1964-12-19 - Happy Solstice, Birb
Summary: There will be no mentions of Christmas, thank you. Lucifer invents the chocolate fountain.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
rosemarie lucian 

There was, to be fair, a warning. A small box in cardboard couriered over during the holidays, addressed to Rosemarie. The contents? A single wide-mouthed champagne glass holding a single block of quality dark chocolate. None of that milk business. The Lux return address leaves little doubt of its purpose.

That was yesterday.

Now there is a box the size of the average German shepherd or skinny hog on the front step. It rattles, yes, it does. It gets in the way. Anyone who wants to climb over it will deal with packing peanuts and other packaging galore, or the ire of the eldest being in the universe after the One Above All himself.

Especially as he mosies in, carrying a box under his arm, nothing nearly so wieldy. It just happens to be from Switzerland. It happens to be ostentatiously wrapped by someone who knows origami and tape-fu at levels to be perfected by some Mid-Atlantic housewife in a few decades.

Let the rumpled route inside the place be proof he has /reason/ not to let the fire escapes be blocked, especially inside. But he did have to go out to fetch that enormity of a box. And look, it has spiral ribbons wrapped possessively around it, a geometric snake ready to bite someone with the death of a thousand paper cuts.

"Oh my."

His greeting that he receives when he mosies in, unnatural finery about his personage and parcel under his arm. Rosemarie, in her bathrobe and leggings, is still rather agog at the medium-breed-sized box that…rattles. Lucian is given a mildly concerned look, more parts curiosity than anything else; Lola is nowhere to be found, as usual, stashed away beneath the bed in a pique of concern over intruders to her domain.

Fingertips pluck at one of the delicately-spiraled ribbons on the box, playfully enjoying the way they retract like springy vines. "Lucian, what's all this?"

Note that the small pine tree, a lucky find at a local grocery store, sits banshed outside of no ill will on its part. Tinsel and needles are no friend to the feline persuasion and the librarian's not about to spend the holidays at the veterinarian because someone can't help themselves in regards to helping herself.

Not like he was gone long. Eschew comforts of socialising the human way? Nay. But there is something to fetch and triumphantly, the blond sets that down upon the table. Nothing collapses, so it isn't made of lead, at least. The contents do rattle somewhat. Putting that down allows his hands to be freed up to rustle those dark curls, and he smirks faintly. "Haven't the foggiest?" The general expectation isn't a lie, not really, especially given the vagueness of the answer. He tweaks a spiral straight and then glances out to consider the box in the hallway. No way she will be able to pull that in without some assistance, so he shrugs and descends to pull that in. Care is necessary to avoid shattering the contents, which he manages by cheating. Might as well float it inside.

The archangel gets the usual somewhat-shy smile from Rosemarie, all tamped pleasure at the affection, and her eyes finally trekking up to his face at his question.

"They're presents, I'd guess. What's inside of them, however, I haven't the foggiest, no," and she mimics his cut-glass accent in returning his words to him. Of course it's not the best mimicry, what with that born-and-bred New York accent bleeding in. A quiet chuckle brings a light blush along with it.

Now as far as that floating box goes? Lucian can probably see her uvula for how her jaw falls open. Gripping her bathrobe's lapels shut out of shocked habit, she stares. Oh. Oh, but that's magic!!!

The archangel could be preening, and he could also be deemed amusing by the wrong kind of folks. The heavy box carts along after him, carried a few inches off the ground and arranged to sit in the only open space. "Have you a knife or box cutter? We need to get these out and assemble them appropriately." His smug secrecy has nothing to do with the actual ownership of a secret, but rather giving the traditions of the season a middle finger. He might accidentally incinerate the tree later.

The box, as it happens, could easily contain Rosemarie herself if she rolled herself up to fit inside.

"Not entirely presents save I've bequeathed you something suitable for the time," he adds. Must assess the handiwork. Is there a big table available, somewhere suitably wide rather than long?

"Oh. Oh! Yes, one sec-cond," and there she whisks off to the kitchen. Of course there's a drawer dedicated to odds-and-ends, things like rubber bands and lost buttons and magnets and wine screws and you can surely name other things. In the end, there's actually a pen-knife, an odd gift a few years back from her father, always the one offering 'useful' presents over foufou froofery.

Rosemarie returns, still holding her bathrobe shut against…really nothing to be revealed anyways, she tied the sash tightly, but hey, habits die hard. Offering out the closed pen-knife to Lucian, she glances around. "I'm n-not sure where w-we could assemble things, b-but maybe here?" A hand gestures towards it even as those big, brown doe-eyes continue to reflect wonderment at the canny man's actions. There is the coffee table, a long and lean extension of furniture no higher than the knees before her couch.

The knife is suitably proffered and rejected. "You can slice the sides. Let me deal with the top unless you wish to. Less chance of anyone falling over another." Because two people do that so frequently, do they, when hyper naturally gifted at collisions? No doubt the Warbird would have opinions about treated like a seasick warbride — easy typo to make mentally — and squashed on her steamer trunk.

