1965-01-25 - A Case For Syrupy Condolences
Summary: Because let's just be friendly as birbs meet.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
suriel lucian rosemarie 

.~{:----------: features=+views :-:}~.

What's the melting point of peat? Technically it has a burning point rather than a melting point, but that is beside — well — the actual point. The lump sits on a dish. The particular lump has origins in the ancient forests since drowned, hardened into a shape beloved of peasantry Europe over, partly for its consistency and suitability as some kind of fuel source. Cheap helped, too. Though what compels a man to burn that particular substance in the middle of a swanky club without parallel?

Something to do with dessert rather than novelty, and the green flame licking the underside of the peat has everything to do with the young man seated on a stool in front of the granite and marble bar on one of those Beaux-Arts stools designed to display brazen indolence of art and architectural soul. Forget the subject, a totally unmemorable soul in a suit using a spoon to prod the breakdown of a syrup into the dirt. More intriguing, perhaps, is the tall, leonine gentleman responsible for the concoction if not the flame. Forget the black suit and white shirt; he has on something indigo, long coat more inclined to frock than not. Military boots, black leather trousers, he might as well go storm a stage somewhere. Which Lucian simply might.

"Don't burn that," he idly warns his guest. "You have no idea how hard it is to procure."

"I have not," a quiet voice opines softly and gravely from all across the room, "Smelled this smell in a century. Or two. Or three." There is a quality, a timbre, an electric /thrill/ to this young man's voice that cuts through the usual clubby bustle and hustle, and yet it's pitched no louder than the casually conversational.

Its owner begins to cross the floor toward the pair. He's scented of the road; his angelic constitution is not so corrupted as to stink of sweat, but one can smell the gasoline, and the dust from a place that's /not New York/. The light strikes him in the strangest way, a little too bright on his white-gold hair, a little too brilliant in his eyes. He, too, could well storm a stage; both of them would be perfect there.

Lux never totally lacks for individuals. Even in the quietest hours, at least a few people take their leisure amongst the glorified surroundings. That the clientele varies widely in its nature and being helps, too, to define the cyclical hours. The brown-haired fellow fixated upon the burning peat sketches a quick look away from the flames. Jade light winks out, collapsing on itself, leaving the singed earth and curiously floral melange to direct the senses as to its identity. He sits up the straighter, the furtive manner of slumped shoulders and vulnerable focus honed sharp.

"Relax," murmurs the proprietor, entrusted with the task of washing down the bar of a few drops of the precious syrup. He deposits the white rag into a basket full of such things, awaiting washing. Lucian's summer-sky eyes, too bright by half, focus upon that other. Somewhere around here, a dark-skinned woman lurks, ready to strike should violence become necessary. "Fascinating. And to think it was smelled at all. Pity that some do not admire the humbler things in the world."

Suriel's bootsoles are worn, and so each careful step toward Lucian does not /click/, despite the deliberate slowness of his pace. His hands are at his sides and held slightly out: No weapons here. For he well knows that where there is a Lucifer, there is a Mazikeen; so it was in Hell, so it is on Earth.

To outside eyes, he might be an old friend, or a frenemy, or just a madman. His fair face doesn't betray an excess of anything, but it rarely ever has: faint curiosity, if anything, foremost. "All of creation," he assures Lucifer, "Is worthy of some contemplation, and I have lived among the humbler things for a long time." His swift glance around acknowledges that this place is not one of them.

So it will be in all respects, though the hard-edged woman wielding her displeasure upon things as skillfully as blades typically need not be upon the floor at this hour. She no doubt terrorizes compliance out of light bulbs, leather, and languishing Russians up on the mezzanine.

Lucian in turn languishes within the grand sweep of the bar, a subtle demarcation for territorial ambitions. The usual night-time haunt, a strawberry blonde of much skill and alchemical good humour, is nowhere to be seen, thus leaving him the middling task of brewing up whatever amuses him. Be that a dessert or a proper drink, the options lie there. A chalkboard propped up in the corner beside a seasonal menu sketched on paper reads, defiantly, 'We don't serve boring. Lose your soul and tongue if you ask.' The tally underneath is somewhere up around 17. Humour, of a gallows or a real kind, to be sure.

