A/N: YAY MORE! I got the idea in my head to write vampire Naomily and it ended up being vampire Skins. The title's from The Dear Hunter's "This Body." There's a line in the song that goes "this body's not a temple, it's a prison," and I thought it rather appropriate.

The scream that followed the loud crack of a gunshot bounced off the walls of the buildings surrounding the narrow, trash filled alley. The angry shout that came after it a second later did the same. Across the main street, second floor lights flicked on in a couple houses.

"Cook! What the fuck!"

"She fuckin' startled me, Freds! Lunging at me like that with that fucking pepper spray! I was acting on instinct!"

"You're not a fucking human anymore, Cook, what the hell is pepper spray going to do to you? Why the fuck did you-look at the fucking blood!" Cook clicked the safety on the gun and quickly shoved it down the back of his trousers. Freddie darted to the edge of the alley, watching as more lights flicked on and people began to peek out from behind window curtains. Thankfully, the alley was dark enough to hide them from the prying eyes, at least until people started to file outside, which they inevitably would. It was almost a certainty.

"Well, do something, Cook! Don't just fucking stand there!" Freddie hissed when he turned back around to see Cook starting uselessly at the blonde writhing on the ground, clutching her hands tightly over her lower left side.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do? I ain't a cunting doctor!'

"What do you think you're supposed to do? Fucking turn her!" Cook shook his head, setting his jaw.

"I can't do that, Freds," he said firmly.

"If you don't, I will," Freddie snapped. "Unless you want her to die. It's the 21st Century, Cook. We can't just leave bodies lying in sewers anymore." With a loud, pained sigh, Cook crouched down beside the girl. Her eyes were wide and feverish with panic, her bright yellow shirt stained brown by the blood flowing from her side and her platinum hair pasted to her forehead with sweat.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out this way, Blondie," he said to her softly, pulling a switch blade out of his pocket and drawing it across the inside of his wrist. "I'm sorry."

"Just fucking do it, Cook," came Freddie's impatient voice from the mouth of the alley. "We need to make ourselves scarce now." Cook pressed his bloody wrist to the blonde's mouth. She twisted her head away. Cook frowned.

"If you don't drink this, you will die. Do you want that?" The blonde's eyes widened slightly, and then with wet, red fingers she grabbed Cook's forearm and latched her mouth around the cut. A precious few seconds passed before Cook pulled his wrist away and the girl's eyes slid shut.

"Pick her up and let's go," Freddie told him, already on the move. Cook scooped the unconscious blonde into his arms with no effort and followed.

"Just put her on the sofa," Freddie said, sounding far calmer now that they were in the safety of his garden shed. Cook laid the blonde down gently, shifting one of the cushions to rest beneath her head. He wished he could cover her trembling form with a blanket, but there was no need for one when you were never cold.

"What are we gonna do with her?" Cook asked him, sinking into the battered arm chair at the far end of the shed.

"We can't just leave her be. She'll cause mayhem, start a riot, get herself and loads of other people killed. She'll be too unstable to be completely on her own for months, maybe longer. We have to take care of her." Cook nodded wordlessly, watching the figure on the couch. "Stay here. Watch her. I'm going to go find us some blood. We're going to need it." With that, Freddie left, shutting the door of the shed with a soft click and leaving Cook alone with the girl. He tongued the point of one of his fangs. Her blood still smelled enticing, but her heart beat was so weak he could hardly hear it and her blood was tainted by his besides. He knew what would be happening, soon if the rhythm of her heart was any indicator. Cook closed his eyes and listened for any indication that the change was beginning.

He didn't really sleep, none of them did, not how humans defined it. When the blonde began to thrash about, he heard, and he slowly opened his eyes to watch. It was a familiar sight, someone dying, more familiar than it ever should have been. He remembered the pain, too. Excruciating. There wasn't a single thing he could think of in his entire existence than the feel of his body slowly shutting down. He wished there was a way for him to comfort the girl, and maybe Freddie would have know if he was there, but all Cook could do was sit a bit straighter in his chair, wait, and hope that Freddie would be back soon with the blood. He also hoped for her sake that it would be over soon.

When her body stopped moving, Cook leaned forward in his chair and waiting, holding his breath for no reason. The blonde suddenly inhaled deeply and loudly, her eyes flying open. They were black, save for a thin rim of red around the outside, the sign of vampire who needed blood, and soon. She shot up, frantically taking in her surroundings. Cook observed quietly as her eyes settled on him, then on her blood-stained hands, then on her ruined clothes. She pulled up her shirt, but where there should have been a bullet wound, there was bloody, but unwounded, unmarked flesh. Not even so much as a scar remained.

"You," the blonde said, trying to sound accusatory but instead just sounding frightened. "You. What did you do? Where am I? Who are you? You shot me." Cook sighed and ran a hand over his short hair.

"One question at a time, Blondie. I know there's a lot for you to take in."

"My name is Naomi. Campbell. I'm Naomi Campbell."

"Right, Naomi. I'm James Cook." He extended his hand, leaning across the space between them. The blonde, Naomi, shrunk back.

"Why do I feel so strange?"

"You're dead," Cook said bluntly. Tact wasn't his thing.

"What? I'm not dead. If I'm dead, how am I talking to you? How am I breathing?"

"You don't need to breathe."

"Uh, I think you'll find that I do."

"Try me." A defiant, but nervous look in her eyes, Naomi sucked in a deep breath and held it. A minute passed. Two. Three. "You're dead, Naomi. This isn't what was supposed to happen, but it did, and there's no turning back now." She looked at him, confused. "Now, I ain't much of a reader, but I know there's been fuckloads of books written on us, although I have yet to find someone who fucking sparkles or is willing to sit down and let someone interview them. That's a big no-no."

"What are you?" Naomi asked in an almost whisper.

"The stuff of fucking nightmares, Naomi Campbell," Cook told her, grinning broadly enough to bare his fangs.