thursdays_angel (
thursdays_angel) wrote2009-01-03 07:41 pm
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In Which Castiel Meets Betty Roberts
There is a man in a suit and trench coat standing stock still in the middle of the bar.
Castiel is perfectly at ease; arms at his sides, occasionally turning his head to observe the comings and goings around him.
Just taking everything in.
That is why he was sent here. To learn from what he finds. Learning requires observation.
Of course, he's still getting used to inhabiting a corporeal body. It may not have occured to him yet that, standing as he is in the path of patron traffic, he might be in anyone's way.
Castiel is perfectly at ease; arms at his sides, occasionally turning his head to observe the comings and goings around him.
Just taking everything in.
That is why he was sent here. To learn from what he finds. Learning requires observation.
Of course, he's still getting used to inhabiting a corporeal body. It may not have occured to him yet that, standing as he is in the path of patron traffic, he might be in anyone's way.
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"Excuse me, would you . . . that is to say, if you don't mind, could you move?"
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Then remembers. And steps to the side.
"Excuse me," he says, politely.
He observes her armload of items.
"You are carrying a considerable burden."
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Since she is, as he has so readily noticed, the one carrying them.
She drops most of it onto a nearby table, and then carefully sets down her trusty portable (for a given definition of the word 'portable') Underwood.
"Thank you."
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Still.
"You're welcome."
That is what is expected in response.
He walks over to look at the typewriter, running two fingertips experimentally over the back edge. Metal and ink and keys.
"What is it that you write?"
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She really can't afford to replace it.
"I write for the radio."
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He knows about radio. Just because he has not walked on Earth in centuries doesn't mean that he hasn't watched what happens there.
Castiel was around when humans were telling stories with no medium but their voices and memories. Through pictographs and clay tablets up through television.
"I would not hurt it," he assures her.
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"I'm sorry, it's just . . . well, I'd be at something of a loss if anything happened to it. I'd never get all the copies done if I had to write them out longhand, and Hilary would . . . well, she wouldn't be pleased, let's just leave it at that. I probably shouldn't bring it in here at all, but I can get so much work done here without interruption, and I'm a little behind right now."
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He has picked up a single sheet of carbon paper and is examining it with great interest, flipping it back an forth. (Corporeal form means a great deal of new tactile information--he had almost forgotten about that.)
But he is listening.
"Time is an important commodity for you."
And, as a human, not at all fluid or malleable.
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"It's carbon paper," she adds, helpfully. "For making copies."
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There's something in his expression that might almost be amusement.
"So that you can make several scripts while only typing once," he says.
"To save time."
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"And wear and tear on both the typewriter and my hands."
Useful stuff, carbon paper.
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Angels, it would seem, have their own definition of the term 'personal space.'
"Humans have always told very interesting stories."
He means that as a compliment.
Angels, for all their (at least perceived) advantages, tend to be second to humans in the imagination department.
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It does not occur to her that he would not be including himself in that category.
"I'm not sure I'd call that particular episode of The Crimson Blade all that interesting, though. It's more . . . stalling. Because I'm not sure how to keep the villian from forcing Lady Genevieve to marry him."
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Not that he would necessarily be advocating this in a real life situation.
It would depend on the situation.
But for the purposes of fiction, it's a safe enough piece of advice to offer.
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It's one of the great philosophical conundrums. The necessity of Evil. Can Good truly exist without the presence of its opposite?
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She's not trying to be philosophical. Just fill half an hour of sponsored air time.
"And it is one of our more popular shows."
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"You enjoy your work a great deal."
It's not a question. It's in her voice and the words on the page.
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"Yes," she says. "It's exhausting and frustrating and, well, crazy, some days, but I love it."
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"I can tell."
"Often the things that are loved the best are the ones that cause the most trouble."
Some speculate that that is the reason God's abiding love for his mortal creations.
Speaking of things that can be exhausting and frustrating.
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"I'm sorry, I've been horribly rude." She holds out one hand. "Betty Roberts, of station WENN, in Pittsburgh."
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"Castiel," he replies.
He clasps her hand carefully. He's still learning to judge his grip.
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Betty shakes the feeling back into her fingers as discreetly as she can. That's quite a grip he has.
"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Castiel."
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She's discreet, but he still notices. Though he would thank her for trying to spare his feelings.
"I apologize," he says, addressing the statement in the direction of her fingers.
"This form is still fairly new to me."
And his vessel is not a weak man.
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". . . this form?"
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