"One might think so, though I am sure opinions vary on what corners are not worthy of contemplation or persistence."

After their waltz about the Met, the assistant librarian found herself…not necessarily walking on air, but certainly lightened for the experience. With more patience than usual, she worked through her tasks du jour and managed even not to itch once during a discussion with a particularly cantankerous patron who swore up and down that the book was not overdue; a smudged stamping was enough to grant benefit of the doubt and Rosemarie let that battle go gratefully. She'd need to have a discussion with the desk representatives up front about clarity of stamp.

Now, the day finds her not returning to her apartment, but to the club known as Lux instead. She's not dressed at all for attending such a place; an ankle-length skirt in black with bold red tartan lines and a white shirt gives just a hint of an impression of the Scots. Mind, she's far more English Rose in the end, quick to blush and shy brown eyes. Down the stairs and she pauses as she generally does at the landing halfway down, surveying the bar floor. Ah, Lucian at his post, good, she did want to say hello to him, if only in passing.

But what's this…? The Warbird in her psyche is quick to note similarities in air if not also in posture and basic coloration. Her approach to the pristine marble-topped bar is more cautious than normal and while one hand rests upon the strap of her courier bag, the other lifts to tuck a loose strand of mouse-brown hair behind one ear, this having fallen loose of her bun.

"Lucian," she says softly, reverting to the public nom de barkeeping. Suriel receives a more tentative smile and a softer, "Hello," in turn.

"This corner," Suriel smiles briefly, radiantly, "Is worthy of my contemplation, and perhaps my persistence. At least for a little while…" His voice, ever more expressive than his face, is without a hint of deceit— nor of obsequiousness. For whatever reason, the sentiment is heartfelt. "I should have come sooner."

And there's Rosemarie! "Hello. I'm Suriel." She's in the know, so surely that, along with the rest, will clinch what he is. His mien, by contrast to his brother's, is less diamond-bright charisma— ephemeral warmth, somehow, like dawn sunlight on a cool Spring morning. If he thinks that she, or anyone and anything else in this place, might be out of place, he doesn't show it.

A soft indrawn breath betrays her surprise; within her psyche, the Shi'ar blood twinkles and preens because it was likely right. Wide dark eyes consider Suriel further and the cautious smile finally returns, slowly but surely, until even just a little teeth show.

"Hi!" It's a breathy little greeting, probably something said instead of a laugh of leery delight. "It's nice to meet you." Settling upon the nearest barstool, she rotates to better face both blond gentlemen. "Do y-you…" She needs must pause to see if she can head off that nervy stutter and also to weigh the question briefly. Fortune rewards the brave, one supposes. Folding her hands upon the marble, she continues to Suriel, "Do you know M-Michael too?"

"Likewise, and yes. But I haven't seen him in years. Do you?" Suriel turns toward her as something drags Lucian away from them— some minor explosion in the kitchen, perhaps more culinary hijinks?

He hasn't sat yet, a little formal for all that he looks like he's just peeled himself off a motorbike— which he has, it's out front, black and chrome under a week's road dust, some of which has hitchhiked in on him. He hasn't ordered, either, but he doesn't look like he's wanting a drink. He's just there, a little too bright in the artfully muted light, and the way his gaze rests on her might well make it seem like she's the only other person in the world, right then.

If there's one thing that Rosemarie is learning quickly, it's that the angelic host do seem to put one in the spotlight when those bright eyes land upon their target. Cue the blush, inevitably, beneath the spattering of freckling across her cheeks and then up into her ears. Her gaze falls to her hands, face slightly averted, but the smile doesn't fade and she nods.

"I know Michael, y-y-yes. He's a w-w-wonderful…person." The delay is for the uncertainty of calling out the archangel for whom and what he truly is. That Lucian leaves is noted and she watches him leave with a little hum of a sigh. Ah well, a discussion for another time. "How d-do you know Lucian then?" Her attention flicks back to Suriel, brave enough to linger on his face once more.

"Is he? He always was very /formidable/, but if he's become wonderful, then I suppose Ea… er, /New York's/ been very good for him. I wouldn't've expected it, though." This seems to amuse Suriel at least just a little, by the slight wry twist to his smile. "As it has for Lucian, I truly do think… but that, I did expect." He knows them, or knows of them, well enough to note the clear differences between both archangels.

