He was waiting for darkness to overcome him, both in the mental and literal sense, as he stared out at the water of a private beach on an empty dock with his arms crossed over his chest. He was watching like a predator watches its near still prey, and in the same sense listening intently like the prey who knew it was being stalked by the predator. He didn’t look alert, slouched over like he was an old man with his eyes half-opened lazily, staring out at the ocean, the lapping of waves against waves nearly pulling him into sweet slumber.

The last rays of sunlight lit the sky, turning it beautiful colors with brilliant shades of pink and red, and soft shades of purple, yellow, and orange, blending to make a rather glowing image with the help of the gorgeous sparkling water.

The lone man on the dock did not mar the image that one could only imagine, but instead intensified its quality just by being there. He looked thoughtful in a contented, almost lazy way… in the way he generally looked when he was sprawled out on his beat up couch, newspaper or comic book opened and over his eyes as he slept.

His delicate features amplified the soft touches of the scenery, like his wide pink eyes that matched with the shades of pink in the pretty, seemingly endless sky. Like his black and blue hair that matched with both the light and dark shades of the salty water… or the spots of red that matched with the blazing sky. Like his smooth and flawless pale skin that matched with almost every soft grain of dry sand.

His hair fell into his face and on either side his bangs framed it like a famous painting taken years upon years to create and perfect, passed down as a family’s most valued heirloom. Though it might’ve been decades old it didn’t look worn past the first day it was created, and still shone in all of its brilliant glory.

His face looked like angels had carved it. With perfect cheekbones, very lightly colored lips, and light brown brows and lashes. His nose was the perfect size for his face, being mildly petite, just a hair upturned, and just a smidgen pointed.

His body didn’t look like it had been neglected by its carvers, but instead abused by its owner in more than one way. For the most part it was long and skinny, and all too catlike, sporting easily counted ribs, and just short of an all too visible spine. His whole body, including his almost too long, but not unattractive neck were riddled with deep, long scars, and he crossed his arms in a half-hearted attempt to cover them.

Half of his wings fluttered, and he wished, mildly, that they could be long and big and beautiful like they once were.

He was half-naked, and his only clothing was a pair of old, dirty, worn jeans that had been lying around on his floor this morning, and were now soaked because Uriel had found the need to walk into the water earlier.

He shivered slightly, but there was a lazy smile on his face, betraying the cold feeling in his stomach, and the shivers that ran down his spine.

Norman was,... probably supposed to be at home, working his tail off to finish the paperwork that some lazy-ass intern had dropped on him. It wasn't that it was difficult, but, damn, it was time-consuming. For once, he figured he'd actually take a break before getting back to that inane little task called work. He'd decided he'd do it faster if he got to refresh himself.

It didn't work that way for him, and he knew it. But he did need to get out and breathe some fresh air, the kind that hadn't been pumped through a building's air-exchange system for hours on end, recycled to death. Norm wasn't the type to commune with nature or anything, though,... he blamed nature for a lot of things - how he looked, for example. He still looked like a gawky teenager (he was twenty now, thankyouverymuch). His arms and legs were too long and he moved with little grace, if any. His looks were even less graceful; dead-straight blond hair, rimless round glasses, and milky blue eyes like old pottery.

He'd taken off his sandals sometime ago, and was brushing his feet through the cool sand as he walked. The sand was sticking to the hem of his jeans up to his knees, because he'd been kneeling on the sand building a small sandcastle a few moments ago - he'd only just finished. He had on a loose sea-green sweatshirt, left unzipped, and underneath that a plain white t-shirt. It had used to have a pepsi logo on it, but it had long since faded. These were his beachcoming clothes,... though he really didn't expect to find anything.

His gaze flickered over the hunched-over silhouette of Uriel, not far off. He peered at him for a moment, shook his head, and continued walking in his direction, leaving long trails of footprints behind him.

Just to note, it's probably not smart to walk barefoot in the sand when it's almost dark. Broken glass and all that, you know...

