Getting late, maybe.

It's hard to tell, down here in the basement of the Herald, where they keep their files and micorfilms on record-- down here where a person can go to do research, if they happen to need or want to look through newspaper clippings and old columns.

Jon needs to. It's research for a summer course he's taking-- the university's library didn't have what he was looking for.

It's quiet and cool in the storage basement. There's a radio playing faintly, somewhere, the specific songs lost in lack of volume and stacks of paper. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Paper turns.

Jon's sitting at a table provided for researchers, flipping through a book of specific clippings, his lips pursed as he goes through the papers, trying to find the information he needs-- trying to figure out what information he needs. Gotta love the research.

He's a slim young man of average height-- not too tall, really-- with brownly tanned-looking skin and curly black-brown hair. His clothing's light, an undyed cotton shirt, a pair of light brown cords. A pair of glasses sit on his rounded nose.

((Argh. I really, really, really can't write right now. Reserved for Poe.))

It was strange, how things were different when you were the living dead.

Glimmerman chewed on the side of his mouth, imagining he could feel pain not not entirely sure if it were reality. He had felt something tug him to this building (otherwise, there would have been no way he would have been caught...alive in it), and although he had never been the one to claim he was a curious sort, he couldn't help but to find himself wander around the building until he discovered whatever the hell was pulling him around like so.

It was when he caught sight of his reflection in one of the many large windows in the ridiculously large building that Glim realized just why he was getting such odd looks from the scattered around people.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to look in a mirror since the...incident of his death, his rather vivid and wild imagination supplying him with pictures of a half-gone, maggot eaten version of his face, and the very thought of seeing himself like that turned his stomach. It was quite surprising, then, to realize that he looked fairly...normal, with very slight, almost indistinct changes.

His hair had always been dark, true, but now it was so black that it seemed to let off its own light, a shine that almost looked as if there were white streaks littered across the ebony strands. His eyes, once sparkly and mirthful, were now a fathomless black.

But what got him the most was his skin.

"Christ," he murmured in awe, reaching over to touch his reflection's face lightly. "What the hell happened, did someone decorate my skeleton with Christmas lights and plug me in?"

He had always been pale, but now he was illuminating.

With a shake of his head and a moment where he clenched his eyes shut, Glim made his way forward and

(down)

to the steps. Whatever he was looking for was below him.

It took him only several moments to get there.

Jon ignores the sounds of someone else coming down the stairs in favour of the papers in front of him.

There he is, sitting at the table, in all his dubious glory. Just a human, maybe. A human who's been dead, whose body has been worn by Death like a rental tuxedo, a human who has come back from the dead and is currently wearing his own body like a rental tuxedo-- one the last guy forgot to wash.

He glows a little, in the mind's eye, with God residue.

Glim strolled into the basement, feeling the unnatural presence of his 'master' surrounding the boy like a demented sort of aura. He frowned slightly, pushing his hands into his pockets and 'casually' (as casually as someone who was trying desperately to look casual, which was not at all) sauntering to his side.

What was he supposed to say? 'Hey, er, have a couple of run-ins with Death recently? Why do I ask? Oh, no reason, no reason. Except, er, you're glowing. Like me'.

Mmm-hmm.

And then, after that, he could be declared certifiable and checked into the funny farm!

"Whatcha doin'?" He didn't even realize he asked it, not even after his betraying lips formed the words, or after his renegade vocal chords supplied the sound, or after he leaned against the table the man was sitting at. In fact, he didn't even realize he said those words, mainly because he was not accostomed to saying such words. He wasn't the curious type. He wasn't the nosy type.

He also wasn't the dead type.

For better or for worse, things changed. People changed.

He wanted to know this person's affiliation with Death.

Jon had continued to ignore the other, up until he'd leant himself up against Jon's table and started talking. Blinking, the young man looks up, and runs decidedly warm, brown, non-Azrael eyes over Glimmerman. His brows furrow.

"Just doing some research," he says, his tone casual, cautious and polite. "For school."

If he can sense something different about this person, he buries the sensation, preferring to avoid using any of the minor abilities left to him by his brush with a God.

Those eyes weren't what Glim expected, but he wasn't quite sure what he expected, anyway. Did he think that they were going to be white, like Azrael's? That maybe Azrael was playing a tweaked up trick on him by dancing around in a mortal's body? He wouldn't put it past the god.

He sighed and raked his fingers through his shimmering hair.

"How do you know Him?" One thing that came with being a minion was the ability to capitalize words in speech. He didn't think that it was possible until he tried it and, well, it was an interesting experience, to say the least.

Taken aback.