"We're brothers," he notes of the relationship, "Amongst a host of brothers, so it's more of a 'what' than a 'who' we are to each other." He's speaking carefully, though not dishonestly: they're in public, after all. "Anything more than that, I can't rightly claim. Our… assignments… were completely different, even if they intersected from time to time." So very much is left unsaid. "But here, it's different. We're here because /we chose/ to be, and that deserves at least one visit."

The librarian nods as she listens, the motion equal parts acknowledgement and social niceties, encouragement to continue expanding on his thoughts. She smooths her skirt after she lifts her knee, delicately crossing her legs as she remains on the stool. Bummer that no one's around to help with drinks, but Rosemarie's far too shy to ask the staff. After all, she lives in mild terror of Mazikeen as is.

"M-Michael told me that he w-w-was on vacation…if y-y-your…f-family is allowed t-to do such things…?" Her voice drops even quieter in silent agreement that this a conversation to be tiptoed about in public. "That m-may explain why h-he's so n-n-nice. He s-said it h-had something t-to do with the b-beauty everywhere."

Suriel considers Rosemarie for a few moments, long and quiet but not, perhaps, uncomfortably so. "It's like you're an… architect, but you never get to spend time in the beautiful house you've built. Or, rather, you never get to take the time. You're always doing this and that, moving on to the next one, and the next…" Something in his voice suggests yearning, somehow, an endless reaching for something not quite in one's grasp. Something fragile, and yet, as Michael said, beautiful.

"I can't speak for either of them. To… break faith with one's father…" once again, he chooses his words quite mindfully, "That's different for everyone. If Michael truly sees the flowers at his feet, now, I want to think that means there's hope for everyone, in the end. He's right, there's so much beauty here." That includes her most especially, though his attention is in no way prurient.

"Oh — y-y-yes, L-Lux is am-m-m-m —" Look at that machine-gun consonant go! Clearing her throat, Rosemarie itches behind one ear and composes herself once more upon her stool. "Amazing. The architecture is so g-graceful. I especially l-like the stairway. I'm n-n-not sure why, b-b-b-but I d-do." Right, well done, thought complete with minimal tripping over words.

She comes back to the previous point of conversational focus, the inability to stop and smell the roses, as it were. "That's a v-v-very g-good example, the architect. It's l-like…" She grasps for a similar situation to the current states of being for all brothers involved, even the one off dealing with whatever might be smoking in the kitchen. Someone may be getting a stern talking to, even if it's in a disturbingly-laconic and British manner. "Never g-getting to read a g-good b-b-book when you're so b-busy p-putting them all away. I'm a librarian," she adds by way of explanation.

"You are? Of course he'd have good taste in acquaintances." This revelation seems to make Suriel very happy. "And it's rather like that. I… I've been graced," and it's not a stutter so much as a pause and a recalibration, "With traveling alongside many people, before and after I… retired. I've seen many at their worst, many at what they'd hoped was their best, and a very few exactly where they wanted to be. Everyone is such a deep and complicated book, from newborns to the most aged, and yet y— they are so neatly filed away. Some years ago, too many crossed my hands."

He spreads them a little helplessly; slim and delicate, they don't seem like they could hold very much up. "So many, too many, all at once, all to be filed away, unread before their time, forgotten in our annals…" His gaze is faraway, and infinitely sad. "It didn't matter if this 'vacation' wasn't allowed, I couldn't…" A slight shake of the head, "And now, it's happening again. Do you think I should sign up for the draft?"

The mouthed 'thank you' is all she can muster with chin tucked and blush all the warmer for his compliment. Goodness, all angels can't be this kind? Well…Lucian isn't patently kind by nature, but he has his moments, whether he denies them or not. Still, when he waxes maudlin in a way, she glances up, her brows knit in concerned confusion. It seems some research after Suriel is in question for the librarian; she most definitely was not paying enough attention in church when she was younger. His question, however? That engenders a quick response.

"Oh! No!" Having spoken a little louder than she originally intended, she bites her lip briefly and continues more softly. "No, we d-d-don't n-n-need m-more d-d-death. N-Not now, n-n-n-n-not ever."

LOG NOTE: Suriel and Rosemarie paused scene.

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