"Hello. Who is this?"

He had forgotten her. Her fingers scrabbled around the receiver, as though she was being wetly electro-cured, shaking. Her face was beginning to warm with pain from the cut his brother had sliced in her cheek, and further burn with embarrassment. Her pulse was buzzing in her wrists, as though a new batch of starving wasp larvae were hatching beneath the skin. She licked her lips, and spoke again.

"Fuckin' hell, I always knew you were dumb, but that's just plain offensive. I let you eat me and you didn't even buy me a drink, y'know. You could've had the courtesy to remember my bloody name."

It was almost orgasmic – her old self. How good it was to properly swear, and properly rile someone up again and get the chance to really take a dig and have a nasty joke. Fuck, she felt beautiful again, slim and savage with a foul mouth and dirty breath, her old self, her old self with cigarette breath, that taste mixed with tea in the morning, that bitter taste sweetened, delicious smoke her mouth, blowing mythical shapes, magic, a surge of joy, a release like nothing else. She realised she was panting, thrilled at this.

"Pris?"

"Yeah," she answered, "it's me."

And similarly she heard a breathy whirring noise from the other end. She loved him for this, for giving her herself back. His voice was very quiet, joyless.

"So, you did get the letter then."

"I did."

Murdoc gave a sigh of relief. He hadn't killed her, and she sounded just fine. Just the same, her old self, all angry and bitchy and nice. He could hardly breathe, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, crossed his fingers and whispered, "please," because if this was a dream, if he was torturing himself again, he knew he could not take any more. The sound of her voice was like a far away police siren at night through an open window, distant, piercing, sharply sweet in its tone, portending danger.

This was the point in which he could not play it cool any longer.

"Thank you for calling me," he trembled, breathing heavily, pushing the phone into his ear as to touch her lips to his skin through the plastic. "Pris, oh, my God."

"I really liked the letter," she told him softly.

"Did you?" he squeaked.

"We're not getting married."

"No?" he heaved, and then started shouting, "Oh, God. Oh thank God, thank you God! When are you coming back? Come back, now! Now, come back!"

There was a pause, a long one. Murdoc stroked the smooth back of the phone as though it were her cheek, her hollow cheeks with the smooth skin. He was rocking from side to side, shifting his weight, turning slightly each time, as though waltzing a ghost.

"I can't, baby love."

Love, she said love.

He was frenzied now, full of desperation, exhilaration. "Do you love me?" he begged, almost barked at her.

"Murdoc, please listen to me."

"But – I just – I'm so happy to hear you. I thought you were dead."

"I'm not dead."

She didn't sound too convincing there. All of a sudden this was another situation; she sounded slightly nervous, panicked, the way she had after their first kiss outside of her house. The memory made him flush girlishly, but she couldn't see and so it didn't matter.

"What's up with ya?" he asked sombrely.

"I'm –"

She didn't finish her sentence for quite some time, but just the sound of her breathing, that tender coming and going of delicate sound, like the wind rushing through the long grass behind the garages, where wild poppies grew.

Finally she said, roughly, "I'm pregnant, Murdoc."

Strangely, this did not dismay him at all. The marriage made a lot more sense now, and it consoled him greatly; it didn't mean she loved Hannibal. A shot-gun wedding seemed just so appropriate for her though, he could just envisage it now, Hannibal with a rifle pressing into her back at the altar, dirtying the white dress with black gunpowder.

A baby, though, made this weird. He could not see her ever having a baby; he was sure inside she had the heart of a homunculus, what capacity had she to love more than one thing at a time? The idea of her, pregnant, with a round, bulbous tummy, thick arms and arse cheeks, swollen breasts – it was hilarious, but, more importantly, it irked him. It meant Hannibal had his cock in her at some point, and it meant that he'd enjoyed it. And it meant that now she was weighed down by that, in pain, as though she wore her albatross in her stomach rather than around her neck.

Initially the notion of punishment for that pleased him, but then he stopped himself. If she was pregnant, that surely meant the end of them – and how could he bear that? Suddenly this didn't seem so funny, or so annoying – he was almost sure it was biting his little heart in two.

"Pregnant?" was all he could muster. Hannibal, he'd ruined it, everything.

Or – wait.

"Is is Hannibal's, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, what t'fuck do you take me for? I'm not a slut."

"Wow, Pris. You're telling me that?"

She was silent for a moment, and then cleared her throat. "I'm six months gone."

