Michael stood at the sink, his hands scrubbing furiously beneath cold running water. The blood might not come out, he knew, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let that prevent him from trying to get it out.<br/><br/>Rebecca had reached a hand out... towards him, towards the sky, towards the light above her... and instead, her bloody hand had wiped a long, dark red smear down his pants leg, from knee to ankle. Meeting her didn't go as planned. She had even muttered something about heaven, as if she truly expected to -go- there. He couldn't help but wonder if the woman was delirious - had she conveniently forgotten the kind of life she had lead? Could she truly not remember all the people she had hurt with her selfish and self-centered ways?<br/><br/>He scrubbed some more. It was difficult to see the blood stain, true, against the dark fabric of the black Levis, but his sharp eyes could see it clearly enough - and his sharp nose could smell it, as well. Smirking, he scrubbed harder. No sense in wasting a pair of jeans over a small stain, especially if he could get it out.<br/><br/>Rebecca herself lay sleeping in the other room, on the couch. He was grateful that she was unconscious when he healed her, so that she didn't see the act with her own eyes. Yes, she would have questions when she awoke, but he could tell her anything he wanted.<br/><br/>Was he surprised that no one came to help her? No. That part of town wasn't exactly the most friendly. No one apparently saw her get hit, saw her fall, or even saw him come to speak with her. No one saw him lift her up and carry her off, either. He smirked as he scrubbed the fabric harder, amazed how little people 'cared' anymore, at all.<br/><br/>He stood in his kitchen, immaculate and modern. In fact, his entire apartment was immaculate. Michael didn't care for messes or uncleanliness, and did his best to keep his small flat tidy. He sighed and wrung out the pants-leg as best he could, then hung them over the back of chair at the dining table to dry. Once dry, he'd be able to tell easier if they could be salvaged - or just tossed away.<br/><br/>Then, he moved to the fridge, rolling up the sleeves of his black button-up shirt. He liked to dress well, too - it wasn't just his apartment that he took care of. He fetched a glass of milk from the fridge, sniffed it to make sure it was still fresh, then moved into the living room, taking a seat across from the couch where Rebecca lay sleeping.<br/><br/>She'd be awake any minute now. He just -knew- these kinds of things. He leaned forward, set the glass on the coffee table, and then leaned back in his chair, waiting...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>