There's something really weird in the back corner, by the crapper. Everyone in the Empty Glass knows he's there, he sticks out like... well, a gay highschool kid in a blue collar bar. The bartender isn't really sure why he served him. Kid looks 17, tops, nevermind he's a fairy. But... he feels a little woozy, when he tries to think about what happened after the pansy showed his I.D....

And so Samael sits, insensible to the stares and raucious laughter at his expense. He's wearing a lavender T-shirt that clings like plastic to his thin, supple body, and doubly clingy, black plastic pants. His thigh-height black boots are covered in straps and buckles, and have a two-inch platform at the heel. Around his left ring-finger is an ugly band of grey metal. His chin is planted on the edge of the tall bar-table, his shoulders slumped and arms dangling lifeless between spread-eagled legs. Before him on the pitted, sticky surface are two empty shot glasses, and a third dangerously full of whiskey. His eyes, weepy grey eyes that are, currently, bloodshot and bleary with drink, are fixed intently upon this one full glass. Lolling on it's side next to these is a half-empty bottle of water, the label peeled off.

Die die die die die die, his mantra. His brain dully repeats this, as he suffocates in the ambient cigarette smoke. He can feel his chest contracting, the oil of it on his skin. Will he have the courage this time?

Jessica steps into the Empty Glass and looks around as the dim lighting shines brightly off of her tight leather miniskirt; she walks forward, stepping up to the bar with a strut that would turn any man's head, and sits down. The bartender asks what she'll have, but she just waves him away without so much as a glance; he humphs and leaves her, walking down to the other end of the long bar, as Jessica's eyes fall upon a drunken schoolboy in the corner of the pub. Ah, my next meal...and easy prey from the looks of it... In her mind Jessica giggled, but outwardly she simply smiled; drunks were by far the simplest ones to drink from.

Sam's shoulders convulse suddenly, his whole body wracked with loud, wet coughing that'd seem more usual coming from a 40-year smoker. Wrapping his arms about his ribcage, Sam glowers miserably at the edge of the table as the coughing subsides, where a trickle of booze is ever so slowly creeping toward the precipice, and his leg down below. The topped-off shot glass has now lost a good third of it's potent contents from the rattling Samael gave it just now, the chipped surface of the wood slippery and smelling of it.

He reaches out for the glass, and drunkenly misses, his hand hesitating mid-air as he mentally recalibrates. Groping for it again, he clamps thin fingers on its slippery surface, and limp-wristedly tosses it down his waiting throat. As he sallows, hard, he makes a shuddering face and drops the glass carelessly with a loud 'clink' on the wood, watching distantly as the first drop of booze hits his plastic pants and rolls down the side of his leg.

The boy could not be a more perfect picture of dejection.

All his wits about him, Rasmus didn't have. A bullet-proof vest, he didn't have. But what the boy did have, was money that he was planning to spend on something to drink.

The door swung open to the perhaps rejected to be dusted pub, and Rasmus slid in. Nobody noticed, or so he thought. Nobody ever noticed, skinny, small, thirteen-year-old looking Rasmus. He was just... average. Sure, there were thousands of boys today that looked as disheveled as Rasmus did, and that was what made him average.

He walked silently over to the bar, taking slow, careful steps. Anybody could be waiting... anywhere, just waiting to reach out and grab him. And this fear of the darkness and the things that lurked in pubs, was all generated by a demon. A demon that didn't and couldn't die, for it was already dead.

He swallowed as he shooed that thought away, although it still lingered in the back of his subconscious. The thought of dead things made him positively... sick.

He wore a black trenchcoat, and a black, slightly baggy plain black shirt underneath it. His wine red hair fell in his eyes, and today, instead of glasses, he wore the blue-tinted contacts of his that he favored.

He wore black boots with a one inch heel, that stopped comfortably at his ankles, and made him exactly average height for a male his age.

He spotted Samael, in the middle of one slow, careful step, and noticed him coughing. Although he was a stranger, and could be just waiting to do something horrible to him, that didn't stop him from being courteous. Even though Samael was probably too drunk to remember what courtesy was right at this moment.

"Are... you all right?" A small voice, that is lightly accented with Swedish asks. The small voice is a perfect match to Rasmus' small figure.

Samael's reddened gaze wavers in and out of focus as he slowly lolls his head in the general direction of whomever the hell just spoke. He tries to look composed, planting his boney elbow on the wet tabletop, and fails utterly as he slips and has to carefully readjust himself. The span between the time he seems to register someone talking to him and the time that he actually responds is prodigious.

"Goway 'n let me die, y'git..." he slurs. "I n'awanna... no." He wavers, dangerously close to toppling. "Lemme be." He summons up a look of extreme seriousness for this last, spreading his lips into a thin line and arching his neck backward to puff his flat little chest. His watering eyes half-close in feigned threat... not as if he could stop anyone from anything, even if he were sensible.

Damn - now there's two of them, and the new one doesn't seem drunk at all; nor does he seem human - there's a smell about him that's vaguely familiar, like an animal...

