Hannibal had tired himself out again. He was sleeping face down on the kitchen table, breathing into his curled up hand, making an eerie, hollow sounding noise, like air blown into an empty glass bottle.

It struck her then that there was a glass bottle, lying beside him on the table. He would not notice her walk in – she was behind him, and quiet, and he was in the most advantageous position he possibly could be in. If she could so carefully, so carefully just grasp that bottle beside him, take it, and then one fast swing, down, fast, bring the disgusting weight he'd burdened her with back on his head, really smack it into the bone... he'd be gone.

This was the part, she reminded herself, where she should think about the baby. But she never thought about the baby, and she wasn't about to now, because it was not a baby, it was a sterile, circular-looking mass getting fatter and fatter, no matter how hard she tried to starve it. She hated it, and she did not care.

She moved quick, and the bottle was kind, the bottle knew she needed its strength, its emptiness; it did not scrape across the wood, it was silent. She knew he kept the wallet in the denim jacket hung up on the banister of the stairs, she would take it after this, because this had been coming for a long time, a long time now –

She raised it over his head, seeing the pink distorted fingers of hers through glass neck of the bottle, pressed white she held so tightly. She felt that the bottle was cold, and she smelt that it had been holding cheap beer, and she saw it floating above his scratchy black hair, and she noticed his fingers twitch on his left hand and she jumped, and she gasped, and she took both her hands and drove the bottle down into the crown of his head, felt it splinter, heard the glass tinkling on the floor like the silver bells on a baby's rattle, and then the whole body, its colossal strength, slumped, and started sliding down through the chair.

It didn't move again.

Pris didn't take another second to even allow herself to think, she bolted for the staircase, fumbled for the wallet, felt the leathery curve of it and yanked, dropping pennies onto the floor. Then she ran for the door and slammed it behind her.

The day was cold, and it smelt eye-wateringly fresh for a change. She sucked it in through her lips, closing her eyes, and then began walking down the road towards the bus stop. This should have happened months ago, she thought – she regretted refusing to eat and sleep now, for had she kept up her strength this disaster could have been long avoided, and she could have got herself out of that half-broke yellow hell that he'd been constructing for them.

She was loved today by something, by an angel maybe, by luck – the bus stopped as she paused at the stand, and then a guy got up off his seat and offered it to her, smiling at the cancerous babe yawning out of her flesh.

Murdoc had been outside of the train station since around half past seven, and he was tiring. It was nearing midday, and the sky had coloured itself a nonviolent mauve, aching with greyish clouds. It looked desperate, filled with the wrong colour.

He had not been able to sleep properly for fantasising about Pris, over and over. She'd come running down the platform with the sooty air floating around her, her yellow hair glaring out of it, like a new romantic dream. And then she'd grab him on the face and push his lips to hers with relish, and coo, "Oh Murdoc, you've saved me!"

Or perhaps it would be different, and she wouldn't run, but fall into his arms, and allow him to catch her, her breath beating like the pulse of a hummingbird on his chest. And she'd say nothing, and he'd just know that she meant I love you.

Or then again maybe she'd come sauntering over and grab a fistful of his hair and say, "Forget this, let's just fuck –"

Though it still burned in his mind that she'd constantly be wearing the reminder that Hannibal came inside of her, if she wanted him to fuck her, he would fuck her. Although he wasn't quite sure he wanted to fuck her. He was getting bored of fucking. Yes, he picked the good-looking ones, he wasn't quite yet ready to sacrifice that amount of pride – but it never really did anything for him.

They all did the same thing over and over, and it was nice that they bothered to make the effort to pretend he was satisfying, but he wasn't an idiot. He didn't even try. He touched them all as though scratching a dog behind the ears, quick and rough, until they widened just a bit, and then he'd shove himself in. He couldn't really imagine that with Pris, although he did try.

And then he knew it was because he didn't want it.

It made him wonder about other things, about that one time, and how Pris had been so soft and suddenly very little, and her skin so white it was effervescent in the sunlight. It had been beautiful; he recognised that, it had meant something. Perhaps not a lot, but still, it had meant something.

He was slumped down in the corner outside, just in view of Platform 1, curled up in the leather jacket he'd bought to impress her. A few curious people stared at him, and some even grabbed up a handful of loose change before he shook his head exhaustedly, understanding, but nonetheless offended. A weirdo with a bloodshot eye sluggishly breathing against a wall usually only meant one thing, he got that. It hit him then that he needed to get his act together – he was meant to look gorgeous when she next saw him, not like a ten-a-penny junkie. He stood and finger-combed his hair as best he could, trying to conceal the dead eye, and then shrugged on the jacket and slapped it clean of mud-dust.

He was just about to walk towards a window, to inspect his face further, and then he stopped, because there was something that looked a bit like her, but he couldn't quite tell.

