He's waiting for her in the graveyard.

They've been meeting there pretty regularly since the night of the Genetic Opera. She came to him that night, covered in her father's blood, and he held her until the tears turned into dry, heaving sobs.

That was almost a year ago.

She's walking toward him. Her sweatshirt is frayed and tattered, hanging almost to her knees over ripped fishnets and knee-high black boots.

It makes him a little angry and a little sad to see that. GeneCo should have been hers. The world should have been hers.

He hates Nathan Wallace for what the man did to her. But there's nothing he can do about that now; the man is dead. All he can do is hold her. When the nights are long and cold, she comes to the graveyard, and he holds her.

He shakes his head to himself, wondering just what the hell he's gotten himself into. Since when did he care? Ugh.

She's here now. He notices with slight surprise that she's not wearing her wig, leaving her head bare, her pale skin turned ghostly white by the moonlight.

She smiles. "Hey, Brr." That's her nickname for him - Brr. He asked her once why she called him that; she said that it sounded better than "Graverobber".

He smirks, curling an arm around her waist, pulling her body against his, trying not to wince at the feel of her ribs beneath his fingers. "Hey, kid." He makes a mental note to make sure she eats regularly for the next few weeks.

He looks away, disgusted with himself and the feeling of sentimentality.

She leans against him, sighing happily, pressing her face against his chest. "Gimme a hit," she whispers, trailing her small fingers over his body through his shirt.

His heart skips a beat, knowing she's not talking about Z. "Let's go back to my place, kid," he murmurs huskily, his hands moving down her back, smoothing over her pert rear-end.

She nods quickly, and he takes her hands, leading her away through the darkened alleyways.

He shakes his head to himself again. For all that he's the dealer, he's just as much an addict.