Tried to take a picture
Of
Love
( Didn't think I'd miss her
That
Much )

It really is this simple.

When she finally finds him, he's starving and cold and a beggar. The streets are silent, save for the quiet hush of rain, and Meg's heart breaks because all she can whisper as she sees him is, "Cas…"

Good gosh, he was never supposed to be this.

Oh, she could remember the angel he was, and the might that he had. He had been at once both terrible and beautiful, his glory something monstrous and wonderful that scared her as much as it enticed her. He was once celestial. Unbound. As a creature, he was never meant to be able to feel the cold he felt now or the wet of rain or sniff repeatedly and know the sensation of snot running down his face. He wasn't supposed to know this thing called human pain and suffering.

He was supposed to be bigger. Louder.

But now, huddled, looking at her with such wide and disbelieving eyes—as if she is Hope itself embodied and walking the earth—he is so small and quiet, and she hurts because of it. She hurts and it's annoying, but she does hurt and her first thought is where are those damn Winchesters. If they care so much for their precious angel like they always claim, why haven't they found him yet?

(Besides, didn't she say to take care of her unicorn? And now he's gone and lost his magic and…)

"…Meg?"

Damn it.

She doesn't mean to, but she watches him anyway as he uncurls. A hand presses back against the brick wall behind him, and shaking, every motion jerky, Castiel manages to push himself to a stand.

It is a long time that they stand there, the both of them, looking at each other.

And then something crosses his face—perhaps guilt. Perhaps self-consciousness. Perhaps fear and pain—and then he turns and press his hands against the wall, grasping for the edge and he looks like he's about to book it, which Meg would find funny in any other circumstance, for a now-wingless angel to do. She might even find it entertaining, watching one of them squirm because they can't even fly anymore, so maybe she would laugh or smile. Maybe.

If it were literally any other ex-angel.

But when Cas does it, there's something so awfully desperate about it, like he doesn't want to be seen, that a grin doesn't even cross her face. She doesn't even think about smiling at all, really; instead she just quietly murmurs, "Yeah, okay," and she walks forward. The handle of her umbrella spins in her hand. "No need to look that pathetic, Clarence."

He stops moving when she gets behind him. So she waits. Doesn't say a word until he's ready to, and really, she could stand here all day waiting on him for that, she's well aware. But that's all right; she's got time on her side in this circumstance. She is, after all, the still-immortal one of the two of them, so…

(…and gosh, wasn't that a sad thought.)

But then he does speak, and it's very quiet; a sound barely heard over the sheets of rain, but Meg can hear him anyway, somehow, just like she always could in ways the brothers never did. His voice is wrongly small. "…I…was unsure I had properly recognized you. I can no longer see your Face, so when I called your name and you did not respond…"

…oh.

"I am sorry," he murmurs, as if he's been saying it a hundred times, and knowing Castiel, he most likely has. He turns around to her again, and it's then thanks to her closer vantage point that she notices Jimmy's face looks slimmer now, his cheeks more drawn than she remembers. Huh. Although those blues do soften and it makes her insides a bit more gushy than she'd ever admit. "But it is good to see you again, Meg. I am glad. You look well."

Aw. That was sweet.

…but really, that was it?

She looks at him oddly, and the longer her waiting silence grows, the more Castiel himself looks confused, too. Meg gestures out. "So…"

"…so…?" Castiel repeats slowly.

Oh my— "Nothing else, Clarence? Really?" What kind of show did he think she was running? Pulling a stunt like she did was no parlor trick, man; that took some awfully careful, last-minute planning and maybe just a bit of pure luck. "No, 'How did you survive?' No, 'The brothers told me you were dead!' No, 'I missed you!' Not even a, 'Why did you stay away for so long?' Nothing?"

"I have wondered that last one, although I thought it would be rude to ask giving the circumstances," Castiel mumbled.

Okay, yeah, fair point. But Meg's eyes searched his blank face. And then she watched, carefully, as it slowly contort into confusion again. "…wait. Why would I have thought you were dead…?" And there—there it is. The sign she's been looking for.

She gapes at him. "They didn't even tell you," she realizes. "Those sons of bitches didn't even…" Aw, what a load of bullshit. What a load of—c'mon, man! That ruined every single return-plot she had in her head! None of them would work, now, damn it! Not if nobody even knew she was dead!