Why are private beaches never deserted? Why is it that whenever you think you're alone, you're not? And why is it that when you wish you were with someone, you're always left alone to rot away? It wasn't that Uriel wanted to be alone (he was something of a people person, which contradicted the fact that he was really socially dysfunctional), it was just that he thought he was alone.

Thought he was alone, that is, until he heard his footsteps, from almost literally a mile away, even on the soft sand of the beach.

He turned to look, off in the distance, Norman's figure a blurry and fuzzy one... he couldn't even faintly make out the form, just that it was a tall mass of.. something.

He frowned slightly, then Norman came into view, and instead of the water, he gazed intently at the other man.

Norman isn't psychic - not in the way that means he can reads others' thoughts, anyway (he doesn't even know he's a telepath). It seems he's got a sixth sense about being watched, though - the hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle uncomfortably. He reached back to scratch his neck, looked up at the same time, and found that the stranger was looking at him. He gazed back for a brief moment, not slowing his pace. Stare. Stare all you want, damnit, I'm just out for a walk, what the hell do I care, he thought, kicking up a small plume of sand -

and feeling something cold and sharp pierce the sole of his foot, causing him to freeze in place and give a shudder. It was like getting a papercut, that slick stinging bite that you hoped wasn't there until you saw the blood. He quickly backed up, turning his foot so he could see the damage. A shard of brown glass, belonging to a beer bottle probably, was lodged between his big toe and second toe.

"Oh shit," he hissed, falling back to sit on the sand and pry the little shard out. He didn't want to touch it, he really didn't,... but there was a freakin' piece of glass sticking out of his skin!

Damn people leaving their litter everywhere so innocent people get stabbed with glass...

"Hold on," Uriel said immediatly, and slipped off the dock, splashing into water and getting his whole body wet as he swam towards shore to where Norman was. Not bothering to shake off the water, he knelt down next to Norman and said, "don't touch it."

"Let me see it." His voice was smooth like dark chocolate, and warm like a nice summer day, but serious like coaxing a small animal towards him.

The pale blue eyes flicked upwards for a moment, oddly shiny but shaded dark by the grimace on his face. He'd crossed his legs so the glass-carrying foot was resting almost sole-upwards across his ankle, and he was squeezing his foot tightly. Blood was seeping out around the bit of glass, nearly black in the fading light.

"I'm alright," Norman said in a tense voice, quickly looking away, "...Damn bit of garbage,... it'll be alright, it's just,,...fuck, ... It's gotta come out, I can't walk home with a piece of glass embedded in me."

"Well, that much is obvious." Uriel said, his tone the same smooth one just with a new hint of light sarcasm. "Are you going to let me see it or what? I won't hurt you or anything."

He looked down at his foot, pink eyes shimmering just a little.

"Of course it needs to come out. That's why I want to help."

He frowned at Uriel, his lips pressed firmly together. Norman didn't want to touch it himself, but what bothered him even more was the thought of this stranger touching it. However, Norman wasn't one to refuse help when it was offered, though he could be guarded about what kind of help he accepted.

"Okay. Okay," he said, with a twitch of his lips that resembled a weak smirk, "...Yeah. Sorry I snapped. It just hurts. You can try and help if you want..."
Hopefully one of us knows what they're doing.

Uriel didn't find it strange at all that he was trying to help someone. It was just the fact that he hated to see others in pain.

He touched Norman's foot, his long fingertips gently brushing skin, feeling around just as gently, and placed fingers on the rather large shard of glass stuck in the skin.

"This might hurt a bit..." he warned. He probably knew that already, but Uriel just felt the need to say it.

"No shit, Sherlock," he hissed between clenched teeth, then felt guilty about it and quickly said, "Sorry."

He let go of his foot and dug his fingers into the sand, bringing up tiny hills of the grainy cold stuff. His fingers found their way to the damper, colder sand and he fixed them there. He was preoccupied at the moment, or he might have noticed that Uriel didn't look entirely normal - besides the hair and those oddly-colored eyes, that is.

