It always shocked him to see her bleed like a human, expected it to run indigo instead of the bright encrusted red. She tasted human despite the hardness to her skin, tasted familiar like mapled pancakes, yet old, old like Angel or Darla, maybe just aged like syrup, sweeter with time. The taste was pleasant in a way that few things were anymore. They ran from town to town, pack always on their heels, Angel always pushing them on when they were ready to collapse, and collapse they did. Each night, into whatever bed they could find, whoever’s arms were awake enough to hold on, lick clean, fuck to sleep, wake when the noises got close again. Never ending fight, streets tinged with dead demons, clouding the air with acid blood and torn limbs, but each night was maple sugar and old blood, and just enough hope to keep the three of them going. At least for now.