Meg spins around, caught by the momentum of her own frustration and anger. "Damn those two…! I knew I shouldn't have trusted them. I save their asses—I save all of your asses—and what do they do to repay me? Don't even honor my death. What a load of—" She turns to the sky and lets out a frustrated growl, before she spins around again. "Well, they're fired," she says with too bright of a grin. "Both of them. Never gonna trust them to spread the word about anything again. Should've known I couldn't trust them to do anything even remarkably common sense or courtesy…"

"…you died?"

Meg sighs, rolling her eyes. "No, I faked it. Come now, Clarence, do a girl a favor and keep up, won't you?"

Oh. The shamed look that crosses his face makes her take a mental step back. Okay, okay…maybe she should be gentler about the situation. She forgot who she was dealing with, after all. The demon sighs. "Okay. Remember when we went to go get that angel tablet of yours? That was in that crypt and everything?" Gosh, she wasn't supposed to talk about this, it wasn't supposed to be her job. Damn Winchesters, making her do all of her own work. Ruining the effect she had been working towards. What utter bastards. "Sam and I held the fort outside, you remember?"

At Castiel's nod, she opens her mouth to continue, but then her eyes catch sight of a splash of rain that had dripped onto her audience's head from the gutter above. Castiel himself looks hardly fazed from it, but it makes Meg frown and huff.

"…damn." She sighs again. "Yeah, all right. Not out here; we'll continue the story elsewhere, where it's a bit drier and I don't have to worry about you getting sick on me because I needed my moment. Does that sound good?" She kicks at the ground and looks up at him. Castiel looks confused at first, before suddenly remembering where he is and what he's doing and how cold he is, so he nods.

"Yes," he murmurs. "Yes, that would be greatly appreciated, thank you—"

"—yeah, yeah," she says back. She waves her hand, but can't stop grinning. Aw, Clarence, how I've missed you, you pretty boy. "You can thank me later. I'll just put it on your tab."

Just like everything else for everyone else is, apparently. Just one big…long…long…tab.

Gosh, she needs to stop being so nice, she's sickening herself.

"Right. So, this way then…!"

I want to fill this new frame
But it's empty

Meg feels like she should have seen this coming, but when Castiel gets sick on the drive to her hide-out, she's not prepared for it.

The good thing is, however, that he was able to hold it at least until they got to her apartment in a small suburb of town. She had guided him in to the bathroom with an arm wrapped around his waist, and it was only after he had had his moment and she was thoroughly grossed out that they awkwardly worked together to get him onto her couch.

His sudden weakness was a bit alarming, but she supposes it was to be expected. Lack of food, the drive here on slippery, winding streets through the rain, plus the weakened immune system…at the very least, she determines all it is is motion sickness that would pass after a good while.

But unfortunately, that's not the only thing. Wrapping her arm around him had allowed for her to feel just how thin he was under his baggy second-hand clothes.

(Has he really been wandering on his own ever since the angels fell a month or two ago…? And in all that time, the Winchesters never found him? For weeks, they have just let him go on his own and didn't even think to…?)

"Damn it," she mutters tersely.

Castiel peeks up at her from between his cracked eyelids. His face is pale, and he doesn't look well at all. But Meg waves his attention away. "Forget it. Don't mind me," she says. "Sleep. Just get this, whatever-you-have, out of you, okay?" After a soft sigh, she nods. "Then we'll talk."

The human on her couch nods and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly. He digs his face into the cushions beneath him, and is out not even a minute later.

Meg, against her will, watches him leave this world.

In fact, she stands there beside him for much longer than she'd thought she would, and distractedly, when she gets tired of standing, she hooks her ankle around a foot of the coffee table nearby, dragging it over to sit on as she continues to watch him.

Sleeping. Her unicorn is actually sleeping.

(He really is human now, huh?)

…the idea hits her a moment later.

Tried to write a letter
in
Ink
( It's been getting better
I
Think )

I got a piece of paper
But it's empty

"What are you doing?"

Meg jumps out of her seat. She had thought very briefly about staying in the chair, but by the time she had come back to herself, she was already standing and stepping away from the pen and paper, gesturing at it with a shaky hand. "Reserving it for you," comes out of her mouth. Her hand stays on the edge of the table. "I just…" Damn it. She clears her throat and gathers herself. "I just thought it'd be nice if you wrote. Y'know, to the brothers. That sort of thing. For sentiment. Told them you were okay or you tell them I've kidnapped you and am holding you hostage and that I am still terribly angry with them for never telling you that I had died, but…"

Castiel looks at her oddly. Meg stares back, and just…slowly shakes her head when she sees he's still a bit vacant. "Okay, so. Never mind that, then." She inhales. "Tough crowd." Her hand pats the side of the table. "Well, guess I'll just get something for you to eat, then—"

"—do you really think they want to hear from me…?"

