Jeremiah stuck out in this club like an icicle in hell. Which one of these things doesn't belong?

He was wearing a white suit, white dress shirt, and white dress shoes. His wings were most definately hidden, but anyone in tune with anything magical would be able to at least tell there was something about him. He stood by the bar, not drinking anything or even looking like he was enjoying himself in the traditional sense.

Jeremiah was keeping himself entertained by yelling threats and omens at people who passed by.

"You! Yes, you. You deserve to be punished." He ended the conversation there.

"And you! You aren't worthy enough to even hear my voice." Ok, so he was a bit egotistical, but that happens sometimes.

"I will strike you down."

Ok, maybe not this bad.

He was not making many friends here.

Nicht Gwydion Robinson was not keen on the idea of hanging around low-life infested places. True, he would put a few shots away at a bar here and there, but nothing as crass as a night club ever got his attention. The drinks were satisfying, but the people at this particular establishment…were not so much. These were the kind of people who had received ‘pot-stirrer’ or ‘malcontented reject’ for career aptitude tests. The kind who dressed up like characters to go see movies. The kind that well-respected corporate attorneys did not associate with, needless to say grew up with.

But alas.

A man never leaves his mother; and poor Nicht Gwydion Robinson only felt at home when surrounded by freaks. Though it still miffed him considerably. Vicious thing, it was.

So there he sat at the bar, smoky air stinging his sensitive eyes, top lip resting on the rim of his glass. He wore his hair in its usual loose pony-tail, in a fruitless attempt to hide his ears from view. Expression distant and shoulders slouched, he poured the remaining contents of his drink down his throat, wincing at the sting. Of course, he quickly demanded another.

Black, double-breasted jacket slung over the railing of the bar, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white dress shirt, and loosened his tie. Another extraordinarily pointless moment passed in a lifetime of utterly useless points in time, whizzing past in quick succession. A mood struck him, and he turned to the person stationed near him, the man spewing out random, pseudo-Christian propaganda. Nicht blinked.

“You’re wasting your time on these losers, pal.”

At first, Jeremiah didn't answer. Who would try to speak to him? He liked to think he put most people in an awestruck, speechless state, so when he realized the person was indeed talking to him, he frowned slightly.

"Wasting my time?" He may not be able to argue the loser point, but he could certainly argue the wasting point. "I beg your pardon, but I am not wasting my time. Every person I get in touch with is another person who may possibly change their ways."

After so many years of doing not much, Jeremiah didn't see anything as a waste of time, really, except doing something that wasn't righteous.

Nicht grinned. It wasn’t out of happiness, and it was truly an insult to the word ‘smile’. More of a smirk. But with less mirth even than that. He took a smarting gulp out of his glass, and licked his lips. His mouth was still close to the contents of his cup, and his voice was slightly muffled as he spoke.

“Trust me man -”

-Another gratuitous sip of the green liquid, followed by an appropriate grimace-

“These kinds of whack-jobs never change their ways.”

And then it was back to wallowing in self-deprecating thoughts again.

This man was rather... unrighteous.

Suits and alcohol never equals a righteous person.

Jeremiah turned his attention to this lump of misbegotten flesh. Or something like that.

"You are too negetive," he said, allowing himself to warm up. "You should be happier." This was said in a tone more appropriate to 'Give me the money, and you'll live.'

Nicht raised an eye brow. He should have known better, in retrospect, than to try and reach out to a 'kindred spirit' in a joint like this. In other words, another unbalanced guy in a suit.

"Happier? You try being happy with a psychotic Japanese woman riding your ass all day, and a couple of birth defects like fucking Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. Christ, don't you have a job?"

He sighed.

Yes, he should have known better. And he should have just shut his mouth and left. Should have, would have, could have. The story of his life.

"Yes, I do have a job." Jeremiah didn't continue on that track.

"Birth defects?" He peered at the man, looking him over for something wrong. "Everything looks natural to me." Of course, Jeremiah recognized him for what he was.

If Jeremiah had been less righteous, he may have made a sex joke pertaining to the Japanese woman, but since he was righteous, he didn't even think of it.

Nicht barely resisted the incredible urge to slam his head against the bar. How could he miss them? Yes, Nicht knew he did a fine job of keeping the greater part of his ears hidden. But the points poked out from his head.

And then he understood.

This nut case didn't think they were real. Nicht snorted, and brushed his hair behind one ear.

"I'm not some loon, man. They're the genuine article. And there's no corrective surgery on the market."

"Mm hm." Jeremiah didn't really care about his ears.

Jeremiah had a strong urge to yell "repent!" but held himself back as he had already been warned once by security to stop bothing the customers. Instead, he folded his arms and glared at the oblivious elf.

