10100/I Smell Like Who

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I Smell Like Who
Date of Scene: 19 November 2019
Location: Central Park, New York City
Synopsis: Angels appear in the oddest places! Steve meets Hayal while out on a run.
Cast of Characters: Exile, Captain America




Exile has posed:
He knows, ostensibly, why there are lights in the trees at this time of year. But that doesn't mean that Hayal isn't dazzled by them. The angel is walking along a path near Bethesda Terrace, taking in the way the leafless branches are wound with shimmering white fairy lights. His wings are on display, drifting behind him as if they weighed no more than smoke, hair loose down past his shoulders, and the blue eyes wide and filled with wonder. Now and again, he touches a string with a reverent finger.

Captain America has posed:
A late-night jog seemed appropriate after a long day at the Triskelion. Steve know too about the lights roped through the canopies of the leafless trees in biggest greenbelt found in New York City and he knows that being able to watch them as he passes them again and again in his loops of the paths will lift his spirits.

As such, Captain is in a light-weight jogging long-sleeved sweatshirt and sweatpants, his white sneakers beating a regular pattern on the concrete paths coming up on Bethesda Terrace. He's got cordless earbuds in each ear with an experiment in a new type of music he's discovered: electro-swing. The current piece playing is a remix of "Drop Me Off in Harlem" and by his thoughtful frown, Steve's not completely certain of how he feels about it.

However, turning the corner, he's crystal-clear about how he feels about the sight of a man with a full set of feathered wings. His jogging comes to a halt after he passes the winged figure and he plucks both earbuds to pocket them, his motions noticeably disjointed.

"Um, excuse...me, are you...lost?"

What other polite question do you ask an angel? Or someone that appears to be one? He knows of the young X-student, Shannon, but this guy is...a whole other thing entirely.

Exile has posed:
So, he's only doing a somewhat half-assed job of concealing his true self. Now that he's invoking the full on fight or flight FEAR NOT response - no reason to get really Biblical about things in the middle of a Central Park Christmas. But the wings flare wide as he turns - not a threat gesture, merely as if they were light enough for even the air movement to catch thm. The smile he favors Steven with is enormously warm, fond.

"Hello," he says, and takes a few paces forward. Then there's something like recognition there, and he's cocking his head, bird-like. "I know exactly where I am," he assures the Captain. "And I mean to be here."

Captain America has posed:
"Oh, uh -- oh."

Words are hard when the full visual weight of the imagery before him washes over him. Steve inhales brokenly for a second, his brows working into and out of a frown as if he can't completely decide what expression belongs on his face. He quickly runs his palms down his sides and tugs at the hems of his sweatshirt as if to straighten it, his mouth working silently for a second.

"Hello," he then replies, his lips breaking to a hesitant smile. "Well, then, um...it's nice, isn't it?" The Captain looks away and to the lights all strung up. They reflect in his eyes as he turns his face, hands now rested on his hips. "They, uh...they do it every year here in the Park. Makes it nice to go running through the area. Didn't used to do it so much when...when I was younger." A little sigh of a laugh leaves him as he briefly glances back at the angelic being and away again, off to one side.

Licking his lips, he rolls them for a second and then dares to meet those unearthly eyes. "You, um...you're...an...?"

This particular question, not finished out, must undoubtably be about WHAT Hayal is.

Exile has posed:
He doesn't need telepathy to finish that question. "I was," he says, and his voice is enormously gentle. "But I Fell. Before you ask, no, I don't work for the Lightbringer, either. I am, as far as I know, the only free agent, as it were, at least in this universe."

Things might be different in others, right? He turns again, the light from the trees gleaming on the long feathers. "I like it. Light for light's sake, in the darkest part of this planet's year." Hayal nods, solemnly, but his gaze goes back to Steven, "*You*," he says, affectionately, "Clearly belong to Michael. He loves mortals who smell like you."

Captain America has posed:
Steve's lips form the 'oh' silently in reply to the nearly psychic answer to his question. Sheepishness catches up to him quickly -- maybe the angelic being hears the question so much, it's almost a knee-jerk answer, and geez, Steve, what a bumbling kind of social interaction -- and his eartips pink. He's glad for the distraction of the being's commentary on the homely, cheerful twinkling of the decorative lights hung in graceful arcs.

However, he looks back at the being in open surprise at the comment. "...didn't think I needed a shower that badly," he mutters before doing seeming to rub his temple on his shoulder: psych, it's a sniff-test, and all he can smell is his deodorant in full action.

"I, um...don't belong to anybody, really, but..." Hayal can probably see the wheels turning behind the Captain's eyes as his brain makes connections at the speed of neurons. "...Michael?" Swallow. "...//the// Michael?"

