Macy
By Byrne

Damon never opened his door without looking through the spy hole. Just common sense, living where he did, knowing the people he did. But this time he didn't see anything, and the knocking was coming down near the floor.

He pulled open the door with enough force that the knob knocked a hole in his wall and dropped to his knees, not sure where it was safe to touch him.

"What happened? Jesus, Dove. Where's all the blood coming from?" He knew he wasn't panicking. He never panicked. But if he did, it might sound like that, his voice too loud and too soft all at once.

Blue eyes met his and Dove shook his head as much as he could, given that he'd managed to wedge himself into the corner of the door jam.

"Macy. Don't know where all the blood's from--is it mine?" Dove whispered.

"Can you move?" He had to get him into the apartment, try to find the wounds, but he was worried he'd make it worse if he pulled Dove to his feet.

Another head shake and Damon swore under his breath, or in his head--he didn't much care which. He slid an arm under the boys back, the other under his knees and picked him up.

"Gonna wash you off, baby."

"'m not a baby."

"I know."

Into the bathroom and onto the edge of the tub. He started water running and wondered where to start.

"Where's it hurt? Did he cut you? Beat you?" Now, that was his voice. Panic guy had taken a walk.

Dove looked up at him and blinked. "Um. Had a knife. I tried to run, I swear I did, don't be mad."

Blood was running down his cheeks, but it was cleaning them. Damon stared at the phenomenon for a few seconds before realizing it was tears.

"I'm not mad, Dove," he said gently. "Swear it. I know you tried to run."

Dove nodded slowly. "Okay."

Damon carefully worked at Dove's clothes, stripping off the ruined shirts and breathing a soft sigh of relief when he saw the cuts. All shallow, some so slight they wouldn't scar. Just lots of them. Like Macy had tried to carve every inch of him.

Jeans were harder, Dove wouldn't stand. Finally he lay him on the floor and tugged them off, offering a bad joke about how tight Dove wore his pants. Didn't get a laugh, but he hadn't expected it to.

Dove's legs had bruises, but no cuts.

"Kicked me. Had his boys hold me down."

Damon nodded and helped Dove into the shower, staring as the water ran red in the bottom of the tub. He looked up and winced, Dove's white blonde hair looking like he'd dyed it cherry red in some warped attempt at a Goth makeover.

"Lover, don't ever colour your hair," he said.

Dove just stared.

The red didn't go away, no matter how long he stood there, holding onto the wall.

"Get out, Dove. Gotta dress the head wound," Damon said after a few minutes. "They bleed like a son of bitch."

Dove stepped out of the shower, shivering, and waited while Damon dried him off. "You gonna have to cut my hair?" he asked softly, looking in the mirror. Red was streaking down again, blending and twisting through the wet strands of hair, making pink highlights.

"Don't know. Hope not."

"Yeah. It's important, you know."

Damon met his eyes in the mirror. "Your hair? You're worried about your hair?"

Dove nodded. "It's....like that guy in the Bible, yeah? You cut my hair, next time Macy wins. He's gonna kill me, Damon."

Damon didn't know how to answer that, so he started gently parting Dove's hair, looking to make sure there was only one cut. "Don't need stitches," he said. "But I can't super glue it, 'cause it's in your hair. I'll have to wrap it and keep it clean."

Dove sat on the toilet lid and waited while Damon worked. He didn't look in the mirror when it was done.

"Is it okay if I stay tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah. The next few nights for sure--gotta keep that clean, and Macy won't come here." Damon left the bathroom, left the blood and the ruined clothes.

He hoped to fuck that Macy wouldn't come. Dove was right--one of these times Macy was going to kill him.