Disclaimers: All of the characters and concepts concerning Moonlight don't belong to me, sadly enough. They are the sole property of CBS, Joel Silver, and many other people with lots more creative talent.

WARNING: No sex or graphic violence. PG-13 language and some graphic imagery of the medical kind. I honestly asked myself, "Does this really need to be written and sent out into the world?" Unfortunately, it wouldn't let me go. Guess I'll let you decide.

Premise: When Beth asks Mick where he gets his blood, he tells her it's from the blood bank. But it's not, is it? The morgue is not the Red Cross, and he's not exactly telling the truth. It's one thing to imagine the blood coming from someone calmly sitting in a comfy couch with a needle in the arm, and quite another to contemplate the mechanics of draining the dead. And yes, I did research for this. Shudder

--------------------------------------------------Bagged, Tagged and Bottled To Go-------------------------------------------------------------

"Blood is life, for vamps and humans alike. It warms us and thrills us. Helps us heal. But vamps will always be jealous of the living. Like renters versus owners. You can make your own blood. We've got to beg, borrow, or work it into the budget." Mick's voiceover from Fever.

Guillermo moved through the halls of the morgue, pushing a gurney in front of him. A heavy black bag lay stretched out on top of it, compliments of the LAPD. This one had exsanguinated on the scene, the victim of a drive by in Watts and so was of no use to him. Terrence might take a closer look tomorrow, but she wouldn't be good for more than a pint or two. He dropped the body off in Exam Room Number One, placed the paperwork on the desk of the lead morning tech and continued down the hall to attend to the duties of his other job.

The facility was empty at this hour, the last doctor having left around midnight after performing a priority autopsy. It had set Guillermo back a bit, and now he found himself pressed for time. He ducked into the last room and closed the door firmly behind him. Vamp hearing would bring him the sounds of anyone entering the morgue, and he could be out to greet them long before they ever reached this room.

"Alright. So, who's next?" His fingers tapped a quick beat on the surgical table as he considered the wall of tiny doors in front of him, twelve in all, the storage units for Examination Room Number Eight. No one answered, of course, but at five in the morning when everyone living had gone home, it wasn't like there was anyone else to talk to. And heck, twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago, most of the occupants would have been capable of answering back, right? That had to count for something.

"Let's see…" He'd already processed the three on the top row and all six of the bottom chambers…that left the three drawers just down from the top.

Two jaunty steps took him to the wall, and he reached for the step stool, flicking it into place beside Door Number 1. He stepped lightly up and hauled on the polished silver handle. It opened with a whoosh, and he basked for a moment in the cold air that wafted refreshingly in his face. The morgue was kept at a consistently low temperature, and the units were refrigerated at below zero- the perfect comfort environment for a vampire. He and Terrence had both tried out the accommodations here before. Working in a place equipped with personal sized freezers was really convenient when you were running short on sleep. He grinned. It's not like your co workers would start opening the freezer doors looking for you if you disappeared for an hour.

He pulled at the steel stretcher, rolling it out smoothly, eyeing the black bag lumped on top of it. Hmm…This one hadn't been examined yet. He pulled open the zipper from one end to the other, peeling back the vinyl to reveal the young woman inside. She was dressed in club wear- the ubiquitous little black dress hanging off her shoulder, come hither red lipstick smeared in an ascending line across the bottom of her face. Probably an OD. Good. Some vamps preferred a little kick in the blood from time to time.

He examined her quickly. There didn't appear to be any open wounds, which meant no blood loss. The docs would get to her tomorrow, run their tests and make their cuts, and then she'd be ready to go. A few pints low, but that couldn't be helped. He made a mental note to call Terrance about her tomorrow.

Okay, so on to Door Number 2. He bounced down and repositioned the stool, opening the door. Cold air blasted out once more, this time scented with the sticky sweet smell of rot and of internal members rapidly liquefying into paste. He flinched back, gagging. "Jesus, man, somebody forgot about this one!" To a vampire's nose, it was overwhelming. Mindful of the fact that he did have a real job to do, he slid the drawer out just far enough to flip up the sheet and read the toe tag, careful not to slosh any of the viscous yellowy goo over the edges. A Jane Doe. Clearly dead for a looong while. Pulled two days ago from a drainage pond on the East Side. Scheduled for autopsy at 9am.

So that's where the wet was coming from. Some of it anyway. Guillermo rubbed at his nose, trying to dislodge the scent. He turned his head, searching for fresh air and inhaled deeply…and the smell followed home, going right up into his sinuses. Perfect. It would be with him for days.

There was no way he'd get anything from her. Once the amoebas and swamp critters set in, the blood was tainted. No vamp ever asked for a dirty finish. As he started to push the tray back into its freezer unit, he stopped, eyes growing wide as he noticed a small incision above the collarbone. What the hell? Terrence drained her? What did he think he was doing? You got greedy and started pulling bad blood and you'd have pissed off vamps lining the halls. Which was not good for business, especially when that business had to remain on the down low.

He and Terrence saw themselves as the corner grocers of vampire society. They weren't the only source of blood, but it's not like there were all that many places for vamps to go. Their partnership depended on knowing their clients' tastes and matching them to the best of their abilities with the stock that came through the door, rather like the purveyor of gourmet foods who knew all the best chefs in town and worked to please their palates.

