It's 4 AM, and Angela Ziegler can't find it in herself to sleep.

She had climbed the sleep deprivation echelon rather quickly, having passed over-excitement at 1 AM and needlessly anxious at 2:30. Now she's just numb, sad, and only slightly in the need of a drink. Angela lends those emotions to the photos she still hasn't taken down. Silly photos of her and a certain Amélie. Photos that only barely crossed the threshold of 'platonic'. Cheek kisses and loving gazes, and even a print from one of the first shows Angela went to.

It's a little pathetic, wasn't it? She's still selfishly in love, even with Gérard dead and Amélie missing. It's been… How many months now? God, Angela hadn't been able to look anyone in the eye for weeks after Gérard was found dead in his own home.. Her guilt combined with the pain of loss made for sleepless nights and a sense of self-loathing that could be matched by very few people. Life sure as hell had thing for bending her over and dicking her in the ass.

Just when she had found love for the first time in a decade (even if it was infidelity), her job as an Overwatch member had to go and fuck the whole thing up. Fuck Talon, fuck Overwatch, and especially fuck Angela for getting so upset about it all. She's supposed to have moved on, just a little, and in all the months she'd spent crying and thinking, it feels like she hasn't made any progress at all. Suppose it's about time to give up on love entirely and bring in thirty cats, despite the fact that Angela has allergies, huh?

"I'm not even forty yet," Angela mutters and hoists herself off the wooden floor of her living room. She's far too young to be thinking about retiring and holing herself up in her shitty bungalow with an unspecified amount of furry friends. She thinks about trying to hit the bed for the umpteenth time that night before deciding she'll just turn on the stereo and pretend her life is a depressing music video.

She loads up one of her anachronistic CDs, and nods her head to the beat. A syncopated tune in 4/4 time that Angela can't help but to sashay around the room to. She hums the main tune, and as the songs kicks into the chorus, Angela finds herself dancing a waltz with a person who isn't there.

Angela has fond memories of Amélie's dancing. She focused on ballet, but that wasn't to say that other types of dance weren't out of her reach. Turn, step. Amélie always had such a graceful form, and in turn Angela always looked awkward and unsure of herself. They tried to arrange a quick session for Angela to get down some basic exercises, though they spent less time stretching than they did laughing and kissing. Turn, step.

If Amélie is dead, then Angela hopes that at least her death was swift and painless. She hopes that Amélie and Gérard are happy in Heaven or the next life or wherever the fuck that people go after they die. She hopes that Gérard doesn't hate her for sleeping with his wife, though she wouldn't say she didn't deserve it if he does.

Turn, step. The song draws to a close, and Angela wipes away the wetness forming under her eyes. Angela misses Amélie, and she doesn't think that any amount of time will change that. It's unfair, the circumstances of their meeting. Amélie deserved the world and more, and now she was dead.

"You have a very interesting taste in music, chérie." Angela's head whizzes to the source of the noise, and she's met with Amélie Lacroix. Amélie, smirking down at her.

But that's impossible. Amélie Lacroix was presumed dead after her kidnapping by Talon. The only possible explanation for her being in Angela Ziegler's room right there and then was that Angela was either extremely high or delusional (and God forbid she's both).

That voice. That face. It's so Amélie, and it's so real.

"Go back to the last song," Amélie says, and steps off the windowsill and into the room. Angela's head is spinning, and she sees visions of long years of intensive therapy in her future. There's no way that Amélie was here right now. "You look so surprised, is something the matter?"

"You… You're dead," Angela stammers, absently carrying herself to the radio to go back to the previous song. "Why are you here?"

Amélie tsks, and leans over Angela's shoulder. "I would suppose that the opposite is true. I'm right here." To emphasize her point, slender arms wrap around Angela's shoulders, they pull her closer. "I wanted to see you before they do the surgeries."

"Surgeries?"

"It's unimportant," Amélie decides, pressing a kiss to the crook of Angela's neck. "Pour maintenant, on danse."

Angela barely has the time to ask what the hell Amélie was talking about until she was whisked back onto the hard living room floor, forced into the same waltz she'd been trying to execute before. Only this time, she was actually dancing with the woman she had been thinking about for so long.

Turn, step. "Fuck, I missed you," Angela breathes out, leaning her head against Amélie's. "Even if you're just a figment of my own overworked imagination, I just… God." At this point, she can't find it in herself to give two shits.

Amélie hums. Turn, step.

"You're like… You're like a ghost. Everyone thought you were dead, and now you appear in my fucking room of all places," Angela babbles, and Amélie smiles all the while. She's so tired that she doesn't mind it. Turn, step. "I missed you so goddamn much…"

The song ends much too early for Angela. Amélie pulls away, and presses a her lips to Angela's, and they stay like that for a while as the next song begins to play. It's nice, but it ends, and she's left wanting more.

"Stay with me," she begs. All nice things have to come to an end soon. She knows that, and yet she still implores because maybe just this once, she'll be allowed to have something good. "Don't leave me just yet. Stay with me until the sun comes up." Angela is crying now, the sleep deprivation and the tears burning her eyes. She doesn't know why, but she can't stop. She thinks about the time that Angela gets to spend with everyone but Amélie herself, and all the time that will now be spent without her. She doesn't want to think about that anymore.

The look on Amélie's face soothes her, even if it's little. "You'll see me again," she says.

And then she's gone.