"Yes, I suppose the coffee table can be repurposed. It may be somewhat low, but we can compensate with height." Always compensating, proof he's feeling masculine, is it? Don't follow that particular train of thought, it leads to bad places. "Shall we begin, then? Tear in, my dear."

Lucian gets one last mildly suspicious glance, but then, he's correct: one must open the package to see its innards. After all, she's gifted with alien avian ferocity, not x-ray vision. That's another pantheon entirely.

"Alright, the sides," she replies distractedly, already utilizing the pen-knife to work at the box's bindings. It doesn't take much for her tool to do its good work; it wasn't exactly a dull blade to begin with, something to consider in counter to the mild-mannered ownership. She thins her lips in focus, even squints slightly, the only deviations from her task found in tucking loose mouse-brown tendrils away behind her ear and shoulder now and then.

"…somewhat low. Height?" It's more of an external-internal monologue as she works at a sticky point. Teamwork pans out and eventually, the box will open to reveal…

The package is big, a box worthy of a Christmas tree. An opulent artificial tree, possibly something sawed off the top from the Rockefeller one. Wouldn't that be a sight to see, the third replacement tree of the year hewn of its top… Now, that betokens ideas.

Within… more boxes. Packing paper. Packaging rather like the box she received the day prior, except in longer rows and such. Alas, Rosemarie will have her work literally cut out for her. Start slicing the tape, otherwise the lids won't open on their own. If unwrapping presents is the soul of Christmas, Lucian has apparently felt the need to have /forty/ Christmases piled together. Or they're all entertaining because the lids at least contain treats. He has little trouble with removing the top flaps, but then incinerating tape on a very fine line is a bit of a cheat. Why ever not? He can speed along just to watch her work, which is itself a pleasant pastime. Or drink bourbon, smoke a cigar, flay a few souls; you know. Old times' sake and all.

Time, however, will reveal glasses. Lots of champagne glasses. Infinitely more than a house party would ever need. Probably a good hundred and some odd. Maybe they're having the biggest toast to alcohol poisoning or marrying Michael to a giant pigeon statue


Indeed, somewhere in her surprise-scattered memory, she recognizes the contents of the packaging as having been singular ere she last looked upon them. A little flick of her brows as she sees the rows upon rows.

Plucking the first of the many contents from its smaller home, it is…a champagne glass. The one received so recently sits upon her kitchen counter and Rosemarie looks to it and back to the one in-hand, comparing. It hasn't transformed in that short span of time. It retains its beautiful, crystalline make-up, so finely-made as to warrant much care in its handling.

"Lucifer." His name on a breath, she blinks at him, flushing redder still until her cheeks are a healthy pink beneath those freckles. "So many?" Never mind the number, that's not changing, even as she carefully places the first down upon the coffee table — one of many, apparently.

One champagne glass.

Six champagne glasses.

Twenty champagne glasses.

Keep unpacking and there really are one hundred of them, all about identical, occasionally differentiated by the incised sides, giving character and subtle play of light. Of course he'd know much about that.

Lucian works on removing them from their boxes once she is done, since a pile of boxes inside a big split cardboard box will be something to toss out the window to a dumpster he invariably has to shove in place. "Oh yes, we need this many. At the very least. Fifty would never achieve the goal, whereas two hundred might be excessive for this space." He adds two more glasses as widely apart as he dares while still keeping a diamond shape. Rectangular is not ideal, but it could work if he needed it to. Well, from there, he starts building a row of glasses, one rim to the next. Very easy to follow with. "Indeed, Miss Falcroft?"

The lilt of his response draws out a rill of laughter from the librarian, placing fingers against her heating cheeks in passing before hiding away the end of that bubbling giggling behind aforementioned digits.

Delighted. She's delighted, clear to see now that the incredulity has melted away. "Yes, Mister Venere, so many! What for? A t-t-tower?" She's quick to catch on, hazarding that another glass belongs next to the one he recently set down — though she does look to him for confirmation.

"All librarians are barbarians. See the destructive force you unleashed," says the wicked influence who has been defying all convention and reason for the past fifteen billion odd years. Maybe even more, if there were any to speak of. Regardless, he continues to work on setting up a flat square of glasses one after the other. "Ah, Morningstar. You need not use the Italian." He shrugs his shoulders slightly at it. "Not quite a tower, that would imply mostly straight lines up and down. A hollow skyscraper has little charm." He inclines his head, gold hair falling over a burning summer sky blue eye. "Unless, of course, you intend to build it so."

And she would be /terrible/ if she did because Mr. Judge-Jury-Executioner there has opined, and opinions do not change easily.

Rosemarie tilts her head at the archangel, her lips pursing together against another bright smile that might as well exist for how the very corners betray her. Just a tich of that Warbird-gold seeps into her irises as she considers him, that most wicked influence.

"Well then, Mister Morningstar — since I've unleashed this most terrifying wrath and it's not quite a tower…what are your plans?" She asks this most innocently, hands now folded and left before her waist. All should beware the Morningstar's plans.

