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There's a complicated process even after the blood's all drawn that Near always ignores her for the entire duration of; Mello doesn't have any indignation left to spare these days, so she just grits her teeth and eyes Near's long fingers tipping a vial, Near's socked foot tapping against the floor, Near's dark gaze intent on the blood — her blood — oozing from the glass into the little ceramic cup.
If Near had been born with fangs, she wouldn't need Mello at all.
She watches as Near tilts her head back to drink; she watches that mouth fall open and imagines a sharp glint, imagines Near repeating what she'd said so matter-of-factly six months and three days ago (your blood tastes better, Mello) against a carotid or a femoral, imagines those deft hands holding her down through the stabbing pain and taking and taking and taking — imagines Near wanting her anyway — it's an intrusive thought, distracting, infuriating, and Mello says only "I'll see you" as she pushes herself off the examination bed and walks out; Near bids a goodbye but Mello's not stupid enough to turn back around for it.