Ignoring his rather crude comment, (let's not forget, he'd probably say the same thing in that situation) he eased the glass out of his foot with the grace of what someone might think a doctor to have, simply with his claws and fingers.

Then, he showed him the really big piece of glass, frowning slightly.

"You've probably heard this a million times, but you really shouldn't walk on the beach barefoot. And you might want to go home and clean this off and disinfect it. It's a pretty nasty cut."

He managed not to flinch as the glass was drawn out, but he didn't watch as it was done. He was the sort who could faint at the sight of a needle. Seeing blood alone was enough to make him feel queasy, and he paled a bit when he saw the cut that had been left in his foot. Some blood dripped on the sand, forming little dark dots.

"Yeah, so I see... unfortunately, I have heard it a million times. Figured it couldn't do any harm, just this once," he said, with a forced, wry smirk, "Well, what's done is done. You're right, I ought to clean it up. Thanks for the help, by the way. I'm Norman. You?"
He was really polite when he wasn't angry.

"It's no problem," Uriel said, inching away slightly from the human to bury his clawed toes and fingers into the sand, hidden from view. He tucked his wings tightly against his back, making a useless effort to hide them too.

"I'm Uriel. Mind if I ask you what you were doing out here?" It wasn't a sort of intimidating question, just a rather intrigued, curious one.

Norman ignored that there was anything strange about Uriel. It was completely impossible that he had claws. Or wings. It simply couldn't be. So obviously he couldn't be seeing them, and they weren't there at all.

Simple.

He cast Uriel a faint smile, pressing the sleeve of his sweatshirt over the cut to slow the blood - it wasn't bleeding badly, but it seemed fairly deep. "I was just out for a walk," he said, shrugging a shoulder, "Had to get out for a while and do something that doesn't involve staring at papers or computer screens. How 'bout you?"

Uriel should've known better than to go without gloves, shoes, and a shirt. It's a pity he didn't remember to wear, or at least bring those things more often. But it was good that Norman was ignoring it... Uriel wasn't out to freal people out, or drive them away, or anything like that. He was what he was and that was that.

"Same. Well, minus all the walking and staring at computer screens. I was just watching the water." It seemed creatures such as Uriel never really got tired of watching and observing, especially beautful things like the water in the middle of a sunset.

"Oh, yeah?" he seemed interested, almost. Well, anything to take his mind from those things that he was sure he couldn't be seeing. As a matter of fact... "Have you been out awhile? It's colder out by the water than I'd have expected..., Aren't you cold?"

What he's leading up to, here, is having an excuse to lend Uriel his sweatshirt, so he won't have to see those (not really there!) things poking from his back.

"Oh, just a little bit. The offshore breeze wasn't as bad a little while ago..." he blinked, contemplating. "And since I'm soaking wet, yeah. I guess I'm cold. Doesn't matter though." He shrugged.

"Aren't you?" He drew his fingers out from underneath the sand and found them to be a sandy color... feeling all grainy and covered with sand as they were.

"Me? No. Not at all," he said, shaking his head. He grinned at Uriel, "You can borrow my sweatshirt, if you want. I really don't need it."
He certainly wasn't cold, himself. Damp, perhaps, and maybe he'd miss wearing the sweatshirt in a quarter of an hour or so, but for the moment, what was more important was removing Uriel's - were those wings? No, they couldn't be - from his line of sight.

They were wings, though. They might've not looked like it, being the small, mutilated things that they were, but they were wings. Too bad Norman was very stubbornly unnish.

"Only if you want. You might regret it in a little while, though."

"Nah, I'll be fine," he shook his head, and shrugged off the sweatshirt. He looked down at it for a moment, frowning, then back at Uriel. He held the garment out to him. "It's got a little of my blood on the sleeve,... hope you don't mind. It's mostly dry..."
He grimaced. He found that rather disgusting, himself,... but ,... well, hopefully Uriel didn't care.