Too bad, Warbird. There are patterns to work on, neat lines that angels so supposedly love. One faith has it all wrong. They like patterns. They like just about everything. They made it all, after all. Restless, he plinks another glass atop the others. The round base anchors over the rims that connect in a braced, curly I. See, easy spot for him to start layering them in a second tier that the bottom supports easily enough. "What shape do you think you would make by stacking things? Do you not remember playing with blocks and such as a child?" he asks Rosemarie.

It was only twenty years ago! How could she possibly forget? It's not like /he/ forgot what he did in his first years. He's quite proud of it.

It's called the Big Bang.

Hopefully he doesn't catch the indulging roll of eyes on her part, quick as it is.

"Tomato, tohmahto, Mister Morningstar," she replies, picking up another glass and placing it ever to carefully next to his. "Polite society calls it a 'champagne tower', not a pyramid." Regardless, she places a lingering and gentle kiss on his cheekbone while they brush shoulders and then she's carefully handing off another flute to him.

Tomato, potato, neighbourhood. There are proper ways to say things, and words without proper use here. Lucifer Morningstar will not be gainsayed, not here. "You are so smart with that tongue, I might find devilish uses for it. All said and done, I am sure I can find ways to expand your horizons." He smirks ever so slightly. "Polite society hasn't quite engaged the idea as known here, though its original use might have defied matters some." He curls his fingers, and another of those glasses stands on the rest. Oh, there is no fanciful sculpting to show off. That man is not a man, but a portion of his power deeply lost.

But that portion never got cheek kisses, except from demonic cats, so there are thoughts erased from his mind without too great a concern. He flicks his tongue against his tooth and makes certain not to jostle Rosemarie until she's on her own. "Very good. You can set the proportions, though I will probably need to manage the spire unless you care to stand in the middle there."

Oh, how he does manage to make her ears burn — and he's standing right there, not elsewhere across the city doing whatever potentially nefarious things that an archangel might be wont to do. Rosemarie bites her lip-scar for the briefest moment while passing off another flute to the Morningstar.

"I d-defer to you on the design, Lucifer." Back to the first name, seems proper enough. "And I'm a librarian. We t-tend to be intelligent sorts." Oh dear, a faint giggle. There must have been an exception that floated through her mind; or maybe it's the threat of creativity on his part. As stated before: beware.

Ears burn, might as well make the rest of her by leaning over to suckle on that flaming curve and dragging his tongue down to the undercurve of the lobe. No earring will get in the way, even if he has to tug hook or post out with his teeth. Fingers, please, that's for the least talented sorts. Anyone can use flippers or fingers. Can they crochet with their eyelashes? Ask Michael, he probably figured it out. His elder brother has better talents.

"I defer to your mortal wiles. By all means, I shall not do for you what you can do for yourself. You will no doubt classify them in the most fetching of fashions." Let her do that and he'll be there being a nuisance, holding her waist so she doesn't fall over and combing his fingers up and down her spine so she cannot form sentient words. It all plays out. Eventually she has to go back to the box, anyways.

No earrings at all to get in the way of his excursions into a land of sensitivity, laced lightly with the usual lavender and lemon locked into her brunette hair and beneath the cherry-almond of lotion put on his morning. Defer to…something, he says something about fetching and fashion and she probably shouldn't set down the champagne flute at the moment for how her aim is rather unsteady. Lips along her neck and the dance of blunt fingernails along the thin fabric of her bathrobe don't help.

"I think we'll…have to agree to-to-to disagree on the design then," Rosemarie manages with a lack of strength of force, leaning back into his affections. Distracting indeed! Eventually, she'll get back to the box. Eventually — after the glass gets put down and its placement probably needs a second opinion, given it's precarious.


He uses his teeth to tug at the lobe, bestowing the intrigue of sensation by the brush of his smooth-shaven cheek to Rosemarie's throat. Whether her fingers go numb to drop the fragile champagne glass onto its peers, he will account that a success before worrying about any shards. Shards, those are a new risk to the mortal shell, not one he really bothers himself with much. The librarian is another matter for the seraph. "Delicious. Reminds me of those cookies."

Another nibble at her hair, and he pulls back his hands. See, no touching, no demands on her to distract from the task she's set before. Another few selections there, she has what, seventy-four to go? He will lounge lazily on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, for the decadence of watching.

A crystalline rattle betrays his affects on her ability to properly balance the glass, but his retreat is her saving grace. Imagine that, the Devil bestowing such a boon. For eternal seconds after his enthroning upon her couch, Rosemarie eyes him from beneath heavy lids, that avian gold taking up a percentage more of the usual cinnamon-brown.

Smiling to herself and appearing remarkably enigmatic for it, against her usual air, she finally fixes the erstwhile stemware. Perfect — that one won't fall, at least.

It seems she's been left to her devices in formulating this not-tower, so she returns to the box to gather up two more glasses. The fall of her bathrobe is more relaxed now, as is she.

"How is business at the Club?" A safe enough topic of conversation that will allow her to continue filling in the proposed design.

The Devil sitting on her couch could be flipping through whatever interesting book she's kept on hand. The visual might be incongruous to the stories of the red-skinned taskmasker flogging the punished, but that would be Hydra rather than Lucifer Morningstar. Johann only wishes he were as awesome as the Devil. His foot wobbles, side to side, leg crossed over the knee.