The question is soft and it snatches Meg's attention quickly. Wait, what…?

"Cas, of course," she finds herself answering, baffled. "Don't you remember? You kind of have Dean-o and the Moose wrapped around your fingers…" It bothers her how hollowly she feels those words, even though her mouth keeps spewing them out. "I mean, I bet they're worrying themselves silly over you right now, those losers…"

The silence that follows that statement, along with the tender (frightened?) gaze with which Castiel is staring at the blank page, makes the hurt come back.

Meg hates it all.

"Sit," she says again. She taps the back of the chair with her hand. "Sit. I mean it. Write them a shmoopy letter or something, whatever it is you've got on that heart of yours, and meanwhile I promise I'll make you the meanest chicken noodle soup from a can you've ever had. Deal?"

He looks at her for a moment. And then finally, after what feels like forever, he nods. "Deal…and Meg?"

She's already trying to escape, but for him (always for him, wasn't it?), she stops in the entryway to the kitchen and turns around to look at him. Her eyebrows are raised in waiting.

"Thank you," he says, and his eyes are so sincere that the aching comes back.

Meg just shoves it away with a hand and a grimace. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just write something, okay? Then we'll talk."

But when Castiel comes into the kitchen twenty minutes later, and places a very neatly-folded and blank square of paper into the trash can, she doesn't say a word. She just feels her own heart fall, and then raises her eyes to the reflection on her kitchen window of a very sad man behind her, and decides maybe such sadness would better be put to use making sandwiches for them to accompany their soup than trying to reach out to people who they weren't sure still loved him.

(There have been a lot of things left unsaid between all of them, anyway. What's one more, Meg couldn't help but think. What's one or two or twelve more…)

It's empty.

That night, Castiel tells her what happened in Heaven.

She doesn't comment on it afterwards. In fact, instead of saying anything at all, she suggests maybe (they make it better) with It's a Wonderful Life, "and then we'll talk." But they don't even get ten minutes into the movie before Castiel can't shut up about how it's too early to be watching a Christmas film. But then he becomes mesmerized by the fact that the angel in the movie has the name Clarence, and Meg can't help but smile a little—perhaps smugly—because that definitely shut him up, and glued his eyes to the screen rather quickly.

It was more fun than she'd admit.

And later, when she's alone in her bed and Castiel is asleep on the couch, she dreams of Metatron and his blood on her hands and how she'd trace the roots of the earth to find the tree of Castiel's Grace if it was the last thing she did just to keep the man on her couch from sniffling, huddled on a street corner and wondering when he'd next eat, so eerily silent.

But she wakes up the next morning feeling empty and hollow, and knowing none of it would happen.

She was just too tired.

(Which was strange for a demon in the first place, some part of her recalls. Very strange.)

And I even wondered
if
We
Should be getting under
These
Sheets … ?

The next day Castiel helps with dinner again, and the next day after that, they try (and fail) writing again. They decide to turn on the TV instead since writing doesn't seem to be working, and they watch some children's show that sings every five minutes. The next day passes and they eat the last of Meg's ramen, and when the day after that comes, they turn the television on to the news but something on it when they talk about some family's story makes Castiel frown oddly so they shut it off and stare at the blank screen instead.

That night, Meg dreams of being alone. She dreams of burning silence that's dark and hurts but goes on and on and it scares her and the next thing she knows Castiel is waking her up, and she's gasping and he's there and he smells like her bathroom hand-wash soap and she cries.

She's finally talking before the sobs have even left her system about how she lived. About Crowley, about fooling Sam. And about being alone afterwards.

(So alone, so dull, and the silence and listlessness so exhausting.)

And when she's finally wiping her eyes, trying to gather her dignity, she manages to ask him out of forced anger and frustration, "Why do you smell like my hand-soap, anyway?"

Her ex-unicorn only answers, "I did not wish to use your bathroom gel as it was yours." His eyes dart away meekly. "The next best thing I could find was your hand-soap, so I employed its use instead. I apologize if that was out of turn or if I should not have done so, but I…"

Meg just places a hand on his face to shut him up, and bites her lip to keep from smiling beyond the tears.