"You're not dead." He said this in a tone making it obvious that it was a reason to be happy.

Being an attorney, Nicht had this nearly unstoppable need to argue that he was, in fact, dead. Or that perhaps it was a matter of perception. Or that he was at least dead within. Or there was no proof that he was living. Only when he heard a loud clink of his glass on the bar did he snap out of his argument for defense.

"Who says dead people've got it so bad?"

Nicht leant over the bar on his forearms, gazing down into his poison.

"I mean...no work, no pain, no jacking around day after day..."

Death was sounding good.

"No love, no joy, no feeling." Jeremiah made some good points.

"You should enjoy life, or it will be taken from you." Not 'can be taken,' but 'will be taken.'

"Dude. Who says I've got those things anyhow?"

It was bleak and melodramatic, but it was true. Days passed like monotonous minutes for Nicht. Horizons blended together. Sunrises and sunsets were missed in taxi-cabs, and the moon was never seen for sleeping.

But then he was alarmed. Taken from him? Suddenly, Nicht wondered why the prospect of being murdered by the man in white was so worrisome to him. He didn't really have a reason to live anyhow. Maybe money. Maybe.

"You do not look for them." It was hard not to add ", stupid."

"You must make your life better. Do no sit there, or it will get worse. Do not be passive or pretty soon you'll forget how."

How to do what? Anything.

"Oi, that's a laugh. That's rich."

Another generous intake of the murky substance contained within the open-topped cylinder lowered Nicht's inhibitions. He was more than a little tipsy, and it began to show in his speech. Not in how he spoke, but in what he said.

"So what do you propose I do? Go and find someone to love. I dunno if you noticed, buddy, but I'm not exactly lovable, or joyful, or fucking full of feelings, for that matter. I'm a lawyer, don't you know."

Well, at least he wasn't seeming so homicidal any longer, Nicht mused.

"That was your first mistake," Jeremiah replied, unphased. "A lawyer was the wrong choice."

"I propose you go out and live your life like it should be. Full of love, feeling, and joy. Or else."

How foreboding.

"Well. I had a few back up plans. I was gonna be a gynecologist, but that didn't work out. And the other choices are prostitute and assassin. How about you? What do you do?"

Nicht ignored the whole bit about finding a life in happy-dream-land, where everything was a-ok. Nothing good ever came out of his life, and working hard for it made things worse.

Honestly, mediocre was a great thing for him.

"At least a prostitute is loved, even if briefly." Could this be humour? Nah, not from Jeremiah.

"I fix things."

Nicht drained the remaining contents of his glass. He wouldn’t have more. Would he? He shrugged to himself, glaring down at the clear container. He knew he wouldn’t be driving home, so it didn’t really matter so much. He ordered another. And then he laughed. A throaty, wry sort of chortle that was best reserved for times when nothing was truly funny.

“Prostitutes – hookers – they’re not loved. Fucking is not loving, man. Even I’ve had sex.”

It was true. Nicht had been in bed with someone…once. But he had been inebriated then, too. An eye brow quirked.

“So you’re a repair-man? Pretty snazzy.”

"I guess it depends on your point of view." Jeremiah had once come across another angel, one who had fallen far from righteousness. His girls certainly seemed to be loved.

Skaing his head, Jeremiah replied, "I'm no lowly repairman."

"I guess it all depends on the point of view."

Nicht's face remained as blank and unemotional as usual, a skill picked up from his line of work. All too often, emotion, or any display of it, could win or lose a case. Losing was never an option.

Oh. So he was no lowly repair man. Well, Nicht was no lowly lawyer. He was a damn good one. Smirking, he asked:

"So what sort are you?"

"Fixer of people."

He beamed with pride. What more noble cause was there?

Understanding lit the pale lavender of Nicht's elongated eyes. Oh. Now he got the joke - and it all made perfect sense. He chuckled at how blind he could be sometimes.

"A psychiatrist. I get it now."

"Mm." It was a noncommittal noise, just something to let the man know he had heard him. Let him think what he wants, Jeremiah knows who and what he is.

"You, on the other hand," he said, continuing his train of thought aloud, "seem to have an identity crisis. That could be your living problem."

Exasperation and disbelief made for a pretty interesting facial expression. But Nicht managed with flying colors, eye brows knitted together in confusion, bottom lip caught between his teeth in thought. Identity crisis? Him?

“Listen pal, I’m not the one trying to convert a bunch of basket cases. I know I can’t, ‘cause I know who I am.”

Nicht Gwydion Robinson.

It was clear who he was. He was the same slightly deformed cynic he had been way back in high school, middle school, and even grade school. But now his hair was longer, and his voice deeper. He should have been upset with the lack of change, but his system was too sedated to react.