Jessica's displeasure was only evident by the smile that had suddenly faded from her face as the newcomer had entered and approached the drunken bastard who otherwise would have ended up as her night's feeding; she was only a five-year-old vampire, though twenty-one in mortal years, and she needed blood - not just for the wonderful warmth and delectable taste, but rather because she needed to feed. She had never tested herself to see how long she could go without blood, and she wasn't about to start now; if it weren't for the fact that this newcomer wasn't human, she would simply have two meals - and she wouldn't even complain about it. The more blood, the better. But she had no clue who or what this man was, except that he wasn't human, and that made him a dangerous meal - and thereby increased the risk taken to feed on the other one. Dammit...

Rasmus was completely oblivious to Jessica, and the fact that he had interrupted her thoughts of having a meal this night. But, he was human, and nother else, and wasn't aware that he smelled like an animal.

Perhaps something she was smelling had been on his clothes, since he'd been around a demon. A demon, one could suppose, might smell vaguely like some sort of animal.

At Samael's slurred demands for Rasmus to leave him be, he did so, and backed down in an instant. Obviously he wasn't invited to have a conversation with him. "Sorry I asked," he grumbled slightly. What a waste of courtesy and willingness to face his fears on a complete stranger.

He slid away from Samael, and closer to Jessica, so that he was in the middle of the two, still rather oblivious of Jessica. But that was Rasmus for you; always slow to catch on to anything.

He sat down and placed a hand, which was hidden almost all the way by black fingerless gloves, on the wooden bar counter. Well, almost fingerless, since the material actually cut off where his knuckle was.

For a minute, he just sat there there to recollect his thoughts, and he sulked, though still remaining of little or no threat at all.

That's the thing about the Fae- their Glamours can smell like anything and nothing. Sam doesn't smell like much at all when in this form- but he's so drenched in the smell of myriad humans (to any creature with a sensitive olfactory sense, he reeks of sex, as well as alcohol) that he passes fairly easily for mortal.

Sam holds himself up as the other boy sullenly wanders off, wobbling in lazy circles. He's tragically comical, posing so pridefully when in such a state.

His mouth warps into the kind of frown that warns of imminent tears, as the other young man settles obliviously in at the bar. Sam turns back to his table, crossing his arms on the surface and planting his face in the hole between. His bangs and nose drag in the spilled whiskey, but the position muffles the noise as he painfully begins to cough again, back straining as his lungs contract desperately.

It hurts... and he's so afraid. Tears leak sluggishly from his eyes and mingle with the alcohol, his hair...

Jessica waited patiently as the sober one sat down a few seats from her at the bar; the drunk hadn't left yet, but he would have to eventually - and when he did, she'd be ready for him. Even if he didn't, the barkeep would make him get out - and she'd be right there to help him to the door. Her small smile returned to her face slightly in anticipation of the events to come...

Samael might've told him off, but Rasmus still glanced in his direction, absently letting his eyes wander freely. Poor guy Rasmus thought with an inward sigh. No, that was his problem. None of Rasmus' business. He refused to poke into it.

His head turned a little ways, so he was looking the other way, and eyed the vampire up and down. Mmm. So sexy, he thought, letting his thoughts drift nowhere in particular. When he realized he was staring, though, he turned his head back to where it originally was. But now, he was looking at the bartender.

"Got an I.D., kid?" The guy asked Rasmus.

"Yeah, yeah, just a sec..." The boy trailed off, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He opened it up and showed the man his license. The picture was taken a few years ago, when Rasmus first got his license, but his date of birth showed the man all he needed to know. He was legal.

It was small talk from there. Rasmus ordered a drink, paid the man, and stuffed the wallet back into his pocket with a barely audible sigh.

Pubs were such uncomfortable places.

((Sorry - been waiting for The Vert to post, but since he's obviously not going to... :blink: ))

Jessica watched the drunkard; it didn't seem that he was going to be leaving any time soon, but that was fine. She was a patient vampire; the bartender, on the other hand, didn't seem to be able to take a hint. When he bothered her for the second time, she gave him a look that would have wilted an entire field of rosebushes; needless to say, he backed off.

Over an hour passed, with Jessica slowly starting to get irritated; if this drunkard didn't move soon, she was going to have to skip a meal - which would only irritate her, and she was a dangerous creature when she was irritated. Even as a mortal, no one had dared to irritate her - of course, back then it was because she had a habit of using people that irritated her for target practice with whatever was close at hand; now, she just made them suffer when she fed on them.

Finally, the bartender dared to annoy her one final time; by this time, Jessica was irritated and hungry. She was tired of waiting; she leaped over the bar and slammed the bartender up against the wall. After whispering something in his ear very fiercely, he looked terrifed and practically ran into the back room with Jessica trailing him.

Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the back room; she was wiping her lips with a finger and sucking whatever was on it off of it. At least she was no longer hungry - now she was just irritated. She headed for the door...