Of course. Damn him.

Ugh, she's missed him terribly.

That night, Castiel stays in her bed, and though she rolls over to put her back to him, he doesn't seem to mind.

They don't touch, but the closeness is enough.

We could lie in this bed
But it's empty.

The next day, they finally go grocery (and body-wash) shopping, and Castiel manages to knock down two display stands, spill milk, and somehow makes the man behind the deli counter swear at them violently in Finnish. By the end of it, Meg's laughing too hard and too loud but it feels too wonderful to care.

It's empty.

When Castiel finally does manage to write something a few weeks later, Meg is surprised to find it's not addressed to the Winchester brothers.

It's actually addressed to her.

She finds it taped on the refrigerator door, and wonders how in the world he managed to put it on there without her knowing about it, because as far as she's aware, he's still sleeping in thei—her—bed in her room right now as he has been since they went to bed last night after Whose Line is it Anyway?

But he's gone and done it anyway, so Meg rips it off and reads it quickly. (And her hands most definitely do not shake.)

Meg,

I have been thinking about us lately, and I thought it impertinent to write these things to you as I seem incapable of saying them out loud. We seem very unable to communicate, in general, about some important things that hang in the air just out of our grasp. And while I do not think this is a particularly awful fault, I do think we need to somehow overcome it. This silence and the emptiness can make us feel so hollow…and to be honest, I am getting tired. So I decided if there was any way I wanted to tell you these things to stop the aching, I had better write them.

You were right, by the way. It is nice to write.

What.

First, I want to thank you for letting me stay with you. You have taken me in and given me shelter where none have done before, and for that, I am eternally grateful. You have fed me, you have clothed me, and I am indebted to you for your kindness that you pretend you don't have. I will learn to pay you back for the monetary value I am costing you now as an extra inhabitant of this place you call home. Give me time, and I will give back what you have given me.

What kind of crap is…

Second…I want you to know that I've been thinking about you, too. You move with endlessness, Meg, but it didn't occur to me until very recently why. I am ashamed to say that it didn't even occur to me that maybe there was something you needed to hear…until, as I have stated, very recently.

And I apologize for failing to pay more attention before.

Slowly, Meg sits down. She feels weightless.

And that's another matter, as well. I have been among humanity for a few years, and it has taken me this—us—these days…to realize that the Winchesters were not the best of teachers when it came to healthy interaction. Perhaps no one was, really. I suppose it was inevitable for me to feel as if silence was the best answer to pain, that to say nothing was better than to try and say something, anything at all. And maybe in some circumstances, that is the case. Perhaps there are instances where the silence is healing.

But there are also some situations that have come to my attention where silence only intensifies wounds.

And you…you are hurting, Meg. I know this. There is an open wound somewhere deep inside you that you try and hide, but I saw it. I saw it the night I woke you from your nightmare, and I haven't been able to forget it since. And now, I wish to help heal it.

She considers not reading the rest. She really does. But her eyes keep roaming before she can stop them, and by that point, it's too late. She…

And then it hit me. You have lived your entire life for other people, and never once for yourself.

Time and time again, you have given yourself to causes and you have longed for approval and for affirmation, because perhaps no one gave it to you before. So you did what you knew, and you joined a team; you joined several, actually, and you gave everything you had for them. Even at the very end, you still gave everything, though you received nothing in return, not even an honor for your death.

The corner of her lips quirk upwards, and she breathes. That's not how that word is used, Clarence…

And I am so sorry that you've never been given more. You are so loyal, Meg, and so generous that you didn't think twice about sharing your space with me once you found me. You never hesitated or acted as if it was strange that you should be feeding me or giving me a place to stay or taking me shopping and cleaning up after my messes…

So now, after all of your kindnesses for me, I wish to do some for you. I want to help you heal. And so to begin this process, I want to thank you…and I want to tell you well done.

Oh gosh, she shouldn't be reading this.

But I also want to invite you to, now that you do not have a cause, to be your own cause.

What…?

You have fought so long for other people's purposes, that I think it is time you fought and served under your own purpose. Your endlessness is vast untied, but that is because you do not realize your own potential, your own ability to anchor yourself and give yourself reason. You are so much, Meg; you do not have to serve another to find fulfillment. I want you to realize that you can serve yourself, too.

