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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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"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."

For a moment, Castiel is afraid that he has committed a grave offense.

Michael's words do not serve to erase all of his fears. But they are still somewhat reassuring. If, for no other reason, that he is not outright condemned for asking the question.

"It is a difficult balance to maintain. Between what they need us to be, or think they need us to be. And what we must be."

Sometimes the two camps are very far apart.

"What they think they need is not our concern."

She amends that a moment later.

"You know that."

It is, for one, not good at all for them.

"I know," Castiel says, quickly.

"But they do not, most of them. Not any more."

"They believe we should behave in certain ways, depending on what they want."

"It makes them easier to mistake us for other things, the times when we do meet."

Her tone is studiedly neutral.

There is reason for that.

"Do you find that to be a good thing?" he asks, curiously.

The last time Castiel mixed with humans on Earth, the revelation of his true nature was generally met with belief mixed with fear and respect.

He has never really been in a position to have to (or want to) try to masquerade as another kind of being.

"There are occasions when it is useful."

Her mouth twists faintly, the whole set of her body shifting to something infinitely more casual -- and human.

"And there are other times when it's just a pain in the ass."

Castiel raises his eyebrows.

"I have only ever 'passed myself off' as a human, when the situation called for it," he admits.

"I am unsure I am capable of...pretending in any other respect."

"What have you told people that you are?"

The archangel shrugs, sprawling back in her seat and making herself comfortable.

"I tell them my name's Michael. I usually get work as a bike messenger or something. The details take care of themselves -- you and I both know there's not a lot of difficulty in reading human expectations. And then when they need to know more -- if they need to know more -- I tell them."

Castiel thinks.

"I do not know how to ride a bike."

That particular disguise is out for him.

She shrugs.

"It's not mandatory. But while you're looking into crafts and hobbies -- "

What could it hurt?

"--it is yet another thing that can be learned," Castiel completes.

He does wonder, occasionally, if his superiors had any idea what they were ordering him into.

"There is a near-infinite number. You just have to pick a few."

There's a fine tremor of a more dignified (or at least rigid) cadence under the studiedly lazy persona.

"If I may ask," Castiel says, respectfully, "what things have you chosen?"

He is learning a great deal, but has no idea what will prove useful. It will be good to get another perspective.

"Me?"

Michael raises both eyebrows.

"I've been around long enough to know at least a little bit about everything. This current -- "

She looks down at her body, then back up.

" -- incarnation, as it is, is a member of a pagan circle -- a neophyte, learning Tarot card reading. She drives a Vespa, and I can keep it fairly well in repair. I also like daytime dramas, Derrida, pointillism, and just about anything else that would seem reasonable for a mid-twenties college student or artist. Oh, and punk music."

She shrugs.

"Some people like tattoos and piercings. It depends on who you're going to be."

Half of that has little meaning to Castiel. He makes a mental note to look up certain subjects later on.

"That sounds...........educational."

"I do not anticipate being anyone other than who I am."

"I know," Michael says, standing up.

There's a tilt to one corner of her mouth that may be amused and may be resigned.

"That's always the problem. Anyway -- I should probably get back to putting the fear of God into a few meddlers. But let me know how the adventures in bicycling go, if you decide to take that route, okay?"

She seems, in this moment, very human.

It is not an accident.

"I shall do so."

He shall. As soon as he figures out how to obtain the use of a bicycle.

This is Michael, after all. A Michael, if not his. The suggestion is likely to be taken as an order.

"And I thank you for your counsel."

She flicks her fingers in a dismissive gesture.

"Anytime."

It's not un-genuine.

And then she heads for the door, sword flickering back into place in her hand as she goes.

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