Nightfall looked at the large, surly man, trying to figure out what to say.

"I don't want that sort of thing here...," he tried.

He denied it, vehemently. Denied he had been hitting and kicking his partner harder than he should have. Denied trying to hurt the smaller man. Denied it with a smirk on his face, daring the slender Fairest to call him out on it.

Nightfall wasn't listening. Not to the words. He understood, and understood that the wall had to be torn down first. He called out, reached out, to those that made agreements ages long past, paying the price when needed.

And pimp slapped the motherfucker.

He laughed, and danced, taunted, and dodged. A slap here, a prod in the gut there, an insult in between. He caught the things the man threw, placing them back where they belonged even as he wove between fists and feet.

So it went, until the man squatted, panting, and the the only blows came from Nightfall's words. The pale ring of flesh on a finger. The newfound desire to get in shap... to learn to fight. The shiny convertible no beat cop should be able to afford. The yelling at the phone. The thick legal sized folders and envelopes that peeked out of his gym bag and locker. The brand new credit cards, and checks with only three digits for numbers. The apartment locater magazine that had always been in hand the first week.

It wasn't hard; it actually offended Nightfall that he would hide his grief behind a facade of anger. Such... petty sorrow. He didn't know what true sadness was. He wallowed in what Nightfall had led him too, blubbering. Explaining. Looking for comfort; for advice.

Nightfall offered neither.

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