1965-02-05 - Futures Past
Summary: Lucifer Morningstar is a man for all times and seasons. Pity that crepes are so transcendental.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
lucifer rosemarie 


Let's be clear: the world one woke up to at breakfast will not be the one they see by lunchtime. Reasons calculate to draw certain people together and dump them at the wormhole exit layered in the cake of manifold realities in the multiverse. Two of the unified axes for these particular dimensions exist in the persons there at the very beginning and doomed to stay until the absolute end.

Lucifer Morningstar begins his morning with a crepe. Forget pancakes, for all he argued about their false graces and benefits. A proper Czech crepe, slightly crisp, thin as a dream and corrupted by a gift of fruit at the heart. They sit on a plate, arranged in radial wheels that will be important because they form a motif duplicated over an Dover again in coming hours.

That will be then. This is now.

His brother is bound to be called in whatever way — yapping to a pigeon, probably — about a meeting required. Breakfast is the easiest part before Rosemarie starts her typical day at the library. He has to share that particular delight with someone, since he has never in his life made such a crepe and he managed mostly without a recipe. Mostly.

Tucked away in one of the classy alcoves of the mezzanine, Rosemarie trusts in the will of the Morningstar and then again in his conceptualization of food. The crepes smell…well, 'heavenly' might be the word to use, but that might offend the archangel, so we'll use 'hellishly good'. Sleepiness still clings to her in gossamer webbings of relaxation about the corners of her eyes, but her smile is brighter for the food and for the steaming cup of coffee within reach.

"This is kind of you, Lucifer, thank you," she says quietly as she cuts off a nicely-sized bite of the pastry. Immediately upon her tongue, a profusion of welcome flavors erupt, all culminating in curled toes and a hum of approval. "Oh. This…this is really good," she says, a quiet laugh or two accenting her beaming expression. "I will definitely be able to enjoy my day a little more for this."

Conceptualized food might be well and good, but useless for anyone who derives their sustenance and their energy needs from organic materials broken down through simple biological processes. This is not something which Lucian ever concerns himself with, for all that Lux caters to nearly every form of sustenance required one way or another. A bit of a trade here or there, they can come up with exactly what you need. It may cost. Though in Rosemarie's case, the cost shall be her company and forfeiting the early bus ride to the library or the stern look from her superior librarians, redoubtable terrors they may be, perched upon their desks as particularly rarefied gargoyles mocking their Old World betters. And humans think history doesn't repeat itself.

"I regret the absence of proper apricots. Making do with apricot schnapps is simply not the satisfactory substitute I wished for." Confrontation over fruit markets is a glorious sight. Alas, off-camera. He has a selection of fruit wrapped up in there, and not merely the respectable banana. He also laments the loss of the treasured Gros Michel banana, though have no doubt he possesses a safely guarded stock of those, too. One must keep around the Big Michael. Even if he's an oddball fruit. Oh, wait.

"Trust you not to end up with sticky fingers upon the pages. No doubt you would be forced to index the card catalog afresh in the children's area." His sermon on the dangers of her workplace done, he promptly turns to dissecting a crepe.

The counter of the coffee, both creamy and bitter with its notes of chocolate and citrusy brightness, goes wonderfully with the crepes. The apricot schnapps is drawn forth and for his supposedly less-than-satisfactory efforts, she's no less pleased. The cup of dark brew lingers before her face, half-hiding the little rosebud smile, as Rosemarie rests her elbows on the table.

"If my fingers were that sticky, I would be tarnishing my grandmother's attempt at manners and she might roll over in her grave," teases the librarian, watching Lucian through the rise of redolent steam. "I wouldn't mind being in the children's section…at least, for a short while. Any longer than an hour and I might begin to get annoyed. It's not the children, it's the parents," she explains. "They're more demanding than the children at times."

Forget the use of saccharine amounts of caramel dumped atop the crispy crepe, that would offend the Czechs. Cherries and a good cherry schnapps, the product of their own well-watered lowlands, that's another matter entirely for the fruit captures the very essence of sunlight gathered up off the slopes, a rusted soil worn down by countless epochs of glaciation flavouring every crisp sliver of fruit to past the lips in tart kisses a hedonistic gourmand might revel in. Oh, behold, that hungry, deep fascination. Whyever not waste fifteen minutes watching Rosemarie eat, fascinated in the revel, as much as any performance on a stage?