It was a girl, with hair of all different lengths, some bits short and the lower half touching her shoulders, half of it white-blonde and the other half a pungent orangey-red. She was too thin to be Pris, she was gauntly, sickeningly so, her spine was popping out like fabric fasteners under her flesh, as though she had been pinned together inside. She was pregnant. But not smoking. And not, in the slightest, looking nasty and cool like she used to. This girl was ugly, not how he remembered her.

She turned at an angle, and then he knew it was her. Her one eye was twitching a little, and even this far from her as a sunbeam hit her face he saw it glowing light blue, the way it had over the lighter in the deep dark of that night that they made it.

He walked up to her, and said, with an affection so profound and audible it was reserved purely for her, "You look like shit."

She turned, saw him, ravaged him with her eyes (that were still gratifyingly the same) and then as he had hoped, walked quickly to him and grabbed both his hands.

"You're here," she said quietly, and then squeezed his hands. She had been sweating, and she was cold, like snakeflesh. He was hit with the memory, and the reality that he had savoured of knowing her. He had remembered her smells, and particularly the tastes, vinaigrette, brown sugar, black coffee, disgusting, sweet. He rejoiced in it, and squeezed her back.

"Yeah, I told you I would be," he answered, smiling. She sighed and heaved her humongous weight into him, the baby bump pushing curiously into his crotch. He started to burn excitedly, and then felt sick, but couldn't contain himself. It felt warm, soft – kind of good really, the way it rubbed against him. She smelt all baby-like, like warm milk and extra-gentle vanilla soap, which made it better and worse. When he wrapped his arms around her he distinctly felt her shoulder blades, sticking out of her, vast and thin like the edges of a machete.

"I was kinda worried you'd just piss off, like you'd be angry about everything."

"It was my fault too."

"No," she said into his shoulder, "I mean, y'know, the whole pregnant thing."

"It's not your fault," he answered, and then burned in the face rather than the crotch from anger. The idea of her being raped really hit him for the first time then, and he suddenly didn't care for Hannibal's love and approval at all (as for all this time, truly, he had still been wanting it pathetically), because suddenly he knew that nothing would hurt him more than the idea of her being hurt, whether it was reciprocated or not. He had the image of her now in his head, crying with her mascara all dripping down her cheeks, running into her ears from the forced back head, filling them with black liquid, deafening her and blinding her, demonising her in every way, possessing and accusing, so helpless, and silent as she always was when afraid, and Hannibal grinding into her, and the light on him making his eyes shine burgundy, a little bit of red, the curious colour of real hate burning through the darkness for a split second, and he could almost feel now how much of her soul had drained out through her silent mouth, through that silent screaming mouth, gasping, so quiet, silent, and the pain –

"Murdoc, you're hurting me," she interrupted. "And, besides... It wasn't exactly undeserved."

"Don't ever fuckin' say that again," he ordered, and then pushed her back a bit to look into her eyes, "O.K.? That's just the worst thing you could ever say."

She looked so strange, he felt as though he was holding a piece of murder evidence in his arms. She looked like a dead girl.

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry? Did she comprehend her meaning? He couldn't quite believe he was hearing this – it seemed like one of the day dreams, the kind that swallowed him whole. Holding her against him felt better than anything he could have imagined, and he knew this because he spent so long imagining it. Her hands, her big manly hands, were trembling on his shoulders and her lips and nose rested tenderly against his neck, and it was the truest kiss he had ever been given, frail and constant in its honesty. The whole platform was filled with the purple light of a bad day, and it painted them in its dark, heady hue, made it all feel like a movie, like doomsday, or the final kiss. He sighed happily at the thought that this was the first in a long line of those without anger, or fear, or desperation for orgasm.

The rape didn't matter now because he'd make her forget, he'd take her to another place – and it wouldn't be like Hackney.

"What the fuck?" He cackled, "You sound like a right dick head, grow some balls."

She raised an eyebrow. "Grow some balls?"

"Yeah."

"Right, vagina-balls? That's what you're suggestin'?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "I dunno, just don't be such a pussy about it!"

"Make up ya fuckin' mind up Murdoc – first balls, then pussy, what do you want exactly?"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"I thought I'd go to see my Mum," she continued, slinging his arm over her shoulders. "Come on, lady with a baby, you've gotta help."

"I am."

"Well good."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

He nervously touched his lips against her jaw line – she was still a lot taller than he was. "It is good."

"It'll get better soon," she said. He nodded.

"I can't believe you got away without him saying anything."

She started laughing then, hysterically so. He frowned.

A/N: Another chapter done! I'm so sorry guys for the lateness of this, I've just started uni, so I'm super busy, but the lovely reviews of Super Gazellian and really spurred me on, love and thanks to you both!

I hope you all enjoy, please let me know what you think!