A/N: A drabble for Mary Mary, who's made me a firm believer in the Church of Sts. Peter and Claire, pretty much. Post-season one, no specified timeline, let your imagination wander & etc. Concrit rocks, boys and girls.

postcard

She's gone through so many already. It's hard to find postcards that're pretty, even in a stunning place like Costa Verde. The photographers seem intent on wildlife, in tails of sea-otters or bivalve shells on the beach when she's looking for stunning sunsets or whirling lights, a pretty image to accompany her wish you were here.

But that's not even the whole problem. She doesn't quite know what to say, either. The miles between them are more than numbers, more than plains all across the Midwest: it's like a world of rolling wheat in between them, like she's been banished to a far-off star while he stays in the sparkling skyscrapers of New York. She feels so small next to him: he's rushing to save lives while she's rushing to save what's left of her GPA.

She always keeps them, though: no matter how many things don't sound right or how ugly the postcards are or how embarrassed she would be if he found them.

Because one thing is always the same. His name, that she misses him, that she wishes he was here to save her.

And it ends, it always ends the same.

With love from Claire.

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