I know this sounds strange for an angel once-angel to say, but I am, too, slowly becoming aware that it is possible. And you, Meg, you—

She crumbles up the letter and tears it, throwing the pieces into the trashcan as quickly as she can. In the aftermath, in the quiet after the violence of the ripping, she finds herself breathing harsh and hard. It takes her a long moment, a very long moment of shaking and staring at the black lid of the trashcan, dotted, now, with wet drips of tears, before she finally gathers her voice to shout, "Castiel…!"

She waits only to hear the thud of his body jerking from bed before she grabs the keys and marches out of her kitchen.

They're going to go on a drive, she's decided.

They're going to go on a very, very long drive.

Maybe we're trying
Trying too hard

Maybe we're torn apart ... ?

Maybe the timing
Is beating our hearts …

They've been driving for forty-five minutes when Meg finally stops her Jeep at a random place in the flatlands. The noonday sun is shining brightly over them, and the air is crisp and warm, but Meg takes no notice of this as she slams her car door shut and walks around to the other side. She crosses her arms over her chest, looking out at the vast stretch of green before her. It's huge, really: a rare sea of untouched grass that has no trees. It's pretty. Vaguely.

It takes two minutes for Castiel to gather the courage to step outside of the Jeep himself, and when he does, he's awkward about it. His feet fumble for the ground, and when he has his footing, he tentatively walks forward, closing the door behind him quietly. He wrings his hands and stands at Meg's side.

Oh, and the best part? The poor guy's still in his pajama's, with penny-loafers half on his feet because he hurried out the door so quickly, along with his beloved replacement-trenchcoat thrown over the ensemble. She had purchased the garment for him at the thrift store a while back, upon finding he had given his old one up for the sake of food. And she might have even found how he was dressed now entertaining, really; looking at him in his poor and ruffled state, maybe she would have laughed or smiled. Maybe.

If it were literally any other circumstance right now.

But as it is, Meg had planned on saying something. She had, really. In fact, she had worked up an entire angry and bitter monologue to yell at him, something about how he just couldn't say those things. They aren't right, after all. He isn't right. Actually, he's quite wrong; she isn't nice. Of course she thought about taking him in. She had, in fact, always worked for herself…she…that—that's the entire point, isn't it? The very reason she ever joined a team? It was for herself. It is always for herself. It is to hear the praise; to get the affirmation.

It's to make her feel good. To make her feel…wanted…

But in the silence that lingers between the two of them, staring out at the flat land beyond and at the early colors of dawn still spread over the sky, the problem is Meg finds the force drained out of her as quickly as it had built.

She exhales. Her throat feels tight.

It takes her a moment more to realize that there are still tears slipping free the longer she stands there, barely able to breathe.

And it takes Castiel yet another moment to realize why they were even there. "…this is because of my letter, isn't it?"

Meg takes a shaky breath. "Yeah," she whispers, mouth cracking upwards in a bitter, remorseful smile. "Looks like we're finally talking." Why can't she keep it together, damn it? For crying out loud… She sniffs hard. "Well?" she demands after a small pause. She turns to him, calling on her stance to portray her anger and resolve while her face betrayed her. "Got anything to say for yourself?"

"I'm not sorry," is the first thing he says, which seems so jarring. Such a change from his normal behavior, the Castiel who had once apologized to her like he's done it one hundred times.

He continues before she can say a word. "I…refuse to be sorry, for anything that I wrote." He waits for a moment, a brief pause, before he adds, "I believe every word, and I believe they are things you need to hear, Meg. You are valued, and you have done many good things. You are allowed to do good things just for yourself, too—"

"—no, see you, don't get it!" Meg interrupts and for some reason she can't explain, she's furious. She grasps for something else to say, for the real heart of the matter.

She finds it a second later. "You were supposed to be writing to the Winchesters!" And at the look on his face, she continues, "I mean, yeah, great, fantastic; so you wrote a real tearjerker of a letter to me. That's great. But forget me; you weren't even supposed to be thinking about me!" And that's the thing, isn't it? That's what's bothering her…? She wasn't supposed to be seen. She was supposed to be so low on his radar, he wouldn't care. He wouldn't come after her. That's the way it was supposed to be— "You're supposed to go home! You're supposed to be cared about and cared for, and you're supposed to…you're…!"

But that look on his face changes, and suddenly, he is looking at her like he's already got all of that, and in response, Meg is brought to silence.

He looks at her like she's able to care about him. Like she does. Like she has been caring forhim, and that he has been…home.

Her breathing slows.

(I'm wanted.)