One glass set, another to go. The pattern she uses will be acknowledged, studied haphazardly while he does the rarest of things and relaxes. He will not be interrupting Rosemarie any time soon, simply awaiting his opportunity to create a glistening twisted spire in the middle to capture the splashes and dazzles of what he has in mind.

"That is what you wish to talk of? Business? I had no idea you had a mind for it," he muses. "Passable. Excitement is naturally great for the visitors. I covet something more explosive."

Rosemarie sticks her tongue into the pocket of her cheek briefly as she reaches to place another glass. Careful, careful…there. And now the other, most cautiously. And back to grab two more.

As she walks back to the collection in cardboard encasing, her hand drifts over and through his blonde curls in a caressing drag of fingernails along his scalp. Mmmmfff. Just as soft as she suspected. Tingles linger on her palm afterwards. It's like petting a large cat, in a way.

"More explosive? I may not know much of business, but I hope you mean socially-speaking and not a bomb." She glances over her shoulder at him, more bravely tucking a few flutes into the crook of her forearm against her waist. Hey, she can carry about six now! Most auspicious. "What would you like to talk about however, Lucifer?" She's nothing if not polite in the end. Back to balancing glasses.

One of those daring glasses moans; it whispers its chiming lamentation with another click of motion. He barely brushes his fingers to skirt the edge of the table with a web of telekinesis, placing the object back in its place.

And she scratches his head. Well, tolerant of that, the leonine angel tweaks the tail of the bow holding her robe shut, not enough to provide reason to fall, but it risks everything anyways. Might as well give a good little shake of the head, excusing her fingers, sieves out the ticklish sensation where Rosemarie wanders.

"Social. Anything. I have sat under this lampshade far enough, time to push it off and do something more. Exactly what, I have yet to know." A glance to the wrapped box she hasn't touched trails after the librarian. "What indeed? Futures. What to seek from the future, what lies there. How best to adapt to this narrow little segment of reality I call my own."

"Social," the librarian echoes. Not business, very well. A thoughtful sigh from her as she places another glass down, completing this layer. On to the next!

"Anything. Well…I can tell you that I've been practicing…flying." Her eyes rest upon him again, her task paused. "On the back porch. My shoulders are getting stronger, but I can't get more than up to my toes from off the ground. Still…it's progress, I think." A muffled titter hides behind her closed lips and chin tucked demurely. "Lola doesn't know what to think of it all. She watches from the couch. Stares, actually. She must think I'm a giant pigeon when I do it."

Social matters. Not business. What is business for someone who needs nothing? Money is nothing, clothing is nothing. Fly around unseen by the majority of the population, it's all good, isn't it? He makes up an answer on the spot, hooking his hands around the bend of his knee. "Have you now? Conventional wisdom would say you require some apparatus to keep from falling over on your face." He shrugs his shoulders slightly and chuckles, scraping his nails along the line of his shoulder to ease the intangible itch that sometimes lies there. "Do you feel secure doing it? The cat cannot judge you for learning, but do not think you need a rope around your waist to learn." Mind, easy to say that when he used to augment sinews and muscles to accommodate flight. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. "A pigeon? No. If she sees in the right spectrum, your plumes are all gone."

Rosemarie's brows dance high. "Oh. She must think I'm levitating. Hovering humans probably still don't fall into her spread of understanding." She chuckles again, working to keep building this fluted pyramid. "Maybe she watches the little pigeon who always seems to accompany me. It's cute, if not…overly brave, I think. Brown and white spotted one."

She continues speaking as she goes to gather more glasses. "I try to remain balanced when my wings are working — either that or I hold onto the back of one of my deck chairs." Two in a heavier metal build attend the corresponding table out there, which is hosting that small pine tree with silver tinsel. "I feel safe because I'm not going to fall over the railing if I can't get more than upon my toes."

"I do not recall that cats doubted humans could fly. They doubted it could be done well." He breaks into a sharp little smile, all edges, stone-faced and cutting through the conversation with that. "The cat sees a pigeon chasing you about?"

No, his eyes didn't just start glowing. The room just darkened, that's all. The hard, brittle lines are beautiful and rush around to realign into a harder mask, the expression of a being so primordial, fundamental, and remote to be nothing human. Neither has he ever pretended to be that humanoid, sketching a delineation of eye-narrowed regard. His mouth tightened, only a fraction. "The chair is a good thing to grip to. You would not want to be unbalanced, veering between the ground and the sky. It's a precarious perch to find yourself in, and a fine way to be injured or shaken so badly you would never try again."

Another fine ring fills the room, as if fanfare to the sudden eclipsing of natural lighting by his presence; it's the base of a flute touching another rising glass, threatening its sanctity. A quick grab on her part and controlled quiver keeps the work from completely coming apart — that, and surely the webbing of power put down by the archangel minutes back.

"N-N-No, w-wouldn't want to d-do that," Rosemarie agrees quietly. No faster way to convince the average human to stop doing an action than pain. "The p-pigeon means no harm." Risking a glance to him means finding her heart in her throat. Swallowing it back down, she attempts to remain calm in the face of reminder that he's anything but human in turn by gathering more glasses. Close to the next tier now!

