It had been a fair, simplex exchange between Mother and daughter, almost like a product invoice. Murdoc stood beside Pris on the doorstep of her house, unsure about his purpose here. He couldn't quite tell if he was a necessity or a trinket, the bullet-proof vest or the sound suppressor attached to the gun's barrel. She stood with her head bowed, the truth spilling out across her back; ginger hair. Bright ginger hair that would look sweet in little sausage curls. He remembered the photographs of her little-girl-self and was stunned at the idea that the pictures colours were faded with age, that he'd thought it was all natural, that she hadn't truly revealed herself for what she was.

After she knocked the door he stroked that soft hair, glossy and smooth as it was so full of oestrogen, and smiled carefully. She returned it, and the bowed her head again, and scuffed her Docs against the floor. He decided the let the hands remain by his sides; any touching might make it look a little bit too friendly, and he was sure she wasn't intending on her Mother knowing about this.

Her Mother answered the door with powder so thick it left a misty peach aura about her shoulders. Her eyes widened, and she grinned widely and yowled, "Pris!"

Pris said quietly, "Hi, Mum."

And then the realisation of what she was hiding under that t-shirt made the powdery features of her Mother's face crack and slide, and her eyes were so wide they were partially bulging her mascara up and out into her eyebrows, and so it ground the powder between the cracks, and her neck flushed a comically vibrant red. Murdoc found himself smirking, because she looked like a fat Spitting Image puppet of Margaret Thatcher.

"What's going on here?"

"I'm pregnant," Pris answered.

"And so that's what this wedding's about?"

"There was never a wedding, I just thought if I said –"

"Well, who's is it, then?"

"It's –"

"Now hang on just a bloody minute!" Her Mum squawked. "It's not his, is it? Who is this, anyway?" She snapped, and then waggled and jabbed her finger in the air at him, "It's not – that's his brother, ain't it?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Oh, sweet Jesus! Oh my –"

"He's my –"

"He's what? What, exactly?" Mother demanded. She growled, "This is disgusting, how old is he?"

Murdoc was holding his breath tight in his lungs, and felt almost as if floating beside her like a balloon animal. The words seemed to press against his ears and fall into an empty rubbery thickness, and he was sure his eyes were inflated with shock, infatuation. Was she about to say it, to say boyfriend?

"I was going to say, his family are supporting me." Pris lied. Murdoc could have cackled had he not been so stunned.

"So, it's that boy's baby, then?"

"It's Hannibal's, yeah."

That still kinda hurt.

"Right. Well, I'm glad they're willing to take care of it, because I certainly fuckin' aint," Mother said bluntly. She screwed up her wide, up-turned nose and looked down it at Pris. "I've had enough of babies to last me a life time. A life time."

"So, I can't – I thought maybe I could come in for a cuppa or something?"

"No, no. I'm going out."

"What about Billy?"

"I'm going out," she repeated. "I'm glad you've got them – erm – takin' care of it. Let us know how it goes."

"Mum, please!"

"I'm going out!"

And then the door was closed firmly and quickly in front of Pris' face. She stood with her arms slumped beside her, the faint raindrops hitting her bump hatefully – he couldn't decide whether it was the World's tears or spit. She sighed and then turned to him.

"I think that was a pretty fuckin' bad idea," she said, deadpanned. He nodded shortly.

"At least it's over, now," he added, and then stepped backwards down the little beige-bricked path leading to the door. "Why don't we get somethin' to eat? That'll cheer you up."

Pris' lips pressed together darkly, explaining that she was gritting her teeth, full of sharp thoughts. "I don't know about that."

"Well, you clearly ain't been eating right," he reasoned, and then gestured to the weirdly lumpy frame - a bone here, a thick layer of tissue and blubber there, an organ jutting out here, a skeletal feature there.

She blinked at him twice and said, "I haven't been wanting to eat."

He remembered her walking down the street as it began waning into mid-darkness, holding a grey paper bag of chips in her hand. She was always smashing five or six in her mouth in one go, chewing so hard the fat and vinegar drooled out of the corner and stung the septic cut on her lower lip, eyes gleaming blue with the pain and refreshment. "You, not wanting to eat?"

"Yes, fuckin' me!" She barked, and then began suddenly hurtling towards him and elbowed him harshly in the sternum, walking away. "Yes bloody me! I don't want the thing, I don't want the kid."

He rubbed his chest and ran to catch up with her. Clearly, she had no idea where she was walking to, but she was a little too volatile to argue with now. He just kept walking.

"Well – ah –" for a slight thing she could do hell of a lot of damage, which he found curiously quite comforting, "why are you bothering, then? Why not just get rid?"