Guillermo pushed the table back into the drawer, closed the door and jumped down, a bit heavier this time. Alright, he knew Terrence too well to believe the kid was going south on him. So what was the deal?

All of a sudden, it hit him, and Guillermo shook his head, laughing lowly. St. John. The blood had to be for St. John. That little 'help yourself' autopsy a few days ago had really fried Terrence's cheese. St. John had brought in a crispy vamp, soaked in silver no less, asked for Terrence's help, and then ran out, leaving the body behind with a shrug and a grin. What exactly had he expected Terrence to do? It's not like there was an incinerator in the place. Bodies came in through the front door, were numbered and processed, and then the same number of bodies went out through the back in the care of funeral professionals. Terrence had been forced to leave with St. John's stinking, silver laced duffle bag over his shoulder, go to the dump during daylight hours and throw the body into the incinerator there. He'd bitched about it for days. As well he should. St. John could be a cocky bastard sometimes, taking their friendship for granted when it suited him.

Well, Guillermo was on vacation next week, and St. John would be coming to Terrence for his supply. Mick should have known better. You never crap where you eat, and you never piss off the wait staff. If you did, it was your own damn fault when you got the 'special sauce.'

He kicked the stool over to Door Number 3. Third time had better be the charm. He was vacationing in Vegas, and when in Vegas you could never have enough ready cash. So far, he'd only taken around 25 pints from the other drawers and this was his last shift. Three of the deceased had bled out, two were in just about the same condition after the docs had gotten finished with them, and the harvest from the rest had been only fair. Say he kept 8 pints for himself and sold the rest at the going rate of $100 dollars a bag…Suffice it to say, it wouldn't be much of a trip. Not if he wanted to lay a little money on a table somewhere.

He took a deep breath and pulled the handle, peeking slowly inside. Oh nice. He yanked on the drawer. The figure of a man emerged, well over six feet and heavily built with no sign of injury. Guillermo smiled. He scented the body, cautiously this time, and his grin got wider. Nope, nada. This guy was fresh. Then his eyes went to the red 'Do not cut' tag on the toe and a shot of happy adrenaline ran through him. This one was being released without autopsy.

Guillermo felt like he'd gone fishing and reeled in the big one. He'd bet on six to seven pints from this guy based on size alone. Body builders always gave a little extra. "Oh yeah, Daddy's going to Vegas in style!" He pulled on the drawer exposing it all the way, pressed the button to release the stretcher's legs, and then jumped down. A little tug brought the gurney's wheels to the floor. He locked the struts and lowered the whole structure to waist level. A flick of the wrist maneuvered the slab away from the wall to the center of the room, and a grab at a moveable surgical tray brought his tools to hand. Guillermo fell into operational mode, knowing he'd wasted time and that he had to be quick. Since there was no trauma, this one would require blood replacement. Pumping in the fake stuff took a little longer.

He smoothed the man's hair back from his shoulder on the right side, then pressed his fingers between the neck and the collar bone until he could feel the carotid and the jugular rolling just under the skin. Holding them in place, he reached for the scalpel on the tray. A small cut just above his fingers opened a thin red incision. He pulled back the skin and inserted a separator, then cut the carotid and jugular, inserted small drainage lines in each and hooked the arterial hose to a small machine next to him. The venal hose attached to an empty blood bag hanging from an IV hook. The pump would blow red water into the arteries and push the blood out of the veins and into the waiting bag. The last pint would be blood and water mixed, which produced an off color, letting him know the process was finished.

He settled in to wait, the humming of the machine whirring softly as it created a semblance of circulation, acting as the dead man's heart. A few minutes later, a new bag was in place, steadily filling with red essence. Guillermo put his finger on the juncture of bag and hose, where a few drops of blood had squeezed out during the transfer. He sniffed at it, touched it to his tongue, trying to catch a vision of the man's death. At first there was nothing, and then, faintly, it found him, a sense of surprise and confusion giving way quickly to fear and then blankness. Hmm…Stroked out, maybe? Aneurysm? Something fast. He let the taste fill the back of his mouth, breathing it in, letting the deeper notes of personality and intellect, of health and vigor permeate his palate. Very smooth. The jagged bitternesses of unhappiness and depression were present, but only as small complements to the greater complexity.

He licked his fingers again, a smile crossing his features. Terrence would be disappointed, because Guillermo had stumbled upon a quintessential St. John vintage. Funny, because if Mick hadn't been brought to mind earlier, the bags would probably have gone to the rocket scientist over at the Jet Propulsion Lab. Yeah, he'd call Mick tonight, have him stop by his apartment to pick these up. He'd charge $150 a bag, tell St. John about how pissed Terrence was, and then flip his partner the extra.

The rest of the process went quickly, bags being transferred at steady intervals until the body was drained of blood and refilled with colored water. Guillermo removed the hoses and pushed the carotid and jugular back under the skin. He concentrated a moment, bringing his other self to the fore, allowing his nails to grow long and jagged. A few careful swipes and a larger abrasion was made. To all purposes it would look as if the man had hit something as he fell.

After that all that remained was the clean up. The body was returned to its drawer, the blood replacement was dashed down a drain, and the machine rinsed and stowed away in its normal place of residence. As he was finishing, he heard the first voices at the front of the office, the first footsteps coming down the hall. He opened the door to Exam Room Number Eight and walked out to greet them, coat in hand, duffel slung over his shoulder, filled with small pint sized bags all tagged and ready to go.

finis

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