Disclaimer: Don't own it - I. Is. Broke.

AN: Danke! I'm in love with reviews and feedback, people! Savage, Grail, sonata, DC - thanks, guys. It's uber appreciated. :)


He knows she likes him better when he pretends that she is his lovely one and only, with all the pet names, the sweet nonsensical nothings, the kissing, the cuddling – he shuddered, resounding the despicable word inwardly, letting it mill around in his skull.

Love, he mused drolly, she is love.

Scanning the room, he spotted her spread on the floor, knees bent awkwardly allowing bare feet to thump out a muffled beat on the concrete, arms stretched lazily overhead; withered petals, crippled by their affirmation, fluttered down, separated from the dying rose currently being twirled between her dainty fingers. Her vacant stare connected with his, the solicitous spark no longer recumbent as she relinquished a puerile chortle.

"What'cha doin', puddin'?"

Caught between a seductive pout and her ubiquitous nettling giggle, she rolled onto her side, swirling patterns into the floor with the rose, more diseased petals descending awkwardly in their throes, fragments crumbling and scattering under each breath.

She isn't love, he confirms; thumbing the blade in his pocket, he crossed to her, delighting in the squeal against the palm of his hand as he pulled her into his arms.

She is life, one that he stole to be certain. In fact, very little remained of who she was before and if she were beautiful then, she was even more so now, the fragile angel that had succumbed to Lucifer's dark devices.

She was grinning against his hand then, one tiny hand fisted at her side, the other twisting against the pocket of his jacket. The blade failed, or at least some part of his psyche did, his hand folded delicately around hers…For her, he would pretend.

"Love ya, Harl'."