure, the boiling point of chocolate, and whether the sugar is potentially a poison? Not for him, he's made of divine energy alone. "Cheers. To more sugar and chocolate." An odd toast, but what on earth can he toast to otherwise? May all the patrons put back their books in the correct place and realize librarians are masters degree-holders in research and innovation, instead of glorified reshelving volunteers? Bottom's up!
"To good company," agrees Michael, clinking his mug with theirs. "This is excellent," he tells her, very clearly restraining himself from just gulping it down. He's learned a few lessons about the errors of gluttony already, in this little span of time. "Cheers."