milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Michael pushes through the front door, the sword in her hand vanishing at the moment she registers her change in locale.

It takes another moment for her to push her windblown hair out of her face and tame the too-bright green of her eyes. Then, of course, she moves to the bar for coffee and a newspaper.

It is rather unfortunate that, once she settles down to fill out the crossword, her pen has a tendency to push right through the paper.

Temper will do that.

Ah, well.

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Michael's focus is sharp and bright as a spear.

Or a sword.

But she gives no outward indication of judgment -- though the promise is there.

It is, in some respects, implicit in who (and what) they are.

"And has that improved your ability to walk among humans, Castiel?"

Castiel thinks.

"I do not believe Mary Lennox cares much for me," he says.

He had thrown many snowballs at her.

So, it hasn't improved his ability to walk alongside that particular human.

"As for the rest, it is difficult to say. The humans who come here are different."

At this Michael sets down her crossword, propping both elbows on her table and resting her chin on her upraised hands.

It is a very human sort of posture.

"Would you care to elaborate on that particular point?"

In some respects this is not a request.

Castiel thinks for several moments.

"By dint of coming here, they experience things that most people do not. They accept things that other people will not."

"Except angels," he adds. "Many of them seem reluctant to accept angels."

"Faith and fear are a common combination," is what Michael says first, gaze fixed on Castiel.

Her posture, however, remains resolutely casual.

"And humans are very easily hurt."

Castiel is not sure if she's referring to humanity, or to him.

At the second observation, he nods.

"I am careful of them," he assures her.

"I meant more that many of them find it -- difficult to admit to belief."

Her mouth twists fractionally at one corner.

Downward.

"They want to believe that the world would be less harmful with someone watching over them."

They want, in short, to truly be children.

It shows.

"I have been accused of corrupting the agnostics."

He hadn't meant to.

"Meg believes," he says.

Meg is probably spoiling Castiel for the rest of humanity.

Michael's mouth twists a little more toward wry.

"Agnostics can hardly be suspected of being unbiased."

For one.

Which is to say 'corruption' is a bit of overkill.

"And there will always be believers. Though they are not always any easier to deal with."

"Meg is very easy to speak with. She helps me a great deal."

It's good to have a sounding board who speaks sense.

"To acclimate? Or to understand the complexities of the human condition?"

Michael only made the mistake of thinking humans simple a few times.

Long ago.

Each and every one of those times bit her on the ass.

Hard.

"To explain things about humanity and how humans live that I have difficulty understanding."

And even, occasionally, things about angels.

Or at least, and angel in Milliways.

Michael considers that information, leaning a little harder on her hands.

"And would you call her your agent in this place?"

There are levels and levels to association, after all.

Castiel considers.

"Perhaps? To some extent?"

He searches for something to say.

"She gave me a bulletin board. For my room."

The room is a new development.

"Ah."

Michael's tone is carefully noncommittal.

"My own agents function as intermediaries. When there is need of such things, of course."

They do not, on the whole, give her bulletin boards.

"Do you have a great need for bulletin boards?"

Maybe he collects photographs. Angels have had stranger hobbies. Michael, for instance, owns a Vespa.

"I..." Castiel looks a little bit guilty. "I have found it useful for storing items which I have been given."

"I was doubtful about taking a room. It is not something that we require--physical space of our own. It is not natural for us."

"But Meg pointed out that I was sent here to learn, and not all lessons are comfortable."

A sensible person, is Meg.

"No, especially not when they're important."

There's a dry twist to her voice on that one. It's matched by her expression.

"Even I know that."

There's a weighted pause.

"What things have you been given, Castiel?"

Those in the know might describe her tone as gentle.

Alas that none of those people are here.

"A picture. A Valentine."

Those had gone on the bulletin board.

"Other things...they are things I made. Materials that were left over. And my baseball cap."

Castiel's room is sparse. At least for the time being.

"The work of your own hands? Interesting."

Michael is not merely posturing with that.

"And is it something you enjoy? The making of things, that is."

"Yes," Castiel says, promptly.

"I made the baseball diamond. With help. It is not stored in the room, of course. The signs I made for sign-ups and meetings are."

"I made a ship inside a bottle. I gave that to Meg. And paper cranes. I gave many away, but there were still hundreds left over."

"It is something I have not had much opportunity to explore before. Not for some time."

"I see."

Perhaps she does.

"And this exploration -- has it also brought you a greater understanding of the human condition?"

"Not exactly," Castiel admits.

"I have not had it very long. I still find the concept of having my own 'space' to be very strange."

He had sat regarding his key for a long time, half expecting Zachariah to pop up at his elbow with a Castiel? What do you think you are doing?

"It does not, on the whole, get any less strange. But it does have value. Particularly when one is mixing with humankind on their terms."

Provided, of course, that this is what Castiel is doing here.

"Do you find...is it possible...to mix too much?"

It is a subject that troubles Castiel from time to time.

"Do you ever fear that you are compromising your own nature?"

Michael sucks in a quick breath at that, gaze gone distant.

When she comes back to the moment she lifts her head from her hands, chin tilted up.

"We are defined by what they need us to be. Or we should be, to better serve them. There is much to be said for what they are. And as for us -- our own rigidity is -- a stumbling block. Or so I often think."

Moreso now than before.

"Our enemies do not lack for adaptability, and our battle is one we cannot afford to lose."