Just a little play on a well known cliché.

She mumbles, a cool crispness of vegetation in her mouth and grass stains on her dress. She sputters, even wretches, and green shoots, thoroughly unpleasant and hardened by spittle, rise up and clamber inwards among the breeze.

He stares, incredulous.

You idiot.

She shakes her head, blinking a little in erratic confusion, a shift of embarrassment staining her cheeks. Angels should respect nature, not eat it, however unintentional.

I tripped.

There is still a little of the dazed shock fluttering inside her eyes and he regards her with no short sense of distain. Nothing fails under his gaze, the way her arms have sprawled out beneath her horizontal form, legs apart and crooked at the knee joints, pale feet waving in the air. Only her hair, strips of unbearable yellow in what is supposed to be a dull and dreary place, remains unblemished from mud and greenery.

His eyes narrow. He has a sudden urge to tread it into the ground, bind it into a darker undertone that does not become her. But he does not. He merely looks and waits for her to stumble onto her feet in that same clumsy manner she seems to have inherited from no one.

But she does not. She just lies there with that stupid, puzzled look on her face.

His glare worsens.

The hell.

A little sense is becoming reattached to her mind. It is pounded into her by the straining grass nearby, pushed underfoot by the tapping of an angry boot. Impatience. Drum, drum, drum. Her eyes widen.

"Laharl-sama! I'm so very sorry!"

Oh, so now she decides to move.

Her arms shift beneath her as she strains upwards against the yawning grey overhead. Typical Netherworld weather, always so attune to the murderous attitudes and sombre philosophies that run rampage throughout the land. But why does the grass look so green?

Not like he cares anyway. The boot's stopped in its annoying tapping now. Instead, commanding eyes pour into her, a throbbing red that demands rather than asks or inquires. Up, up, up.

Her muscles feel like jelly and for half a moment she feels like flopping down again, basking her chin against the welcoming green. How long has it been since she stopped to run her thumb against the velvet texture of a small leaf?

But no, her own nature comes first. And it is to put others and their needs before herself. Even if others tend to be selfish and mean and deny the true power of love! But even so she shakes her muscles out into a rounded firmness and sluggers upright.

"Why is there so much grass here?"

He shrugs, his eyes sliding to a nonchalant close as he begins to stride off. Such trivial affairs do not concern him.

She frowns a little, tilting her head to one side in admiration, feeling the green paint a miniature reflection in her eyes. For now, just now, she is part of something big and wonderful and she's not quite sure what her part in this world is but she's pretty sure she'll figure it out soon. Because nobody else seems to think so…and with pessimistic feelings like that circulating her every move, she must quite naturally have hope.

No one thought Laharl was capable of kindness but he hasn't run out of patience with her quite yet…or would he simply describe that as a mercy killing?

But still, she's convinced she has seen a little bit of something extra in that black stump she calls 'Laharl's heart' and she's determined to make it grow.

She sighs, an icy tear of wind sapping away the warmth of her willowy legs. She closes her eyes, holding out her hands in a peace gesture to this world she should not really belong to. And she is aware of the wind tugging at her loosened ribbons, the edge of her girlish frills and the pull of something painful, something recent that tinges at the edge of her chest. She is even aware of the sudden 'stoppage' that arrives when Laharl halts and looks back at her with that usual steadfast look that could easily be paired up with a glare. A 'stoppage' like now.

She opens her eyes, a hazy blue defiance to this place that begs no mercy and spurns her because she gives it freely. His eyes hold the same accusation. She smiles, waves and waits for him to shout.

But he does not, letting something or other ruffle his scarf before spinning on his heel… and she can already mouth the word half-forming on his lips.

"Id-"

"Hey!"

He stops, twitching at the unforgivable. She has interrupted him. He seethes, fists tightening into knotholes of promised pain. Not that he would actually strip her of her perky existence…not unless she pushed him too far…but there are other ways to hurt the love manic. Harsh words are an effective cutting tool.

"Why does this grass look so green?"

He freezes, what little rationality within him left cold. He spins, unhinging his jaw line as if to shout something offensive before pausing, his eyes darting just to the left of her, away from her inquisitive look. He feels everything and so much more. But just for a little while. Then he turns and walks off in the same arrogant stride.

But she stands there just a little while longer wondering if all those tales up in Heaven about the merciless and barren landscape of the Netherworld are quite true and if they have been spurned on by the same anger and fear that Laharl showers on her goodwill. And she just…stands there, grass beneath her feet, a little bit too green on this side of the cosmos, a grey halo jetting upwards above her head…

And she thinks.

Remember kids, the grass is always greener on the other side. Or not.