Because staring at someone eating makes you a creep, Lucifer Morningstar, and you know better. Besides, you can do better by staring without appearing to stare, keeping head turned slightly, gaze slanted down, so the illusion of focusing on plate or silver teapot or fancy octagonal dishes beloved of Sixties manufacturers — and outright hideous, they really fucking are — serving to reflect the librarian's joy at dining on the things that keep her alive and don't taste like rotten refuse and squirrel droppings served up by a leprosied raccoon over a trash fire from the legislature waste bins. Mmm, burning scraps of despair. "The parents who demand silence of their children and complete understanding of the English language at a twenty-year-old's proficiency? They should demand better. Romans could memorize whole segments of Homer by six. Any worse, you might as well have been left exposed on a hillside."

The wee grin deepens the slightest, calling attention to apple-cheeks spattered with flecks of brown.

"No, the ones who want a specific book and when it's been checked out or in the back rooms for damage control, they expect us to fix it now. As if their own children weren't the ones tearing at the pages with their sticky fingers." She sighs sharply and sets aside the coffee for another bite of the crepe. Another happy hum, this one with some avian musicality. It seems that it takes divine pastries to coax the morning lark's song from the librarian. "Still, if I could begin my day like this all the time, it would be worth tolerating their behavior."

Spotted applecheeks. New nickname for Rosemarie. No doubt this will go over well if and when Lucian sings, "Dear Applecheeks!" They will look for a horse with a buttery caramel hide and butterscotch mane and tail, and they will only find a librarian screeching rightfully at him. Try again, creative spark. Fuck you too, Dad.

That fate is evaded by him as he listens to the cares of someone entrusted to index the lore and knowledge of humanity. He nods. "A terrible outcome. To be entrusted with such a heavy weight," this is unironic, for all that it could be read as mockery to the height of contempt. "They cannot understand the request to share such resources, and that critical energy may go elsewhere." Just an observation, and a damning one at that. Taking his plate, he pulls it near to bite the end of the crepe, savouring the taste of his handiwork. You sly devil, you did a good job. He knows that, too, nodding to himself with a calculation to improve the consistency where brandy might be ideal, and a lush fruit to melt on the tongue. "Shall we set these into the sink and take the long way for a walk?" Because three bites and he is full? Scarcely.

If the Shi'ar-blooded young woman is screeching, it's like as not a bad day, nicknames notwithstanding. Rosemarie would be surprised at the endearment, finding it counter to what she thought she knew of his personage. Oh, but the delight of learning new things daily.

"I agree. Many people have a hard time stepping into someone else's shoes…though, sometimes, it's hard enough to get up in the morning. For these, however?" She points her fork at the last bite of her crepe. "Many people would rise and shine for these." A nod signals assent as to the walk. With the plate cleaned (not by licking, but definitely by fingertip), she rises and makes to get her coat hanging nearby. "Are you walking me to work then?" The brunette beams. It's a novel thing, to be escorted to the library.

That he has no need to sleep surely accounts for some motive behind the offer. Why spend time lurking in Lux when he can walk in the city, daring fellows to accost him or sign him to a label or memorialize him in stone? The pigeons are there to report, and they shall fly home with the very best of stories. 'Lucifer threw a bottle at me!' makes for a sign that one is loved. Right? Moving right along, the charming blond sweeps out of his seat and grabs the two plates — if she is quite done, the one with the extra crepe will end up balanced on his arm, his own on his hand. The steps from the mezzanine down to the main level can be negotiated easily, no need to show off by leaping over the edge and crash landing on Ana fast asleep in a booth, dozing off the last of the evening's frivolities. Like, you know, cleaning.

He makes for a happy escort, altogether. At least happier than some, watching Rosemarie lick her fingers clean and her eyes betraying what burns within, the soft light of satisfaction sufficient to chalk up as a victory. Any chance she might announce her happiness will be enough to unhitch his tongue from behind his teeth to allow for a steady conversation. "We may have to hurry to be there in time, no?"