His mouth opens, and then a moment later words come out. Inside his chest, he can feel his heart speed up in a detached sort of way.

"Who?" he demands, denying the emphasis on 'him.' Denying his own reaction-- he's already guessed.

He waved his hand distractedly, pursing his lips together. "You know who I'm talking about, don't play stupid. And don't be nervous about it, either. I don't care about the consequences of you knowing Him, I just want to know why you do. For my own personal reasons, if you can't possibly tell."

Ah, Glim, he was quite the prick sometimes.

"I want to know more about Him," he admitted, scowling at the far wall. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer—was Azrael an enemy? What constitutes one as an enemy?

Jon stares at the shiningly pale man a moment longer, his research dropped where it is.

"What did He do to you?" he asks, finally, subconsciously stressing Azrael's pronoun as Glim had.

Glimmerman toyed with the idea of telling a stranger just what had happened to him. He liked that thought over telling a friend. He had a feeling a friend would think him crazy. Crazier.

"Brought me back to life." He held his pointer finger to his temple and—Bang! "New and Improved, Version two-point-oh. And you? What'd he do to you?"

Jon shivers, and wraps his arms around himself, unable to take his eyes away from the darkness of Glimmerman's.

"He. Took my body. Wore it." Like a suit. "After I was dead. Then brought me back and put my in it again." And now it fits like a suit someone else has stretched out of shape.

He wets his lips, his dark eyebrows drawing down again.

"How did you know...?" How did you know I'd been involved with Death?

He waved his hand again, this time dismissively. "It's kind of obvious. You're glowing. In any case, I've got these weird...I don't know, powers now." It felt good to talk about everything that happened to someone who knew what he was talking about. Especially with someone who was a stranger—Jon really couldn't pass judgement on him. Well, he could, but it would be almost hypocritical in a sense.

"I didn't get brought back to life without having to give some sort of payment, you know?" Maybe Jon didn't, but Glim was hoping he did.

"I'm glowing?!" Jon says, his voice rising uncontrollably on the last syllable. He pushes himself away from the table and looks down at himself, trying to calm his heartbeat. He's not glowing. He's really not.

Okay, so this dude's crazy.

"I'm not glowing," he says.

"You are so," Glim argued, looking annoyed at being told opposite than with what he was seeing. Did the man think he was an idiot, or something? "Just a little bit. Around the corners. Like him. Like...er, leftovers from him."

He nodded sagely.

Jon shudders.

"Maybe it's just you," he suggests, forcing his attention back to the book in front of him.

He'd like it to be just Glimmerman.

"I don't think so," Glimmerman shot back, still annoyed. "You're obviously different, but are too keen on being normal over admitting that you're not."

Disgust was evident in his voice, and Glim was quite happy that he was still capable of his favorite emotion.

"And quit reading that stupid book and pay attention to me. I didn't come all the way down here to be ignored."

Jon's eyes flicker back up to the depths of Glimmerman's.

"Then why did you come down here?"

It could have been a challenge, but he's too tired. He can understand this other guy, anyhow-- it's hard to be rational, to be nice, after just having your life stolen away.

"Because I felt you." Horrible explanation, really, but it would have to do. He was furstrated at the man's almost disinterest in what he was trying to say.

What was he trying to say?

"You're giving me a headache," Glim accused, scowling. "And I don't even think I can get headaches."

What he wanted to tell Jon was that he was confused as the other man. He couldn't admit it, though. That would be admitting weakness, and he wasn't weak.

Curiosity.

Jon looks down and leafs through the book, idly asking (his tone cautiously casual), "Just what did He do to you, anyhow?"

"I'm dead," Glimmerman said helpfully. "See?"

He held out a wrist, expecting Jon to feel for a pulse.

"But I'm not a zombie, so keep your brains to yourself, please."

Jon stares at the wrist, then shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to feel.

"Why... why did he bring you back?"

"Because I asked him to."

Simple enough. And the truth. Well, the truth leaving out bits of information. Such as the fact that he was now Azrael's slave.

"Why did he give you back your body? Did he get bored?"

"I don't know." He frowns and taps his fingers on the table. That question's been bugging him.

He glances up at the towering Glimmerman, and the frwn twitches. "Sit down," he says.

It's been noted that Jon is still touched with Azrael's power.

It has also been noted that Glimmerman is Azrael's slave.

If Glim isn't forced to sit down, he'll at least feel a very strong urge to do so.

He didn't want to sit down, but for some reason he found himself doing so. He frowned.

"Don't do that."

He sighed and put his elbows on the table, much like a rude customer at a diner would do so while eating. His look at the other man was fathomless.

