Boy's dont cry

The silver haired being was smiling content; looking at the box he had received earlier in the day. These books were worth a fortune. He picked one up and let his fingers run gently over it, as was he caressing a lover. They were magnificent, this book had been loved, someone had taken great care for it, and someone had cut their fingers badly making it.

Tristan frowned as a light on the door distracted him \"Mister King?\" a little voice asked

Tristan rolled his eyes. \"Yes, Ruben what do yout?\"t?\"

The door slowly opened and a little pale man in a terrible striped sweater entered, Tristan snorted offended, this mans taste in clothes directly offended Tristan\'s fashion and colour sense. Why could he not se it himself? Or perhaps he just did not care? This was unbelievable for the fallen angel, who spent perhaps too much time making sure he was looking his best.

\"I would just inform you that I am leaving now mister King\" the little man said and tucked some of his hair behind his ear

Tristan nodded and slowly put down the book on his desk. \"I will lock behind you Ruben\" he said and made a gesture for the odd caretaker to walk before him.

King, it still sounded weird although he had been called that for over 10 years. He had never needed a surname, and when he had had to get himself a new name he had called himself K bec because he had seen a commercial for Kings cigarettes behind the woman that had given him the form.

They walked through the different displays of the museum, and Tristan smiled, he had been an adult commanding his own army of angels when the mummies as not even born. \"Kiddies\" hisphispered to himself.

Ruben ignored him, apparently used to the strange curator speaking to himself and acting generally as were he medicated, he could stand and stare at a statue for hours to then lay a hand on his heart and nod, as were he greeting it. The other workers at the museum had made allot of jokes on mister King\'s expense. But they all had to agree that he was incredible good at his work, and so they had to respect him in some odd way, even if he was a mental case. They even had a bet going, half of the employees claimed that mister King was a half-elf of some kind, left behind in the city. Ruben did not think he was Elven at all, he had read much about that almost vanished species, they existed all right, but they hid in secluded corners of the world, none of them being to keen on the human cities. Mister King was something different, he could not place his finger on it, but he was no elf.

They reached the double doors to the street, and Ruben opened it, he stepped outside and then turned to bid his farewells to Tristan. \"see you tomorrow mister King\" he said

\"Please call me Tristan\" the angel said and smiled back, that mister King business was getting on his nerves, but he couldn\'t really be mad at the poor caretaker, since it was his way of showing respect.

But Ruben just shook his head \"have a good night, I hope your books will be worth it\"

\"I am sure they will be\" Tristan said and began to close the door

\"Oh\" Ruben said and took a step forward and Tristan opened the door a little again \"Mister King?\"

\"Yes?\" Tristan answered trying not to sound annoyed

\"I put over coffee for you\" Ruben said with a nervous grin

\"Why thank you Ruben\" Tristan said and nodded again in approval before he closed the door and Waved to the little strange man. He watched as Ruben walked down the street, all slumped and looking like a little wet dog. \"You need yourself a woman\" he muttered to the window and shrugged before beginning to set on the alarm.

He walked back to his office, but stopped at the way to fetch himself some of the coffee Ruben had made, he send a small prayer to the little man, and if they heard him up there this cup of coffee just earned Ruben a woman, lots of money and fashion sense.

He knew that mortals would be afraid of walking this museum at night, but Tristan was not, either afraid or mortal. He reckoned he was actually the most frightening being here. He chuckled to himself and opened the door to his office. He took a quick view over the books spread over the floor, there were allot of them, but since he did not need to sleep more than once in a while, he squatted down on the floor Indian style and took the nearest book as he carefully placed his cup on the floor. He rolled up his sleeves on his black shirt and his massive tattoos were visible. He kept them locked away under long-sleeved clothes all year around. What would the visitors not think if they saw them? Luckily he was not tattooed on his face, his ears he had had tattooed though. But her made sure his hair covered his ears, they were slightly pointed as an elf\'s and had a snake tattooed on each that stretched from the earlobe to the pointy top. But now he was alone, so he tucked his hair behind his ears, and he silently thanked whoever made it fashion with hair over the ears. The only thing he could not change was the fact he looked like a very young man. He would never have a deep voice or grow facial hair - or hair at other places of his body either. Mortals took him for unusual vain as he always had slim eyebrows that looked as was they plucked into shape and a perfect shave. He couldn\'t very well tell them that he would look like this when he was 10.000 years old as well.

He smiled to himself and opened the book in his lap; it was to his surprise on a very old and forgotten language, it looked like some elvish, yet it was not. He shook his head and flipped though the pages, when he suddenly felt as time itself had come to a grinding halt. There was a picture. A hand drawn sketch of a gargoyle, Tristan took a sip of his coffee, he had seen that gargoyle before, and he knew those eyes, and that grin - where could he have seen that? It was not really a thought; it was as someone whispered in his ear \"Ayere\"

\"YES!\" he yelled and pointed at the picture \"you are that gargoyle with that nasty habit of coming alive and leaving in the middle of the night, like a bad shag\"

He closed the book and sat for a long time with the drawing in his hand, looking at the mischievous grin on the gargoyle, he wondered who made this sketch in the first place, this expression looked very intimate. He felt himself tremble not from cold or fatigue but from the mental image of those talons running over his back, he imagined they would break the skin easily. Tristan let out a ragged breath and closed his eyes, why was he thinking about that? He had not been thinking of carnal pleasures for over 30 years.

\"Perhaps that is why you dimwit\" he chided himself and slowly stood up, laying the sketch of Ayere on his desk, and rested against the wood with a hand on each side of the paper, the desk was just high enough so he accidentally rubbed his groin against it. \"Stop it\" he growled and took a step back as was he bit by a snake.

He shook his head, and walked back to his coffee and squatted down on the rich carpet once more \"tomorrow my pretty, I will find a frame for you, so you can look at me for all eternity\" he said and smiled slyly. Before taking up his task looking over the books in front of him.

**************************

Ok I know it was not the most existing chapter I ever wrote, but I got to warm up here. Ayere is the property of Morcalivan, and I used him with permission, if you want to read more about the nifty little gargoyle please go read her fab fics (find her under my favourite authors) And - FEEDBACK would be greatly appreciated ( its good to know if I should continue writing about my little fallen angel here

-Az