Raphael looked down at himself, chewing uncomfortably at his lip. "They're self-inflicted," he finally said, trying to smooth out his tank top. He really needed to get new clothes, how hard could it be to cut slits for his wings?

He let them curl around, stretching the jagged feathers, and out of pure habit, began to come his fingers through them, preening his mangled wings back into shape. It was interesting, he thought dimly. He had been able to help and not one drop of his angelic powers had been used, he had used the last of it healing Rose (he really should check on her, the poor dear) and all he had now that distinguished him from a human were wings and a few air-shifting abilities.