Clink of crystal to crystal, a melodic note as pure as any struck in the gardens of Versailles or the great opera houses of Europe. Such a beautiful note, something special, and that warrants a little bit of a smirk from him again. Nothing to risk here in building a pyramid without it falling to the ground.

His expression is remote, violent in the starshine that burns in his eyes and nowhere else. Suppressing the light is a talent shared by that many aeons removed great-granddaughter of his, though her finesse is different from his, whom burns the sky and stifles lamps. One kindled suns. Some truths are poked, prodded. "A plaything, then? Or something more serious?"

A bundle more of flutes held against her side and curled about her stomach; she's getting more comfortable in handling them now, less concerned about breaking one of the myriad beauties. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, Rosemarie wills her heartbeat to slow and blood pressure to abate. No need for plumage, even if the blond's curiosity isn't too unlike being observed by a tiger. Without any bars between she and it. Tiger, tiger, burning bright…

"The p-pigeon w-watches me attempt to f-f-fly. It d-doesn't talk. It's a city b-bird. It sits on the r-railing." His wording begs a more concerned look on her part, even if it's from beneath lashes and she swallows, naturally a bit cowed because frankly, no angel is anything less than awe-inspiring even when in partial display of prowess. "A p-plaything? What d-do you m-mean?"

With the last glass settled into place, it's now up to him to create that fabled spiral.

"Miss Falcroft, when did this ball of feathers take up residence?" Idle inquiry, it truly is. The man can saturate his tone with as much or as little emotion as he wants. Few people can wall off their emotions so well as he has, practiced in a simmering, abhorrent black tide of resentment, rage, and loathing that towers nearly as far as his Father does. A man possibly railing a bit. The angel that fell but never Fell knows to check those outward measures. Roving emotions aren't aiming at her directly, not yet, anyways. "My brother keeps watch over you when you take to wing." Could be a question. Probably is, skirts that. "Did you know?"

If he's wrong, then he is wrong. He is flexible enough mentally for that if he can get out of his own damn way.

Standing by the architecture in finest crystal, all glinting in the wane ambient light, she continues to observe him. Something's off. He's gone…flat, in a way — like the surface of a pond.

"…no," she replies softly, frowning. "I d-didn't know that M-Michael was watching m-me. A g-guardian angel?" It's not a terrible thought, at least to her. "But I have y-y-you." There's her own possible question in return. She toys with the end of one lock, stubbornly falling forwards of her shoulders. "I d-don't remember when the p-pigeon first showed up. M-Maybe a m-m-month back?"

"Pigeons. Always pigeons." Fine. He will worry about glaring at the tree and the pigeons and feeding Lola a diet of pigeon pate after the fact. Mm, pate. Delicious high quality meet is well worth the enjoyment, isn't it? Who doesn't love the avian delicacy, when feline? The light slithers back and limns the round mouths of the glasses, cutting through the branched incisions on the sides, giving a tumble of luminosity that resembles nothing more than the molten moon tipped over. Not quite silver, the effect brindles enough gold through to be a marvel in its own right.

"All right." Trust is not easily given, and it's even harder to extend when burnt. Nonetheless, the eldest of the Firstborn takes those knocks. "He may have a hand in watching. It is mere assumption." Roast pigeon on a stick. Pigeon fricassee. Stuffed pigeon, pigeon a l'orange. Mmm, pussy cat, what is your favourite? Maybe a bit of mousy pigeon casserole, or French pigeon soup? He could mentally go on and on. There are whole menus unfolding for Lola.

"Mind the corner there," he gestures. "The spacing might have more fall through than reach the basin. When you do stand hold of the rail, try not to use it to lift yourself up too much. A crutch, as it were."

The librarian weighs the new knowledge granted to her in the brief interlude of near-shadow within her apartment. If she didn't know better…that was a spark of jealousy.

"I'll remember that." All of it. Mussing the length of hair between her lips, she considers the corner in question. Yikes, that will be a delicate procedure.

With utmost sloth, she pokes the light-bearing flute just a touch to align it better according to his observations. There — perfect? Well…allowing human error, of course, those who can never achieve such a status.

"Beautiful." It's an offering in peace from her, the quiet statement, her eyes resting upon him again.

She'd know it for what it is, but does he? Possibly. Does he stifle it some? Yes. Is there a sense of silence, and a belief of maintaining his present equilibrium for the sake of her house? Yes.

He's trying. At least that much Lucifer manages, though his teeth grit together a little longer. He nods to Rosemarie trying to arrange the Tower of Champagne just so. Does that look about right? He will wait on her to be able to assess the work, and form the last of the glasses into a spire that literally appears to capture the sun and the moon through the window. At least when the hour is right. "Do you have the other box? Not quite done."

See, he's trying. Not perfect, but he is.

Other box? Oh, yes, that other much smaller parcel that originally arrived under his arm. Her first traveling steps slow as she sees the crystal morph into another shape entirely and the process takes her breath away. A few blinks ascertain that it's still there — truly there — and she looks back to Lucian.

