Warnings: Mentions of canon character death.
Word Count: 370
Summary: They weren’t talking because there was nothing left to say; they had come to a stalemate and there wasn’t any point, really. They were either going to be together or not, and Maureen wasn’t honestly sure which way she wanted it to go.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I'm making no money off of this.
A/N: Vaguely post-finale. Written for 15minuteficlets' Picture #3.
Maureen didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. Oh, she did when she was five, of course, just like her sister, but that was before Maureen stopped blindly following everything Diana did and started doing what she wanted.
If there were ghosts, why wasn’t Angel one?
So they couldn’t exist, because it just wouldn’t make sense. That’s all there was to it.
In New York, land of empty dreams and cockroach-ridden dust bunnies, it was easy to pretend that that whisper you heard in the wind was someone’s busted AC, was a car stalling down the street, was nothing. But out in the country, where there was no such thing as too quiet, it wasn’t easy anymore.
Maureen wondered why she’d wanted to take this walk in the first place.
Next to her, Joanne sighed and brushed a stray hair out of her eye. They weren’t talking because there was nothing left to say; they had come to a stalemate and there wasn’t any point, really. They were either going to be together or not, and Maureen wasn’t honestly sure which way she wanted it to go.
The misty morning haunted her, though, more than she was comfortable with. She shivered lightly and hoped Joanne didn’t notice.
She was in luck. Joanne just pulled her sweater tighter around herself and looked at the trees, at the grey sky – everywhere but at Maureen. And it didn’t feel like luck.
“I-” she started to say, her throat dry, but Joanne shushed her, and as usual, Maureen knew she was right. It was one of the things she hated about Joanne: she was always right. It wasn’t that she had to be – not really, she wasn’t one of those people – it was that she simply was, and it was infuriating. Maureen wanted to be right sometimes. (All the time, she supposed.)
Deep down, Maureen knew she was being immature, but she wouldn’t accept it. That would be like letting Joanne be right. Again.
She made no move toward her sometimes-lover and neither did the other woman. They walked together in the fog, not communicating, not searching for ghosts, but somehow finding what they were looking for.
Maureen, for once, didn’t need a concrete answer.