Exile has posed:
"I don't mean your body, that's clean enough," Hayal's expression is momentarily frustrated. "You don't have the sense I mean. Humans don't. Smell is the closest thing to it, though, that you do have." He raises a hand, waggles the fingers, as if that gesture might clarify things. "He likes warriors, he favors them. Yes, Michael. The first Michael, the one all the others are named for." And by his wistful expression, this little Fallen soldier still misses that biggest brother.

Captain America has posed:
"The...Holy Michael," comes the murmur to follow before Steve puts a hand briefly over his mouth. A harder sigh leaves him behind it before he clears his throat. "I, uh...I'm honored." And by the minutest break in the word, 'honored' is a word only barely sufficient in his personal opinion.

He lifts his chin and looks upon the angelic being squarely, blinking away a brief glossing over his eyes. A hand is then outstretched in an offer to shake as the Captain stands straight-spined, honest as the day is long. "Steve Rogers," he introduces himself plainly.

Exile has posed:
"Yes, he still is," There's longing vibrating in every note of Hayal's speech. Whatever his disagreements with the General of the Host, he's clearly retained no ire. Very good at not taking it personally, that's clear.

He doesn't quite sigh, but the sentiment is there. "No honor, I am no one special." He takes the Captain's hand, folds both of his about it with a kind of strange tenderness, as if Steve were terribly fragile. One little pump of a handshake, but he doesn't relinquish his grip.

Captain America has posed:
To his super-soldier skin, the angel's gentle grip about his hand feels...warmer, as if he'd just immersed from fingertips to nearly wrist in soothing bathwater. Steve's eyes rise from the focus on the new but not uncomfortable sensation and up to the angels face. His mouth parts again as he looks between those strangely kind eyes.

"Pretty sure nobody's going to really believe me that I shook hands with one of the Host. This is...this is special to me. I, um...I didn't get your name, though," he notes, his smile hesitant. There seems no reason to extricate his hand, not when it's an angel holding it rather than some abyssal abomination created in some labyrinthine laboratory by some scientist with a cruel imagination. The winged being doesn't seem to wish to suck his flesh clean from his bones.

Exile has posed:
"I don't have a name the way you do. And I was once one of the Host. Now I'm just me. But I do answer to Hayal," he says. The H is aspirated, softly.

He hasn't relinquished his grip - his hands are startlingly soft. No calluses, no wear. And besides, Steve hugs an abomination created in a lab all the time....because it wears his old friend's face.

Captain America has posed:
"Hayal." There's a startling accuracy to the spoken echo of the angel's name, down to the delicate H and all, as if Steve wished to be unerringly certain he got it right. "It's...really nice to meet you," he continues, moving his hand up and down in another shake. "D'you...mean, I..."

His free hand rises to rub at the back of his neck briefly and he shakes his head once at himself before meeting Hayal's gaze. "When you said...I belong to //the// Michael...you mean, he's...got an eye on me?"

There's an almost painful light of hope to be found in the Captain's true-blue eyes, as if this would affirm something for him in the dark shadows of the late nights -- when all the world is asleep but him and his memories.

Exile has posed:
"It's been long since I spoke with him, but he does keep an eye on mortal warriors. And I remember you from that war, not long ago. You have kept your heart pure, he favors those," Hayal's started to pet the back of Steve's hand, soothingly. Like the mortal's a fractious animal.

Captain America has posed:
"Oh."

So much conveyed in a single-syllable word, wherein the majority of the nuance comes from the Captain's body language. His throat works again even as he tucks his chin, eyes squeezed shut for a long second or two.

"I...I prayed to him, in the trenches," admits the man in a hoarse whisper. "When...the, um -- sometimes the bombardment didn't stop for hours at a time 'nd couldn't hear anything but my own heart in my ears 'nd the other soldiers weren't...they were crying 'nd...laughing because...dunno what else to do." Another hard cough. "Glad...glad that he heard me."

Exile has posed:
Hayal's hand is gentle, lighter than his feather, as he raises a hand to touch the human's eyelids. It's a slow, deliberate motion, not anything like a quick poke in the eye. "He likely did. The Most High has made warriors of many species his purview." Soothing, somehow, in their warmth, those touches.

Captain America has posed:
Human instinct is to flinch -- after all, didn't all angels begin their thoughts with 'Fear not' in the passages? -- but with the peaceful imbuement of each touch, at his hand and brushing stroke beneath his eyebrows, Steve simply lets out a sigh. It feels more benedictive than intrusive.

"Means a lot to hear that...lots of times, wasn't sure if anybody was listening," he admits quietly, now brave enough to meet Hayal's eyes again.

Exile has posed:
Is he.....petting Steve? Apparently so. For now, his hand moves to the soldier's hair, strokes it, with infinite fondness. As if he had every right to.