"Meg…?"

The demon swallows. Her eyes lower. "Yeah…that's my name," she answers quietly.

Castiel does not take his gaze from her. It is far gentler than she can ever remember it being. "I have made my decision about where I would like to be, and what I want to spend my numbered days doing," he starts off by saying. And when Meg thinks about it, she finds that he has, hasn't he…? This stubborn brute has actually… "So now, I would like to invite you to that same question, Meg: what would you like to do now?"

Besides punch him in the face? Uh… "Fix things." It's the first thing she thinks of and she uncrosses her arms, her voice slightly hoarse. Dry. "Eventually. Get your Grace back, open up Heaven." Her eyes roam the skies because they can't look at those other blues anymore. "Do something about this whole mess that the Winchesters are going to somehow make worse, like they always do."

His hand brushes against hers. It is a soft touch, as gentle as down. It's very warm. "All right," he says. "Then that is what we will do."

And that's it.

Done.

She's said her wish, and they're going to do it. They're going to fix things. And they're going to fix them her way, even. She's leading the team, her own team—just the two of them—and they're going to…they're…

…huh.

(It really is that simple.)

Meg doesn't pull her own hand away. Instead, she lets them connect, and it's a breathless moment like they are on a precipice, and suddenly, Meg turns to him, and she fully takes his hand. She lets their fingers intertwine.

She bursts.

"I want to watch every single episode of Little House on the Prairie," she says. "I want to eat a whole gallon of ice cream all by myself." Oh…! "I want to order pizza and eat-in and make fun of Twilight and prop my feet up on your legs so I can poke you with my toes when you start to fall asleep. I want to take you to the movies." And it starts tumbling out, everything she's ever wanted to do. Everything she still wants to do. All of the feelings and emotions she misses about being human that she wants to experience again and again and again because now she has the time. Now she has the purpose—now she has the reason.

And it's just because she wants to.

"I want to drive out one random Tuesday morning as far as we can go so I can see the ocean. I want to finally go to fucking Paris, I…"

He's smiling.

Oh, he's smiling and it's really pretty and suddenly, Meg is aware.

She's so aware.

(Maybe there's something he needs to hear, too.)

"I want to fix you," she mutters honestly, quietly. She swallows. The side of her mouth twitches upward, although it flutters, breaks. For him, her unicorn, who though he lost his magic, still didn't lose himself. And she's proud of him for that. "Because despite everything, I care that you're broken, Cas. Even when nobody else does, I care."

And then something crosses his face that is sad and open. So sad and so open, she suddenly sees him. Beneath the big words, the stiff posture, the rigid stature that is educated into him through millennia of the other angels being in his head, finally she sees Castiel, who for the first time in his life, has a soul. And she can see it, how it's so sad and it's so heavy, but it is him, and she thinks maybe he never did lose his might after all. He lost his Grace, sure, maybe…but not how big he is inside.

She squeezes his hand and gives her last missive. Which feels strange to say in the first place, because she can recall being so tired. She can recall the fatigue and the aches, but now…now… "I want to run—flat-out sprint—for as far as I can. Just to see if that feels like flying."

Castiel blinks; his soul is hidden from her again. He swallows, nodding. An echo of the half-smile she gave him slowly spreads onto his face. "Then let us run."

And he's in his pajama's with his half-on penny loafers and damn trenchcoat, and she's in her jeans and hoodie and her hair isn't brushed and he hasn't shaved yet and their hands are still linked and she realizes she isn't wearing shoes the instant her feet hit the grass and she's bound to get awful grass stains from this—

—but it's the most freeing thing Meg has ever done, and she feels, for the first time since she freed herself from Hell…free.

And it is good.

(This is hers. This moment, right here, right now, with the wind, and the breathing, and the ground underneath their feet. This is hers. This is hers. This is hers.

She squeezes the hand of the ex-angel at her side as they run.

And she realizes with a smile that this…this is hers, too.)

We're empty.

Krissey's Notes: Helloooooo friends! 8D Not dead, see? Haha...ha. WOW I've had such writer's block for the longest time. ;...;;;;; I apologize so thoroughly for that. It's not what I intended at all, but writing lately has just been...hard, y'know? So anyway. I finally churned this out. I hope you all enjoy...! A little Megstiel couldn't hurt anyone right...? Oh, and comments, concerns, suggestions, are always welcome! Thanks so much, guys! See you next time!

Song: "We're Empty" by The Click Five