"Because it's not that simple, O.K.?" she spat at him, for the first time in a while looking at him straight, severely, in the face. He noticed for the first time that her breath didn't smell like Sobranie Blacks, not even smoggy and minty like the girly menthols. This was strange, and he couldn't stop himself from suddenly imagining how it might be to kiss her again, what would she taste like now? He imagined rare beef, almost bleeding beef, and he knew that it fit her, despite the fact that she was carrying a little baby (or, as he repulsively kept putting it, 'germinating Hannibal's spunk up in her') and should've tasted mellow and sweet like soft biscuits.

"Why?"

"Because!" She was kind of snarling now, in the way she spoke, looked. Her lips hacked were back to reveal the greyish coloured teeth, crooked and blunt but with a menacingly well-chiselled set of canines. She upped her pace considerably and started slapping her Docs against the floor again, like a war drum beat, quick and constant and resounding deep. "He wanted it, he fell arse over fucking tit when I told him, and so he wouldn't let me leave the house. He kept me there."

"But now, is there nothing you can do?"

"It could come at any minute now, ya dickhead," she huffed.

"I don't get it," Murdoc mused, "he never even liked babies. He hated babies."

"I dunno, he thinks I'm happy about it, he thinks we're going to be a nice little family, he thinks I'm loving it, all of it, he thinks it's our dream come true."

They were finally ending the uphill stretch of the pavement, and now they were stood on the top of the hilly part of the estate, where you could look over and see the park, and the little huddle of shops; off-licence, chip shop, bookies. Their small lighted signs shot through the dark, bright and sad, and made the people become black, oddly squashed pencilled-in stick-men against the colour.

They were just filling in blank space, an empty background. He looked back at her, in front of it all, and squinted. The ginger roots of her hair were blending into the dark.

"But surely, he can see you. Look at you; it's obvious you're not."

"Oh, I don't know, Murdoc, he doesn't seem to see anything! All he did was paint and wash the dishes, the clean ones, over and over!" She screeched, and then scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and exhaled slowly. She continued, solemly now, "He kept me in the room for ages, until he knew it was too late to end it, I think – but I don't know, he doesn't seem to have any real gauge on time. He's just lost it, man."

"Lost it?"

They were going downhill and he had to really dig his heels in to stay steady. She sped down it with her head arched forward into the wind.

"I dunno, he just sort of – I dunno. It's like he doesn't remember anything."

Murdoc sighed his confusion. "I guess at least he won't be bothering us for a while."

A small, perverse smile split Pris' features to the left, and the pale pink lips started twitch atop the canines. She looked very, very pleased with herself. "No," she answered.

He let the unsettling feeling this caused quell in his stomach before continuing to look at her, and then scratched the back of his head. "Where are we even going?"

"Well, I don't know. Of course I don't. I haven't got anywhere to live."

"Can't ya find a hostel? Or, one of those abused women's things? If you cut yourself a bit I reckon they'd have to let you in," he suggested, to which grunted and shrugged.

"If I lose anymore blood I could die, that's what they were sayin'."

Murdoc felt a fast, splitting sensation zip through his hands up into his stomach, as though he'd just yanked a plaster off his hairy fingers. This was when he understood what it was to truly care about something. She blended rather disturbingly into the darkness around her now her hair was changing colour, and her skin was dull – and then it hit him that she was falling into it because soon he would not be able to pluck her out of it, because soon she could fade away.

He snatched out for her, terrified, and pulled her back towards him.

"Stay with me," he said instantly. "Why did I ever even fuckin' debate whether you should? My Dad hardly moves, he won't know."

For the first in a long time she forced her body weight in the opposite direction and freed herself, and then said, "Fine."

"I'll try to make it O.K.," he said honestly, "I do have to go to school tomorrow, but we can work around it, and be together – and the baby, like, it won't be a problem. It's just, y'know, it'll only be sort of like mine, I suppose."

Pris blinked slowly at him. "Are you cracked?"

"I thought that'd be the best thing for everyone. It's my blood."

"It's more Hannibal's than yours, Murdoc, don't forget that."

That caught him and suffocated him like a rabbit between the two sets of a fox's teeth. He stopped dead, let her arm fall through the growing darkness, his mouth sliding agape.

No matter how hard he kicked, and tried to run, and squealed, he was trapped in that inevitable conclusion that all rabbits could do was run, run, run, they couldn't fight back, just run.

And he was forgetting that foxes could hunt.

A/N: Thanks to all of the lovely reviews, I ensured a quick update! Yes, that's right – review and it'll arrive quicker, I promise! ;)

Thank you so much to the delectable: Super Gazellian, cherry-magpie-x, Guest, vestige . shay and JokerZWilD, you all made my day!

Please let me know what you think, hope you enjoyed!