"What do you want? And, better yet, what's your name?"

"Jon. Don't do what?"

He doesn't-- couldn't understand what he just did. Doesn't know that Glim has to obey Azrael. Doesn't even want to think how that extends to him.

Glim made a frustrated sound. "You know, use your powers against me to get what you want done." He waved his hands in emphasis—if there was one habit that Glim had that he didn't even know he had, it was that he was extremely vocal with his hands.

He feels a little chill, but frowns at Glimmerman anyhow.

"I don't have powers."

He doesn't, he doesn't. He doesn't want to.

"What are you, in denial?" He slammed the palm of his hand on the table, getting more frustrated by the word. "I don't even know why I'm here. This is all your fault. You drew me here, like a fucking moth to a fucking flame."

He wanted to stand, and perhaps to pace, but it was like he was glued to the chair.

Jon stands, the chair scraping agains tthe cement floor. He frowns at Glimmerman, his heart racing.

"I didn't mean to!" he says, his voice rising a bit in desperation. "I didn't want to!"

"I don't care what you didn't mean or didn't want to do," Glim said, his tone taking on a whining quality to it that was obviously in mockery of Jon's denial. "You did it anyway."

Where were they going with this? In circles, maybe, and it was getting more annoying than helpful. "Quit bitching, will you?"

Jon's hands tighten on the chai'rs back, but all that this does is whiten his knuckles.

"Shut up." He frowns. "I'm not bitching."

"Yes," said Glim, keeping those ebony eyes on Jon, "you are. You're bitching like a woman who just found out her ball and chain was fucking another woman. I don't give a fuck if you feel cheated, or if you don't want these fucking powers—you have them, and that's—" It was in the middle of his sentence that the order hit him, and did a damn good job of shutting him the hell up.

Wonderful.

Now he was glued to the table, and unable to talk.

He settled on glaring hatefully at the man across from him.

"...and that's...?"

He looks a bit perplexed at Glim's sudden silence, and leans in a bit.

"And that's what?"

Glim simultaneously flipped him off and pointed at his throat, as if to say 'you fucker, you just made it impossible for me to talk'.

In so many words.

Shut up.

And he had.

And... oh, god.

Swallowing quickly, Jon backs up a pace (unaware that Glim is forced to remain sitting) and says, "You can. Uh. Talk now?"

"Don't do that," Glimmerman fairly shouted, slamming his hands on the table. "And, for fucks sake, let me up! I don't want to be sitting here all fucking day!"

The table creaked under his hands, threatening to break.

"Okay! I'm sorry! get up!" He makes it an order, unaware that he shouldn't "Don't hurt me!" This time he's vaguely aware that Glim will ahve t do what he says. He really would rather not get beaten up-- he can usually hold his own in a fight, but not against someone denting a metal table with their bare hands.

His fingers clenched and he stood (he had to stand), but he could not hit the other man in the room—no matter how desperately he suddenly wanted to. He hadn't, before; the thought had crossed his mind, but when the words 'don't hurt me' were uttered, he was filled with an almost desperate desire to pound the brains out of Jon.

But he couldn't.

It was physically impossible.

It was his own brain that supplied him with this curious temptation, the one to beat the hell out of Jon. It filled his mind with images of throttling the other—brutal, grotesque images that weren't quite normal for him. Glim was an asshole, all right, but violence wasn't his forte.

Things changed when you were dead. You tended to want other people to be dead, too.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers. Slowly, he looked down. Slowly, he took in the indentations his own fists had made.

What had he become?

"Quit," he said quietly, "speaking to me in orders. I don't appreciate it."

"I'm sorry." He frowns. "I'm not used to meeting people who ahve to do everything other people tell them."

He frowns, watching Glim.

"Wasn't there a teenybopper movie made just recently about that? Ella Enchanted. I remember seeing commercials. it looked too pink for me."

His mouth sometimes runs away with him.

"It was a book, at first," Glim grit out. "I read it to my sister when she was younger."

Glim wasn't the kind of guy who would read someone a book willingly, but his parents had offered him a car if he was extra special to his little sister and babysat her and whatnot. Kiss her ass and get a car. It seemed like a good deal at the time.

Unfortunate thing was, she now believed he actually liked her.

Wonder how his family would take to him being dead.

He paced slightly, banishing those thoughts and replaced them with puzzlements of when this little 'command' would wear off. Perhaps he could talk to Azrael? Be like, 'Hey. I'm all good for being your minion, but it's a bit tough being a stranger's minion, ya dig?'

He scoffed.

Azrael would probably take away his life. Or something.

He should just go. This was pointless.