Six fucking months? She had only been away for six months; they had just gone six months ago. He would have been lying to himself had he denied he had been messing around with other girls, but he could not help himself. They seemed particularly compelled by him now, more so than before; the creepy broken eye really made them get wet for some reason. He couldn't fathom it, but he wasn't going to ask questions if it worked in his favour.

He had had three girls since she'd gone, which he had found each time very pleasant. All of them were very supple and nice-smelling (that flowery, dusty smell, the smell of stealing their mother's make-up and perfume). It was as supple as sex could be, seeing as they were all underage, he supposed. It was pleasant. But they all looked the same, tasted very similar (some better than others), felt very similar, warm and smooth, and mostly definitely sounded the same. After each one faked their orgasm (which he knew they did, he gave each one a set-menu of three to five minutes of each individual activity before unleashing hell and telling them to go away) he felt a sinking sense of shame and fear towards Pris, because he had this stupid idea – this stupid idea – that he wanted to keep himself pure for her, or something. As though he'd return to her bed like some sort of Victorian virginal bride ready to bleed and weep for her. He hated himself for it, felt like a complete pussy, but he couldn't deny the sweetness that idea conjured.

"Well, when the fuck did you get pregnant then?" He asked.

"I dunno," she replied. She sounded terrified, really quiet.

"Congratulations, then." God, that hurt.

"I haven't actually, erm – I haven't been for any scans or anythin'. I was having pains so I thought I should go to the doctors, and they said that, if there was anyone – erm – anyone I could speak to, like, to erm – to – to be there, for me –"

She was making little squawky hiccups throughout her sentences, and that was when he knew she was actually close to tears, and suddenly none of this mattered. He knew that deep down she had loved the letter, and that she might've loved him, at some point. Or loved something about him.

Even if it wasn't a full love, a real love that she felt, it was still something; more than he'd ever had before. The sound of her crying was like TCP on an open wound. He was filled with a sudden shot of pain that made his eyes burst open, wider than they'd ever been – whether it was from the need to see more clearer or less clearer was uncertain. He told himself she loved him.

He was blind in one eye anyway – he was bound to life in a half reality.

"I'm there for you," he told her gently.

"You – you are?"

"What the hell's going on with you? Is he there, are you on your own?"

"No, he is here."

"Well," he couldn't resist a little dig back at her, make her ask, even plead, "why do you need me, then?"

"Because, on that night – the night, after – y'know – where he left your house, he came to me, he got me."

"Got you?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

She was crying now, blubbering, shrieking, she sounded as though half submerged in a bath. "He got me, he came to the house! He came to get me!"

I need you because he got me? What was she trying to get at here? She was pregnant, they had their own house, money, they were suburbia's little dream. Why would she want him getting involved again?

"I don't get it," he explained. "What does 'got' mean? I know you probably didn't want to go, but he didn't kidnap ya, for fuck's sake. You went off your own accord."

He wanted to add you bitch, but that seemed too harsh. For now.

"I didn't want to – I was – he was scaring me."

And now he knew this was a complete lie, because nothing scared her.

"Oh, Jesus wept. You liar. You absolute liar!"

"Please!" she howled. "Murdoc, no! I mean he – he got me, and then I got pregnant! Then!"

He suddenly felt cold, and something powerful, empty –like a death rattle – shook him.

"What, like, he forced – he made you, do it?"

She breathed out thickly, mumbling, "Yeah."

He nodded, and then realised she couldn't see, and said, "Do you want to come back to me?"

"Yeah," she sniffed. He found himself subconsciously touching his lips, reanimating them, pushing them out into a pucker, pout, a kiss, giving them warmth.

"Have you got money for the train?"

"I can get some out of his wallet when he's sleeping. But – I don't know when, what time."

"I'll just wait out there all day," he said honestly, swallowing a cloying taste in his mouth, like tinned strawberries and off condensed milk; a bad aphrodisiac.

"Thank you, Murdoc. I just – I just feel really on my own."

"It won't be long, you'll be fine. Just, keep cool."

"Yeah, I'll see you later, baby-love."

"Yeah."

She put the phone down after a few seconds of tense silence. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, and cried. Hannibal was a dead man – he'd lost one eye, he wouldn't miss another.

A/N: DUNDUN!

A quick update thanks to the lovely reviews from Guest, harajuku, Guest and Super Gazellian. Thank you all so much, it means the world. And hey, guests, please get accounts, I'd love to thank you personally for reviews – you're worth it!

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