"Beautiful." English language never suffices, but that's what she has available to her. Imagination is such a wonderous thing in his hands, firstborn of all creation and with fingerprints on all of it. The box in question is brought to him and offered with an air of mild reverence to him. Is she curious? Yes, in a way that balances out the earlier fluster. The Shi'ar Warbird still peeks from those half-golden eyes.

The smaller parcel, the one less traveled, or more, depending on the point of view involved. Crystal slips up and spins around, then solidifies. The languid man resting on the couch exhales, allowing some of the pernicious green envy to burn off. He is satisfied enough by that, by loosening dark coils and tendrils to allow for things to come to fruition. Or rather, not.

"I'm sorry. For accusing you, if you felt so." See, words out. "It is easy to forget that… some, at least, mean well here." He can say that much and it costs him nothing, and in nothing, there is everything. The box she holds receives a nod. "Open it, Rose."

This requires a sit-down, she thinks, and thus, she settles beside him on the couch. Legs cross at the ankles and her hands remain about the box, resting upon her lap.

"Not…necessarily," she starts off, rolling the old scar on her lip against her tooth and allowing the plush shelf to rest once more. "M-Many people mean w-well here, Lucifer. I p-promise." A blush prefaces her words, perhaps accents the mincing humor in it: "Have a little f-f-faith, hmm?" The box receives her next attentions, gaze upon it, and this one seems far less difficult to open. Tape parts to a sturdy nail slid beneath it and flaps open, one-two and three-four. The contents?

"I do. It's called dessert." Truthfully it's called not incinerating buildings and random bystanders, but take as thou wilt, and all that. He grates his teeth together and Lucian flips his hands over, pressing them down to the couch, standing in a single sinuous motion that would make cats entirely jealous. He does that only so much as to stretch his arms indolently wide and allow the span of his wings to phase in, for sitting on them or intersecting the atoms of a stuffed cushion would be terribly embarrassing. Properly appropriate, really, to do it one way or another. "There."

Don't mind him, just sitting like you do, with a wingspan outdoing the average Concorde. If the Concorde were, say, two feet tall. He flexes those feathers and casually tosses a spread row of raked pinions over the back of the couch. Hope someone has dusted, and no kitty comes out to pounce something ignited and razor-sharp.

The contents of that box, wrapped up in spirals of ribbon? More ribbon. More posh tissue paper, and tissues individually wrapped around bonbons. Truffles, in fact, though they go beyond the standards into places the chocolatiers of Europe haven't even adventured. What's an antimatter bonbon au courant supposed to taste like? Only one way to find out, really. Chocolate, chocolate everywhere, and all of it probably set to melt.

Ooh, wings. The Shi'ar Warbird perks and once he's again sitting like she do, Rosemarie summarily ignores the box o' chocolates. The alien avian approves in her blood, inevitably as it always does, for the biggest wings hold the most strength and all that biological nuances in mating habits. Strong babies! Awkward brain state. The librarian finds relative safety in looking down at the box and truly realizing what it contains.

"Oh…it's chocolate!" The rising scent of it, teased forth by natural heat in the air and no doubt from that radiating from the equally-radiant plumage resting along the back of the couch, is divine. She inhales, appreciating it, and her tongue slips without thought to touch Cupid's bow. "…I can have one, I assume?" Silly brain — it slips right back into appreciation mode upon returning her attention to him. Preen, cheep-cheep. Is that a winsome sigh? It is. Hormones always complicate things.

Feathers that could slice the pillows to ribbons threaten flesh and the robe in equal turn until Lucifer properly situates himself. The molten moonbeam glow tumbling over their construct on the coffee table owes much of its luminescent origins to his presence, contained and shaped though the effervescent glow is. Alien avian approve all it likes; he indulges in the comfort, ignoring the fact his shirt may just be shredded to ribbons in the back. On the other hand, maybe not; the permutations of energy deal with the clothes he wears, given they're probably projections too. As much as awkward brain words settle in for Rosemarie, she has her reasons, no? Let the amalgam bird share her thoughts or silence then, preening for the potential mates.

He is far more interested in her response to the chocolate than potentially dragging him to the nest of trashy romance novels and discarded weaponry, all said and done. Convenience, one thing at a time. He has a chance to chuckle. "What gentleman brings a box of chocolates he then denies to his paramour? Do you think me so crass?" Honest question, really, as they are much of the time. "There may be enough to spare a bite or two. Place them to the top of the spire and watch the effect."


Since there's a bite or two to spare, she'll indulge. Permission has been granted, after all. Plucking a bonbon from the box entails unwrapping it from its petals of fine paper before Rosemarie can bring it to her lips between two fingers. Mmmfff. Oh yes, that's real chocolate, already the perfect mouth-feel due to ambient temperature. It begins to melt about her fingerpads, threatening to drop even as she's sitting there, nearly brooding in happiness over the intense taste.

A small laugh for him, glitter atop the pillowy thrill of her pleasure, and then she rises to her feet. The bonbon? All gone-gone, subject to her palate and its whims. Cleaning excess means a curl or two of her tongue and then a shifting of box to said hand; she's well aware of cleanliness here. Left hand opens up a good number of the crinkly parcels and then, there's one, at least, atop the spire. Room for more? If so, she places a decent handful upon that uppermost peak of design.

