Rooftop cats (Erik)
They swarmed her until they covered her entirely like a cloak stuck on a branch. They horded her until she couldn't breathe and lost control. But she showed none of this. Yes, she will feel pain and she will suffer. These were little things that were part of the job and she would accept them, but she will never allow herself to be affected.
Rahne opened her eyes and she returned back to where she was. The shower had been pouring nonstop. Gallons of water must have gone wasted as she became fixated in recalling what had happened during the protest and how that X-Man slighted her with his nightmarish hallucinations. She did not realize how water started flooding in her cubicle and that the water was already her ankle level.
She left the pool behind to wear some loose clothes for the night. It was late when she opened her window to give her wings a stretch before settling in. Rahne flew more openly in the dark because she wouldn't be attracting much attention.
Her definition of settling in wasn't exactly heading to bed. Most often than not it meant sitting on top of the roof and spending the rest of the night on it. Whether she slept or not, it didn't matter. What she does wasn't very exciting. It was simply an equivalent to meditation, or just passing time by. These after a whole day spent in training, which was another of those unexciting things she ever does.
But she was not alone. Whether he'd been there when she'd first slipped out the window or not was hard to say. He sat quietly on the ridge of the roof next to the chimney, balancing with his feet on the shingles and watched her. He could move silently, a habit born from his sense of self preservation, and he could be anywhere, above ground, below, in the air, on the roof. Silently he watched as she climbed out of the window, as she cast herself out on the air, how she flew and glided, how she fell in swoops and soared high, fingers touching the clouds. He didn't call out, to draw her attention toward him, happy instead to watch her while she thought no one was looking. The moon was waxing gibbous in the east, the light of it casting a shadow off the chimney that he now sat in, but caught sight of her brilliant white feathers with ease. Anyone else who might have seen her would've thought her nothing more than an illusion crafted by the moonlight and the clouds.
He looked her over, eyes following her where she moved about the sky, silently calculating. The dark wet hair, damp white feathers that caught the moonlight, the impassive, emotionless face. She landed gracefully, no one in the house below would feel a disturbance, but shingles vibrated a little and it echoed up through his old bones. They felt everything these days. He pulled the dark blanket he had draped over his shoulders a little tighter, the fabric rustling the first real noise he'd made.
Rahne spun to the source. She would have pulled out a weapon if she had one. Yet she only had fists, bare feet and mere clothing. She was a tiny, vulnerable sight if it were not for her posture that made her appear like she could scratch an eye any moment.
Then her features softened when she found out where the sound came from. Fists opened, rigid knees relaxed to a polite standing position and the spread out wings folded themselves back in. Her head lowered humbly and her shoulders hunched, embarrassed to have acted in such an offensive manner at the man she would die fighting for.
But he was not offended, and didn't show any displeasure with the way she had reacted. If anything, he looked a little proud but the small ghost of a smile that fluttered against his lips was hard to see in the darkness so one could never be sure. He raised a hand silently, and motioned for her to relax. At ease. They were alone, and he had no wish to pull rank up here and with her. She was the last one of the group who needed reminding. She was one of the truly loyal ones. She was as loyal to the cause as she was to him, which was immensely important. He wouldn't be around forever and people around him needed to be passionate enough to continue to further the cause.
He shuffled a little to the side, allowing her room to sit close to him in the shadow of the chimney. It provided a nice barrier against the wind that occasionally picked up and breezed on by, and the proximity gave her the chance to share the excess blanket if she felt cold if she wished.
Rahne was, to put it simply, an awkward person to be with. Her reaction to a person's invitation of company would be to readily turn away and find another place where she would resume what should be characterized as 'brooding'. It was much easier than commencing a conversation. The mere idea of finding words to say was daunting enough. But Erik Lehnsherr raises a curious dilemma. Other people would not mean anything to Rahne. Erik would tug something in her: respect, obligation, purpose...His single personage alone represents so much thoughts, impressions and ideas that Rahne could not enumerate enough.
Whatever they were, they could not simply be snubbed. So as much as a moth could not turn away from the luminescence of an oil lamp, Rahne drifted to her mentor's side.