Part/Chapter 3 inspired in part by Siouxsie & the Banshee's "Happy House" and Billy Idol's "Mark of Caine". Standard disclaimers apply. Ya know... I don't bite reviewers. In fact... I usually give them big kisses. -wink- And folks do say I'm pretty. -bats eyes- God, do I have to slut myself out more? Just review, kay? Thanks ever so. Kisses.

Tequila

When I smell the blood, my first thought is she's cut herself in the shower, shaving. Bloody careless, that one. But there's no sweet soapy shower scent that drifts through the house when my girl is bathing, no curse word she echoes, first heard from my charming mouth. And it's richer, though not as rich as she smells on her monthlies. I know every scent Dawn puts off, at any given time, at any place. This is new.

My feet are gliding across the carpet, and up the stairs before I register it, my mouth and stomach completely confused. Both want it, both are sickened by it. Rolling and growling at the same time.

I don't knock, because if my duchess is bleeding, privacy isn't an issue. She doesn't see me at first, which is good, because I have no idea what's on my face.

She's sitting in the center of her bed, down to those knickers I barely let her buy, with the longer leg, all purple, and the matching tank top with the guitar on it. One leg is cocked at the knee, the truly small pearing knife fitted to her palm is making shallow, short cuts, barely on the side of her thigh.

Her face is screwed up, wincing, jaw tensing at the first bite of pain, but it smoothes, a little, to almost moan when the blood begins to flow.

The tiny frown stays between her eyebrows, but tilts her head back, a smile tipping the corners of her mouth.

I'm vamped, I can feel it, the ridges, the bumps, that smell getting so much more intoxicating. I've got her hair fisted in one hand before either of us is aware of it, the other wrapping so tightly around her wrist, I can feel the bone straining to take the pressure. Knife drops noiselessly to the mattress, and she whimpers in pain.

"Is that what you want, little one?" I hiss at her. "Does the pain make it go away?"

She's crying out, and fuck if I can't care. This has gone too far, and we're blood well stopping it now. Pushing her skull against the cherry headboard, that hand clamps down on her leg, blood smearing between my fingers, digging into the cut slightly. The pain is sizzling, pricking every nerve ending in my body with electricity, fingernails scraping them raw, making my vision brighter than the day lit sky, but blacking out small spots at the corner of my vision. My grip doesn't falter, but finally she sobs, and I know I'm placing finger-shaped bruises alongside her cuts, and that makes me more ill than the chip.

Jesus Bloody Christ, my head is gonna explode. I can feel it. But she's looking at me, dreamily desperate, and I can't help but wonder what pushed her to this today.

"It feels so good," she whispers through her tears, "but it keeps coming back... no matter how deep... it always comes back."

"Oh Jesus, kitten." And I'm pulling her into my lap, an awkward tangle of too-long legs, and clumsy fingers, petting her, one hand still clamped on her leg, trying to make the bleeding stop, and it's then I notice pale, white lines touching her body here and there, almost unnoticeable. It makes me shudder, and I'm holding her more tightly, whispering all the things I shouldn't ever.

That she can't do this because she's the only thing keeping me here. The only thing I get up for, drink for, fight for, and if she's gone, foster- care or dead, I'm done. Sun bath at high noon. That she's all I dream, and smell, and see. That I'm terrified that my entire existence, all hundred and twenty-three years are wrapped up in her tiny, fragile, tangle of blood, skin, and doe eyes that can break at any time, that I can feel slipping away, and fuck it all, I'm not ready to quit yet.

But if she does, I will, too. Because there can't be a tomorrow without the dawn. And didn't she know that's what she was? Not a key, or some mystical energy. Dawn. The rise of a new beginning.

She's quiet now, rubbing the material of my jeans between her fingertips reflexively, eyes open and contemplative, and my universe inside them is shifting with her tides. She carefully pries my hand away from her thigh, and we both inspect it in silence. It'll heal. 'Most everything does. But for right now, it's a macabre rainbow of blood, both fresh and almost dried, black spots of darkest bruises, fading to a blue, to a green, to a iodine swab yellow where my fingers' pressure didn't quite reach maximum.

Leaning her head back on my shoulder, she looks up at me, tells me she's hungry.

I almost laugh, but I can feel the hysterical edge to it before it leaves my mouth, and I clamp down on it. So I smile reassuringly at her. "All right, Duchess," I tell her. "Pizza or Chinese?"