Chained to the wall, he can't help but look over at the washing machine. Can't help but remember what happened there one late night, post-patrol. It hurts to remember, hurts more than the injuries that had brought them there in the first place.

The fight had been glorious - a crowd of vamps and a demon or two, mixing it up with his girl by his side. And, she had, in the midst of the mayhem and blood and dust, been his girl. His - just for a moment.

They fought together like they fucked - never a false move. Everything flowed, right and good and hot and liquid. And, like their fucking, it was brutal and heated and something made of pure sensation; not for the faint of heart.

That night, he'd been bloodied but unbowed. Broken, yet fearless. She stripped his shirt off and wiped away the blood, running small, soft fingers over wounds that healed under her touch. He kicked off his boots and shucked his jeans, wincing a little from his recently re-located shoulder. She'd let him help her undress, letting him slide her pants down over her hips, revealing her thong panties while she started the water and poured in the soap.

She dampened a towel under the little waterfall of warmth and cleaned him - as gentle as she ever got. She swept the blood and dirt from both of them and bundled everything into the machine before turning; naked, bruised and smiling.

They fucked three times - once during the wash cycle, once during the rinse and finally during the spin cycle, proving the cliché with muffled vocalizations and quiet cursing. While their clothes dried, she let him hold her, both smashed into a faded lawn chair as they relived the night's fight, laughing and exaggerating and play-fighting over the glory.

When the dryer buzzed, she handed him his clothes and laughed as he put them on quickly, savoring the warmth. She'd kissed him at the door and sent him away, then, and he'd returned to his crypt and dreamed of the future.

The next night, things had returned to normal, and she broke his nose and called him an evil thing.

Chained to the wall, he can't help but look over at the washing machine. There's nothing for him there now, just dust and lint and a crumpled tee shirt and an old shoe. He's gained a soul and lost any peace he ever had, and the world just keeps on spinning without him.