He took it, grinning a little bit. "Nah, it's okay. A little bit of blood never hurt me." After all, he drew his blood practically every night with that swiss army knife of his. No amount of blood really made him squeamish, you see, and he found it rahter... fascinating where others might see it as disgustingly morbid.

He qucikly slipped the sweatshirt over his head, covering those wings of his, and pulled his long hair that was trapped in it out.

"Thanks."

"Hey, no problem at all,- it's the least I could do," he said, "...Are you any warmer, now?"

Until Uriel put on the sewatshirt, it would have been difficult to see that there was any tension in Norman's face at all. Only when those wings were covered was it noticeable that he might have been looking a little... stressed, and only then by the relaxed look that drifted onto his features.

"Mm, yeah." He nodded, stiff sifting through the sand with his fingers, watching it slip through his claws, and then he began raking them across the sand.

"Do you always offer sweatshirts to random strangers that look cold, or am I the exception?" He asked, jokingly.

Those aren't claws. They're just carefully sculpted nails, he told himself, forcing himself not to watch them being drawn over the sand.

"Erm..." he frowned thoughtfully, not seeming to take it as a joke, "...Well,... no,... but I don't often have the occasion to offer anyone a lend of anything. Besides-"
He grimaced.
"-You did get that glass out for me. I wouldn't've been able to touch it."

"Ah, yeah." He shrugged a little, burying his fingers under the sand again. If asked about his black claws, he would've lied and said he bought him somewhere or something, and glued them on. It seemed logical enough.. someone with a lot of time on their hands could sculpt those silly little cheap glue-on nails into nails like that and easily paint them black.

"Besides, I was only joking."

"Oh,.. sorry. Jokes tend to sail right over my head," Norman said apologetically. He glanced briefly at the nails again, then looked away, turning his gaze back to his foot. He slipped his sandals back on, taking it slow because he didn't want to tug at the skin. He was silent, biting lightly on his lower lip. In fact, the only sound now was the waves.

And maybe some quiet little whispers that Norman couldn't hear, but Uriel might be able to, if he was listening. Blood and body heat weren't the only things Norman had left on his sweatshirt when he handed it to Uriel.

"It's quite all right." Uriel nodded, and at this point, had he not been borrowing someone else's clothing, he would've been rolling around in the sand all to contented. But instead he wriggled his toes in the sand, pink gaze settling on Norman.

"...did you say something?" Uriel wasn't quite sure, but... he had heard something. Usually nothing got past his all too animal-like sensitive ears.

"Hm?" He glanced upwards for a moment, seeming not at all surprised. Oddly enough, he got that question a lot, "Mmnope. I don't believe I did. Why? Did you hear something?"

To Uriel's mind, or ears -whichever you rpefer, because it amounts to the same thing in this situation, the silence would be riddled with little whispers. Like someone speaking normally, but from a distance. What are those things, they can't be real, they're not real, they don't exist. I don't care what they look like, I'm seeing things. Those things - wings? - no, damn I don't care what they are because they don't exist.
Norman didn't hear a word of it. He'd thought it, but that was when he'd still been wearing his sweater. The sweater was now on Uriel, and if he listened, he could hear what Norman had been thinking mere moments ago.

"Uhhm, yeah.. I.."

Those things - wings? - no, damn I don't care what they are because they don't exist.

"I'm pretty sure, it's... not.. real. Er, it's nothing, I mean. I'm pretty sure it's nothing."

Now he sifted through the sand nervously, looking down at it with a slight frown. What on earth was he hearing..? And.. someone doubted hsi existence..? Wait, was that... Norman's voice..?

This was still confusing, even to an angel like Uriel.

Was he... telepathic, or something?

"What?" Norman tilted his head to one side, frowning and looking quite confused. His tone sharpened a little, as if he'd heard something he didn't like, "... What's not real?"