Indulge in the antimatter bonbon, the dark gravity well of a dark, high cocoa morsel whipped up with inflections of thyme and lavender on the base of a ginger crystal. Odd selection, yes, but try imagining all the wonders of a summertime English garden when the sleepy flowers open their sprigs to the tender breeze and that's the flavour in a nutshell. Other figments are wrapped in paper, each waiting to be placed in the glasses raised in a higher tower around the pyramid. All she needs to do is place them. All many, many pieces, for the maximum effect. No one can say that Lucian is not thorough at the very least. His place on the couch is comfortable, and he refuses to move unless absolutely necessary. Real chocolate, steeped in proper whipped confections, and the scent cannot be denied. His nostrils flare, and there, the faintest of smiles.

Point for her, point for him. She can clean off her fingers and throw the whole box into the air, and he will probably not rouse himself from that cushioned roost. "You shall want to sort them out as you like, no doubt. Having a few on the corners isn't a bad idea, either."

He gets a bemused smile from her, this one true to the core given how it shows in her eyes.

"Alright." The herbal fancies linger on her tongue even as she continues to set each piece of chocolate. Crinkling paper is quiet sound, easy to lose within her breathing pattern and the ambiance of a New York apartment. Oh, yes, all within their respective nests of glowing crystal…well, save for one. One little candy in the corner of the box. That one's for her, that one there.

Setting the box on the side-table, she then retreats back to the couch with chocolate in-hand. Another bite, another hum of appreciation, and she glances to Lucian, her lips be-speckled with cocoa. Unspoken: okay, now what?

Chocolate, is there nothing it can't do? Stop a war, start one, solve business problems, end them, or otherwise carry someone over until dinnertime? Spoil dinner? He'll take that. The sounds and the liquors of unwrapping are enough to keep Lucifer patient, unmoving, and observant of all that Rosemarie does. All of it. Nothing escapes his notice except her private thoughts and possibly not even those, if they veer sinful, hammer to the fork in his soul, his being, his very essence. Fuck you, Dad, the inbox is full. Go away.

He keeps moving the light around, shaping and refocusing it to fit the different glasses until they spill over the edges in a bridge of molten silver-coloured light tinted gold and now chocolate. Earth and sun meet on the backbone of the sky. So the fomenting tumult races for a sea it will never have, splashing here, gathering in tiers. The floor will be… interesting if he's not careful.

"Oh…!!!" Oh, it clicks, the very second she sees the first rim fail to contain the gilted flume of cocoa. Not a champage tower, but a chocolate tower! "Oh!" Back to her feet, the librarian, padding around to see it from another angle. With palms to her cheek, she's agog. How come she's never seen this before? Someone has to have invented this! …still, he's the inventor before all else. Maybe this is the very first time Earth has been graced with this fanciful creation.

Only Michael can do effervescent joy better. From ear to ear, she beams, ignorant of the smudge of chocolate upon her cheek. Turns out she didn't clean her fingers well enough from that second bonbon.

"This is fantastic! Lucifer!" Quickly, her gaze flicks back to the waterfalls and to him, back and forth, before she most carefully reaches out. Fingertips break the pull of candy and watch the wonder as she feels it ripple across her skin. The taste? Just as delicious, possibly moreso given its heating. This is…decadence, goodness.

Michael's effervescent joy may be the result of having distinct fluff between his ears and the recall of a pigeon rather than a seraph. Hard to believe he is a terror on the battlefield but possibly forgetting his target every few feet will do that for a soldier. Unearthly savagery and ferocity unleashed upon the enemy each time he waves a blade and forgets about the last casualty is, after all, terrifying. Terror and joy aren't the oddest of bedmates either.

Gilded chocolate, and there the merriment comes to the fore without any intervention further from Lucian. He has done his part and gravity does the rest. The swirling pull of molten cocoa filaments will eventually encourage the rest to melt, if only to join the luminous divide that sweeps across the pyramid and its spire. The odd thing about the cut glass, it builds up interesting interactions below and to the side, pointing light down as much as sideways and up. Maybe this is the first time they've ever witnessed such.

"A spoon?" Just a thought. Or a glass. There are more in the box, plenty of them if she wants to help herself, at least before the cups all fill up on the table.

"That's a thought," she murmurs to herself, momentarily diverted from fastidiously removing the melted chocolate from her fingertips. Still unaware of the smudge upon her cheek, she remains before the miracle in molten candies and dancing faelight, looking up and down it. A bit like watching a kettle boil; maybe if she walked away, that next tier would finish filling and then by the time she returned, it would be spilling over.

Pad-pad-pad-pad, a brisk near-jog into the kitchen, accompanied by the furling of her bathrobe about her waist and legs. The rummaging through a silverware drawer is full of clinks and clanks before she returns, bip-bip-bip-bip, with spoon in tow.

Ripples fold upon themselves in the shallow bowl of the utensil's head and then there she has it, a spoonful of sugar to make any medication go down. Probably any, truly. However this? This is his spoonful. He sits? So be it. His legs can be cushioning for when she alights upon it, side-saddle and most careful not to land with abruptness.

