Rodeo doesn't miss the blush that comes to her cheeks. It surprises him, that flush of color-- like a corpse suddenly taking a breath, it's a sign of life that only highlights how much of a living dead girl she is. Because of him. Because of him. It feels like the guilt could kill him, but Rodeo knows it ain't got the mercy to.
Rodeo doesn't shift to sit beside her right away-- he fans her for a moment more, tries to let that cool breeze settle her encroaching feverishness as she comes down from the drug. He hopes it will stave off some of the desperation, but he knows it won't. He finally sits down next to her when she starts nipping at her fingertips, and he lifts a hand to wrap around hers, easing it away from her mouth before she draws blood. He looks down at her hand, frowning at the ragged state of her chewed fingers. He lifts his eyes back to hers, blue on blue, his a sunny day and hers a cooling board.
"How about we make our own movie?" he asks her, lifting his brows, hoping to distract her from the itch she feels for that next hit. He doesn't bring up the wash she expects him to give her, because there ain't none. "I'll be Clint Eastwood and you'll be Vampira. We'll make a black metal western, you and me, baby. Shootouts in saloons and Sabbath singin' War Pigs when we kiss in the sunset. And when our fans come lookin' for us, baby, we'll be too cool for 'em all. We'll say, 'sorry folks, we write epitaphs, not autographs.'"