He finished pulling on the second sandal (yes, it had taken that long) and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. A searching look managed to filter through the dead surface of blue in his eyes as he wondered just what uriel was going on about,...

"It's probably nothing. Forget I said.." Uriel tried to relax out of the frown a little, but it didn't quite work, "uhm, anything. It's nothing, really." And he hoped it didn't seem too obvious there was something else nagging at him a lot.

"Okay," Norman said with a shrug. What Uriel had said had been too close to something he remembered thinking, and it had unnerved him. But once the issue was brushed aside, everything was fine again. He could see anything wrong, and that which he could see could be easily explained away. But in the silence, more of the small thoughts embedded in the sweatshirt bubbled up. The less recent ones mingled with the last ones Norman had had before giving the sweatshirt.

Not real... don't exist
can't
imagining things again, idiot


A more forceful one floated to the surface. A faint chill of shock, mingled with pain and disgust, accompanied by the thought What the fuck was - oh shit I stepped on something sharp, OUCH...!

A shiver ran down his spine at that thought, and Uriel reached up to cover his ears with his hands, showing his claws again. He wasn't shivering from the cold this time... he was shivering from... fear? No, he was shivering because of the disturbance in the peace, and the thoughts, not his own, were so very loud.

"What... the hell? What doesn't exist?"

So much for trying to keep quiet about it.

"Well, tell me what you're talking about and maybe I can tell you," Norman said, eyeing him suspiciously. He didn't like the way this sounded. But of course Uriel hadn't heard his thoughts. Telepathy, like winged people, was impossible. He concluded Uriel must be imagining things too. He was trying to look like all of this didn't bother him at all.

"What's that matter?" he asked, with little warmth in his voice. "You don't look so good."

If Norman was trying not to look like it didn't bother him at all, Uriel was doing theexact opposite.

"I... I dunno, exactly." Uriel said truthfully, wincing and slowly sliding his hands away from his ears. "I... think I better... I better go."

He was still frowning, and almost... upset?

"Hmmm," he said, by way of agreement. He slowly stood, "I think I ought to be going as well."

He didn't ask for his sweatshirt back. Uriel seemed to need it more than he did, what with the shivering and all. And he'd feel mean for taking it back, at this point. He took a cautious, limping step - as long as he was careful, he wouldn't damage his foot any more than it already was.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, after a long pause.

"Mhmm." He nodded, swallowing and slowly building that barrier of clamness back up, so he didn't seem quite so troubled.

Careful not to rip the fabric with his claws, he slid the sweatshirt off and handed it to Norman. He didn't want to take something that didn't belong to him, because he'd feel guilty. "Here, I don't think I need it anymore.."

"I'll be fine."

"No,..." he frowned slightly, pushing the sweatshirt back at him, "It's okay - you can borrow it. Really,... you don't look so good. You can return it some other time,... I've got my name written on the tag, you can look me up in the phone book. I'm the only 'Norman Peters' in there. Okay?"

He gave what was meant to look like a reassuring smirk. It came out somewhat twisted, but the main idea of it carried through. It also happened to carry through the sweatshirt, which both of them had a hand on for a moment.
C'mon, take it already. You look ill... he was thinking. The thought was almost as loud as normal speech, because it was new. Norman had no clue that Uriel might be able to hear it.

"O.. okay, if you insist." And Uriel would be giving it back, by the way, and it would be cleaned. Might be stained from the blood, but at least it'd be clean, and not wrinkled, like most of Uriel's clothes were.

With a forced little smirk of his own, he took the sweatshirt. "I... thanks." he said with a little nod of his head, taking the sweatshirt, wanting to sink his claws into it like a cat would, butdidn't want to ruin it.

"I'll return it soon," he reassured him.

"No problem," Norman nodded, with a faint smirk, "I'm sure you will. Take care of yourself,... I'll see you around sometime."
With that, he turned and began slowly walking back the way he came, retracing the dark line of footsteps he'd left in the sand.