"Prayers do not go unheard. Not always answered as the ones praying might like, but no....there is a Host unseen charged with listening, with observing," he says, voice soft.

Captain America has posed:
An absurd amount of his inner core is revealed in those true-blue eyes, down to the old scars left over from his time in the war, as he listens. Relief, sweet and cooling like morning dew, balms on them so deeply he'll need to weep over it later in the confines of his private rooms; for how many soldiers whispered their litanies through the blinding raze of shellings and never lived to be told that their prayers were at least heard?

"...think a lot of us would like to know this, but...'m not stupid. There's a lot of us 'nd only one Host." He nods to himself, likely disrupting the gentle pattern of palm along his wheat-gold hair. What trace of Archangel Michael about him is probably more apparent at the shorter distance now.

Exile has posed:
HE knows, now, what value touch has for humans. And what it means when their eyes get bright like that. Certain fluids leaking mean they're enjoying themselves, others....very much not. So Hayal doesn't hesitate.

He sweeps the big, blond human into both arms and the curve of long wings, cocooning them both for a long moment.

.....he doesn't smell right. Well, he doesn't smell like a human should. He smells like the wind off distant mountains, that almost non-smell of snowmelt.

Captain America has posed:
At first, there's no reaction from the super-soldier. He stands there, frozen, arms not necessarily trapped at his sides but less than useful at first. His palms linger alongside his thighs. It's...quiet inside the shadow of the wings, like stepping out of howling wind and into the silence of a warm cabin -- into a place of safety. His eyes rise towards the apex of the impossible feathered extensions wrapped about them both. Ambient light from the decor in the tree limbs peeks in like the barest hint of dawn.

Then, as if he wasn't entirely certain it was appropriate, Steve slowly moves to return the hug. He's careful with his strength yet.

Though he does lift his fingers behind Hayal's back unthinking to touch at the very tips of the feathers that layer down and down. God, they're soft like new-spring warm air.

Exile has posed:
So, in turn, is the angel. There's that sense of enormous strength restrained....as if humans really are that fragile. But then they are, aren't they? Subject to time, to age, to pain.

The edge of the wing splays, just a little, as if he were urging it into the Captain's grip. "You can touch," he says. "Humans always want to. They are real, they are physical, even if it isn't entirely by the laws of physics as they exist here that I fly." His tone is enormously fond.

Captain America has posed:
Irish skin betrays him yet again. The Captain's ears pink as he's caught out at investigating the feathers' tips with the unfettered innocence of a toddler discovering something entirely new. He clears his throat again, blatant attempt at gathering his composure, as he pulls back from the hug mostly to use his hands.

Telegraphing the motions openly, and with a look of confirmation to Hayal, Steve then reaches to brush at them with one hand. His fingertips draw from secondary coverts to secondaries themselves. His awe is just as unmistakable. "Don't care overmuch about the hard points of physics. I was the strangest thing around here for a long time." His laugh is more comfortable now even if his smile is accompanied by a wry twist of his nose.

Exile has posed:
The angel....for really, he still is, isn't he? The angel doesn't merely tolerate it. No, he obliges by arcing the wing in and down. Letting Steve do just as he wishes. "Good," he says. "Humans who are very versed in the local versions of such laws are often quite upset by the way I only partially obey them," he allows. Is that a little smugness in his voice?

Maybe.

Captain America has posed:
The way Steve arches an eyebrow at Hayal during his momentary pause of feather-stroking is apt betrayal of the laugh that fizzles just beneath his breastbone.

"Bet you give more'n one person a dizzy moment on a regular basis with how you ignore gravity. Newton thought he had it all down pat after the apple popped off his skull." With a visible modicum of manners and caution, his fingers reach up into the smaller marginal covert feathers. They trace the outline of a feather's shape with the thoughtful focus of an artist. His brows begin to meet in concentration, eyes flickering about as if he were memorizing what he's seeing for a sketchbook later.

Belatedly, about a moment or two later, it occurs to him that he's busy twisting one of the feathers still attached to the angel's wings with little thought to discomfort. Oops.

"Well!" Rolling back a few steps allows him to rub his palms on his sides again and give the angel a little smile. "I've, uh...gotta go. Supposed to go to dinner with somebody 'nd gotta...shower first 'nd all. Humans and smells," he continues with a huff of a laugh and roll of hands before himself ending in a spread of them like 'what are you going to do, eh?' "It was nice meeting you, Hayal. Enjoy the lights." Steve gives the angel a nod before he fishes out his earbuds. Back into his ears they go and he flicks on his Spotify station again as he turns to lope away down the path.

Someone will have a very small, short existential crisis tonight and wake up all the more settled for it.