On his tail, the librarian follows, now warmly shrouded by her peacoat. She slows her steps in minor surprise to see the strawberry-blonde bartender at rest in such a visually-apparent place, but then smiles at Ana in repose and does a double-time step to catch up with Lucian once more.

"Yes, but if we walk briskly, I won't be very late. I can say that I was delayed by a delicious breakfast." Her tongue slips to the corner of her mouth and away in a subconscious reflection of the delight she took in it. "As I said before, the memory of the food will be enough contentment to shield me from the worst of the day."

Lucian dumps the dishes in the basin for someone else to worry about, the plate with the one last crepe kept out in case another employee cares to dine on breakfast or what may be a very late dinner, no judgment from anyone here. They all surround themselves with varied and diverse schedules, arranged according to divine or supernatural nature. Or simply other factors, like walking a lady to her job safely through the pallid grey light to a blue New York winter morning.

"She stayed up rather late seeing to the musical act," he explains without much vexation on Ana's state. She looks comfortable enough. "The conversations get lively with the ones from overseas. She was up until the end, and they cried foul." Far be it from a deva to admit her weakness, but she certainly is passed out now, and happy in those dreams. He turns for the stairs, allowing Rosemarie to precede him as a point of fault only as necessary. The green warped glass panels shimmer in their passing, smoothing their silhouettes.

"It's wonderful that you have people like her. She seems to like her job," Rosemarie replies as she exits into the cold morning air. Her breath immediately fogs and she pauses, waiting to see if she can snag Lucian's elbow. Sidewalk traffic is higher than usual, mostly those also walking to their daily jobs. Wane sunlight glints from metal on briefcases and buttons alike, hats keeping the worst of the chill from ears. Some wear scarves, some have been walking long enough to warrant opening their coats to reveal their work-wear.

"What was the musical act?" Her doe-eyes flick to the barkeep's face and linger while her brain still takes that inevitable, entirely-human moment to process the impossible balance of his features.

"Ana is a blessing. I would not be half as successful here without her." A real fondness there warms his voice, vanilla notes awash across the bow of every chosen word. His expression hasn't changed much, but Lucian nods as they reach the street. All seems bright and cheerful but there is, on the surface of it, a wrongness. Is that person covered in coal-black skin, cracked like a fallen egg? It's so. Another gentleman has a hat angled jauntily, a newsboy squashed in a way that cannot quite conceal his pointed ears. Down the way a pair of girls huddle together for the bus, laughing and smiling, their oversized t-shirts and lycra leggings tucking into hideous leather boots, tasseled like monstrosities out of the Old West. They're bright Creamsicle orange. Scarves do their work to normalize to the eye, but the lines of the clothes are the giveaway that things aren't right: too tight, edged, angular. Pleated pants! Jeans are everywhere, a sea of white blue, acid legs, torn out knees webbed in white string.

And the cars… the cars are so much smaller, rounder on their edges. Some slope away in the backs, dropping into hatches little seen in their world. Buses swing by East Village, a riot of colour and cleanliness, for who would dare litter there? Still, the routes have similar names, as do the street signs, but Lux — and it's still at their back — has just as many neighbours hawking all the pleasures of the art district with vibrant, neon enthusiasm. Awnings, shining chrome, posters announcing Michael Jackson or Duran Duran.

Somewhere is a guy with a ghetto blaster, pumping a thrilling, fast beat… "Everybody's doing a brand new dance now…"

A girl, no less. But doesn't matter, he's showing off his Locomotion moves.

When she can finally pull her attention from Lucian, an act that does take visible effort in how her face turns but eyes remain a constant until the last visible second, Rosemarie realizes that something is…different.

It causes her to clutch his arm all the tighter, pressing the line of her body against his taller form. She isn't unaware of magic. Interactions in the past proved its existence to her, but the skin. The spiderwebbing on skin is hard to understand, especially when its wearer continues on as if in no pain. The ears could be passed over, but she stares nonetheless. Novelty is enough to make the Shi'ar warbird perk in her psyche. Gold stains about her irises.

"Um, L-L-Lucia — Lucifer," she quickly amends out of habit, "There's s-s-something — there w-w-wasn't d-drugs in the c-c-cr-r-repes, w-was there?" She winces even as she asks, silent apology in her expression for even considering it.

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