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light cigarette
un_fallen wrote in milliways_bar
Raguel wears a black hat when he's out and about in LA these days, because Bar is still holding his usual one hostage and he needs something nondescript. The colorful hat that Coyote got him for Easter always takes its place on his head, however, when he steps into the bar.

It looks a little strange on him once he's perched in a corner, brooding smoking, but around here it's difficult to look truly out of place.

[tiny tag: Olga]
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There's a small, tawny coloured owl perched in the rafters, her head tucked under her wing.

The curl of smoke from Raguel's cigarette drifts around her and she rearranges her wings in her sleep. Another moment, another breath, and her head emerges. She blinks large golden eyes, looking around and finally, peering down.

There's a soft knocking sound from above Raguel's head as she claps her beak together, three times in quick succession.

Raguel glances up, starts violently, and goes back to looking (a little less calmly) across the bar as though nothing had happened.

He looks up again. Yep, owl still there.

"Hello," he says, frowning in confusion at the bird's obvious annoyance.

Gold alien eyes regard the angel with a piercing intelligence. Her head cocks ever so slightly to one side and then slips back and forth in the fashion of her kind.

Olya, it's rude to not respond, the human fragment of her mind whispers.

And so the bird sighs, visibly inhaling and shuddering as the air expels from her lungs. Her wings unfold and she leans, tipping forward into open space, air filling the void beneath her pin feathers.

Somewhere between the rafters and the floor, the air fractures, twists like a mirror bowed, and where there was an owl before, there is now a woman. She lands on the floor as if she'd just stepped off a curb, brushing her hair back from her face before she turns to him. The same alien intelligence still reflects in her eyes.

She blinks, much like the owl did, looking at the cigarette in his hands. When she looks back into his face, she gestures simply, the hand motion conveying the universal sign for 'spare a smoke?'


Raguel pulls a pack (why are the packages always crumpled?) out of his coat pocket and offers it to her.

"Sorry about that; I usually make sure the smoke doesn't bother anybody, but I guess I forgot about up."

"S'alright," she answers. Two fingers carefully extract a cigarette and she cups her palm around it. The end glows without the application of flame and she puffs it to life, leaning back with a supremely contented look on her features.

"Spasiba," she says, eventually.

He'd been going for a lighter next, but when he sees that she's handled it, he pulls his hand out of his pocket and drags on his own cigarette.

"Puzhalsta," he replies, without really thinking about it.

There is a hint of a smile around her eyes.

"Nice hat."

His hand flies to his head.

"Oh no, has it -- augh," he says, growling in frustration when he pulls down the flowery hat.

"It doesn't usually look like this," he explains, apologetic.

The smile broadens. If he knew her better, he'd realise how rare the sight is.

"S'alright," she murmurs around the cigarette. "I like it."

"Well. Thanks. It's okay in here - it was a gift - just not the sort of thing that lets you go unnoticed in the day-to-day."

He shrugs, and puts the hat back on. It feels better to be wearing one.

"And it's -- mm -- very pretty." There's a light teasing note to her voice.

She takes up a post at his elbow, leaning against the wall next to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her eyes play over the room.

He snorts.

"I've heard that, yeah," he says, eyeing her position against the wall.

"You're welcome to sit down if you want," he offers, though she doesn't look uncomfortable.

"I'm Raguel."

The offering of his name gets a bit of a sharp look.

She takes a long puff on the cigarette, watching him as she considers. Eventually she comes to a decision, and moves to join him, turning a chair around backwards to straddle it.

Cigarette still held between her lips, she holds out a hand in greeting. "Olga."

"Pleased to meet you," he says, shaking it.

Wow, this girl's almost as suspicious as he is. He finds it oddly soothing.

"Where is it you've come in from? I live on a version of Earth, but we don't have anyone like you, as far as I know."

"Moscow, 2004."

She pulls over the ashtray, tapping her cigarette into it, watching him from beneath her lashes.

"I've never met someone like you, either. Usually, we are mistaken for your kind."

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