ArchivedLogs:Mourning

Mourning
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra, Steve
In Absentia	2016-06-12 "I almost forget how many /different/ reasons the world has for wanting to kill us."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Rooftop - Lower East Side
An open-air escape especially popular with smokers and fliers, the Common House rooftop makes good use of its limited space. The railing that circles it has child-resistant gates where walkways can be extended to connect to the other buildings in the development. A colorful and ever-changing table with sometimes-matching benches provides an ideal spot for an urban picnic. There are two garden boxes on the south-facing side, one for vegetables and the other for herbs and flowers, a tool shed and small patio table with chairs between them. The shadows are still long, out here. There's sun -- only barely, creeping faint and dim somewhere to the east, partially obscured by the city's buildings and glinting off the river where it does come through. It's quiet, in the dim still dawn. A flutter of breeze through trees, the steady rush-splash of the water. A quiet snk-chk-snk of lighter, flicked and flicked and flicker. Occasionally catching, occasionally not. Perched on the edge of one of the garden bed walls, Dusk has an unlit cigarette between his lips -- a lit pillar candle dancing in front of him. His arm is curled around his shins, phone in one hand though he isn't looking at it. Just watching -- the flame, perhaps, or perhaps just past it to the shadow it casts on the soil of the herb bed, stretching in erratic patterns against the earth. His thumb flicks restlessly against the wheel of the lighter in his other hand. Flick-flick-flick. Isra has been sitting on the floor beside Dusk, turned sideways so that one of her shoulder is braced against his leg. Though it's hard to discern in the early light, her lavender skin has a distinctive /green/ colorshift, and the membranes of her immense wings--folded down neatly around her, batlike, so that it's impossibel to see her clothing, or if she is wearing any at all--are black with intricate traceries in iridescent silver. She holds a black star-studded thermos in one hand, but she hasn't touched it in some time. Her body remains as still as her lover's is restless, only her ears twitching occasionally at the sound of the rasp of the lighter's wheel beneath Dusk's thumb. Footfalls on the stairs precede Steve, his hair still damp and a bit dishevelled from the shower. He wears a bright yellow t-shirt with a skeletal T-rex dancing above the word 'FOSSIL' spelled out of bones, well-fitting if much-mended jeans, and scuffed combat boots. He has his gym bag and shield slung over the same shoulder, and carries a black mug decorated with the same star-and-bullseye motif as his shield. Seeing the two winged people, he skirts the raised beds and gives a nod by way of greeting before he approaches. Looks down at the candle, at Dusk, then at Isra. Lips press flat, jaw sets firm. Lowers his bag and shield to the ground. Sits down beside Dusk, though facing the other way -- outward. Settles a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes once, tight. Dusk stills, fingers curling in around the lighter and a faint vibration thrumming noticeably in the overlarge prominence of his throat when the door opens. He only looks up at Steve's actual touch, eyes wide in the dim light. One of his wings stretches out, candlelight glimmering on iridescent-black fur, deep red skin, silvery veins; he curls it around Steve's shoulder in a small squeeze. Sets his lighter down, leans in slowly to pluck Isra's thermos from her with a faintly unsteady hand. Isra's ears rotate toward the door well before it opens, and she looks up to give Steve the slightest incline of her head, her horns black and gleaming with fine silver spirals. She relinquishes her thermos without resistance. The coffee inside is hot but drinkable, lightened and sweetened to Dusk's usual preference rather than her own. Her head rolls back until her horns brush the radial bones of her wings, her cat-green irises thickening as her eyes adjust to the candleflame flickering through the translucent wax. Steve turns into the curl of Dusk's embrace, his freshly shaved cheek smooth where he nuzzles the soft fuzz that covers the wing. His hand slides down and wraps around Dusk's chest and side, cradling the smaller man against him gently. He turns his head aside to look at the candle, as well, blond brows knitting faintly, jaw still set tight. Dusk plucks the still-unlit cigarette from his lips, tucking it behind one ear. Takes a sip of the coffee instead, rolling a slow swallow down his throat as he leans in against Steve's side, lets his other wing drape downwards to rub slowly and gently against Isra's shoulder. "{Should never read the news first thing in the morning.}" Never mind that he hasn't actually slept yet. Minor details. His voice sound scratchy, rough, disused. "S'always a bad plan." A low, low rumble rises in Isra's chest, only just barely audible but easily felt through her solid frame. "{One might almost say the same for ever reading the news at all, these days.}" Her voice is soft and quiet and melodic, overlaid on that mostly-infrasonic growl. Steve rests his head against Dusk's, his arm still bracing the other man, gentle despite his strength. He draws breath as if to speak several times, but makes two false starts before any sound comes out. "{A lot of people have been Tweeting at me,}" he says, quiet and solemn. His hand drops to his pocket as it buzzes sedately. "{Still are.}" "{You know, I didn't even come out here because of --}" Dusk starts, but then falters, eyes tracing back to the shadows shifting and changing as the candle's flame moves. The faint tension that runs through him is felt mostly in a faint squeeze, wings tightening against the others and then easing again. His head bows. "So what does Captain America have to say about all this?" Isra takes the coffee back from Dusk and takes a long draught. Her tail twitches fast against the concrete beneath her. "{You would have found out, in time.}" She turns her face against Dusk's thigh, closing her eyes. Steve gathers Dusk closer, pressing a kiss to the top of the other man's head. "{Captain America is furious.}" Though he sounds fairly calm, for all that. "/I'm/ furious." "I would have found out." Dusk's agreement comes quietly, his wing folding more snugly around Isra. "{But maybe I would have had a few minutes to mourn before -- mourning.}" His head tips to the side, shaggy dark waves of hair falling in against Steve's shoulder as he rests his forehead there. "{People are talking about having a march later. Vigil. In the evening.} Probably could use terps. Not sure they'll want /me/ but --" Shrug. Isra nods, very minutely, one of her horns digging into Dusk's hip. "What do you mean to do with your fury?" She takes another sip of the coffee before handing it back up. "You can offer." Steve's eyes look past the flame, unfocused and vacant. "Talk to people, perhaps -- in time." He strokes Dusk's back firmly. "But for now? March, perhaps." Dusk's lips twitch, a quiet growl rumbling in his throat at Isra's question. A slight shiver runs through his wings, eyes blinking slowly -- somewhat brighter than before once he opens them again. "Some days I get so caught up in one fight --" His smile here is thin, sharp, a little lopsided. "I almost forget how many /different/ reasons the world has for wanting to kill us. {Never going to run short on fury, that's for damn sure.}"