"For you." Beam. Look at those freckles and there, the blush. His dosing of sweetness awaits, hovering before his lips.

As the contents of the bonbons dissolve into their constituent parts, they leave behinds trickets: pressings of flowers, bits of herbs, liqueurs in trace amounts. Whatever compelled their makers to gel or caress or insert mousses, crystals, and mysterious compounds. Rosemarie is free to briskly survey the new creation on her coffee table or run off to fetch coffee and talk about a book, for all that Lucian is loathe to interfere with her or so much as move. He's the laziest of the angels right now, other than the one who sleeps all the time.

His smirk tells of a satisfaction for his hard work. The statements of truth captured on crystal lips and basins plink, murmurs of a deeper calm he rarely displays. His midnight eyes track after Rosemarie wherever the brunette comes and goes, her ventures into the bedroom or kitchen of equal interest. All said, though, he's not rousing himself to join her unless the need shows through yelps or crashes.

"You needn't bring…" A spoon, a bowl. Oh well, one mustn't show traces of ingratitude, not that he has any. "You did the work, I did not deserve—mff?" That's a mouthful of chocolate for him, and she will not have reason to complain perching where she is, and the silvery spoon in his mouth fully. Maybe he should chomp it in half, but he's not goat-legged.

Does she have the rare honor of actually silencing the Devil? Rosemarie doesn't consider it but in passing, such a silly thing in the end — of course not, very little stops him from doing just about…anything he wishes, really — and her smile doesn't fade a single lumen.

"You did work too," she reminds him lightly, the flat of her feet pressed to the outside line of one of his shins. Whether or not the spoon is immediately rescued from the confines of its mooring is moot. "You'll have to help me eat it. There's a lot of it," she adds, glancing to the fountain and back at him with moderately-gilded eyes. "I would appreciate your assistance." A repressed smile underscores the playfulness of her request. Manners seem to get her places with the man.

Silencing doesn't count when physically preventing him from speaking, doubly with the benefit of a spoon on his tongue. He hasn't much of a choice short of spitting it out, possibly spitting chocolate into Rosemarie's face like a frilled dinosaur, and running away to disembowel some mechanical and electrical engineers, probably Maximus Boltagon included.

He does, however, lick the spoon clean and lean back to avoid being impaled on it, and therefore silenced for a few hours. That would be inconvenient. "I have little need to eat that. I am here to ensure it continues to flow." The spice must flow! "And truth so much would probably upset your stomach as well as mine, so let us keep this fine bit of work here until you are tired of it, and we can throw it out the window onto unsuspecting sinners."

"Lucifer!" His name, coated heavily with suprise, precedes laughter. "Throw it over the balcony? All of the glasses and chocolate?!" She shakes her head, engendering a need to tuck her hair back behind her shoulders once again. The spoon, she hold in her mouth in passing, and she savors the lingering flavor of the melted cocoa and him. Singular, oh yes. "That's a waste." A light reprimand on her part and she brandishes the utensil at him once.

If she reaches just right, she can gather up another serving from the burnished waterfalls and this one is hers. Her toes curl, sure to be felt at his mid-shin through the dress pants. Once the ephemeral moment has passed and the swallow committed, she turns and pecks him on the tip of his nose. Yep, sticky kiss there, sucker.

Lucifer is not ashamed, and if he looks as smug as Lola with a sock or a bottle cap, that is no mistake. "They would find it good incentive to change their behaviour, particularly in light of the threats from above. It is the stroke out of the blue to bring about the necessary change. The chocolate may sweeten the surprise." It's only reasonable and fair to participate in those matters of correction. He is the Devil. Devils do that sort of thing, just deal with it. "Nothing is a waste. Nothing is created that was not destroyed, and nothing is destroyed in perpetuity except for the very rarest things." Like his trust in dad. Thanos' helmet. That's how it goes.

He tries not to push her off him when she leans forward, and he dabs a bit of the chocolate on his fingers, painting a mehndi like tattoo on the back of her hand with it. "Nothing. Death and the fallacy of thinking that there is ever misuse leading to loss."

The slide of his artwork along her skin is something to admire. Rosemarie listens and watches in silence, turning over what wisdom he's imparted. The room remains lit from the focal point of the champagne flutes, their treasure spilling on to the next tier now.

"I'll keep that in mind." Her voice is soft, as if she's unable to bring herself to break the closeness of the moment.

"Come now. You have been asked to feast," says Lucian easily enough. He bounces his knees once to jostle Rosemarie, but not overly so. Enough to remind her where she perches unless totally flown away, and the bright sheen of the shape enough to look by. "Perhaps a little proper music, something not Fred Astaire and his accursed carols and hymns. Would you not find that as mindful to the soul, Miss Falcroft?"

Have a little faith, Lucifer Morningstar.

Gifted alone in his own thoughts, he buries his face lightly in the crook of her neck to catch the scent of the woman and to place his chin, in turn, upon her clavicle. From there, it's an easy space to look at what they've created.

"Happy winter solstice," he adds.

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