Archive of Our Own ^beta

This is God, watching over all Her children. She weeps when they weep, and she laughs at their joy, and if they wonder aloud how one Being can keep such close track of everyone above and below, not only (nearly) seven billion humans but also many animals, she just smiles mysteriously. Deities can afford to smile mysteriously.

The Metatron, despite his existence as an Aspect of the Divine, is not himself a deity. He scowls quite a lot, and this is because some poor sod has to organize keeping close watch over the seven billion humans (and trillions of beetles and the quadrillion or so sentient aliens She loves in this part of the galactic spiral). Heaven is by definition perfect, but there's a metaphorical paper pile a million cubits in each dimension. The research angels, with their slide-rule halos and pocket-protected grubby tunics, are discovering new dimensions every single solar day just to find expansion room for the ineffable records keepers. The last report Metatron read mentioned plans for inventing a new form of trans-calculus mathematics in order to, metaphorically, find extra space in the attic.

Which is why, on the whole, when God tells the Metatron to check up on Bethany and her daughter, Metatron bypasses the records keepers entirely and asks Serendipity to do it instead.

To which she says, "I'm busy."

"Excuse me? You don't just tell the Divine Will you're occupied."

"Look, I'm in the middle of an important inspiration. If this goes well, this woman will write the greatest love story of the next millennium, rivaling Romeo and Juliet. If I screw up, it's schlock horror, vampires and werewolves."

She gives him a look, but the Metatron perfected his 'Angel, PLEASE' expression back when Jonah was still alive to complain about his assignment.

"It's on your head," Serendipity says, though she's smiling. God asks hard choices of all Her servants, but visiting a friend isn't one.

"Go by Technical on your way. They have some new holy relics to show you."

Serendipity manifests her being outside the doorway of what would on Earth be a laboratory. As above, so below: the wavelengths of light made solid to act as benches and protective walls (in case of accidental lightning bolt spillage) are cluttered with holy instruments having nothing to do with the Choir. Like any angel who has no wish to become a smoking pair of sandals, Serendipity has learned not to touch.

The lead angel sidles closer to her, managing to give the impression of someone eager to see a new face while simultaneously miffed at the interruption. "The Metatron said you'd be coming." Her voice is fussy, and she squints at Serendipity as though this is somehow her fault. "Come on, then."

They approach one of the benches. Another angel, a young-faced angel with wings that look new out of the box, indicates an object with some pride and excitement.

"It's a teddy bear," Serendipity says, when neither of the research angels do. It's a sad little bear, bedraggled and worn, and a bit dirty.

The lead angel says, "We call it the Ursa 2000."

Serendipity dials back mentally through her recent inspirations, but as usual, the research angels are pulling their ideas out of some other muse's ass. Sure enough, she can smell the wood smoke and sulfur she always associates with one of Weyland's bad ideas, and she lets out a little groan. "What have you done now?"

The lead angel stares at her. "What have we done? Only conceived of the greatest infant defense system in the known universe. Bring the doll," she snaps to her assistant, who scuttles off and returns with a Cheery Cheri doll. Serendipity takes a step away. Cheery Cheri is the cute moppet on the Mooby Show, and nothing will convince Serendipity that the sleepy-eyed dolls aren't working for Lucifer.

"This," says the lead angel, "represents the Daughter." She sets the toy beside the bear. "Now, attack it."

"What?"

"Attack the doll."

As tempting as the prospect is, Serendipity shakes her head.

"Fine. You," this is to the other angel, "attack the doll."

The assistant lets out a little sigh, then makes a cartoony "Hai-ya!" straight out of the Muppet Show. As his fist nears the doll, the teddy bear blazes into life, shooting divine fire from its raggedy button eyes and scorching the attacking angel.

The angel huffs, and the burnt robe is replaced with a robe identical to the grubby one he was wearing.

"You can't give this to the baby," Serendipity says, horrified. "That's the least safe child toy I've ever seen!"

The lead angel frowns, and her assistant pipes up, "Then you're not interested in the Ninja Star-Throwing Hat and Matching Booties?"

"No." She can feel a headache coming on. "Look, do you have any gifts for her that aren't deadly?"

"We were working on formulas for hypnotic gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but they're a bit old-fashioned."

"There's this," says the assistant. He hands Serendipity a soft blanket. She worries about touching any object originating in this lab, but it's already in her hands. Absently, she strokes the soft fabric, feeling warm and contented.

"See, this is nice. It's a blankie."

"If you're into that sort of thing," says the lead angel, clearly not interested.

"I knitted it," says the assistant, a little proudly. "I had the feeling I ought to."

Serendipity keeps stroking the blanket. There's a pattern in the knitting, stars and whirls, like the whole universe but only as seen from Heaven. "What did you make it out of?"

"Lamb's wool, and a few drops of divine grace."

"That's where that went!" says the lead angel, annoyed. "You said you'd spilled the bottle."

"It was only a little bit."

"I'll take it," Serendipity says, and the argument is over, at least for now.

All questions of divine intervention aside, Bethany is not having the best pregnancy ever. Her feet are killing her, ankles swollen to the size of grapefruits, and she's developed a nagging pain in her lower back on the left side that will not go away. Her mother calls every day to chat, and every other day with not-so-subtle questions about the father's identity. Bethany doesn't like lying about the daughter of God but she lacks useful alternatives. She implies without directly stating that she went to a clinic and she plans to put Rufus in the slot of honor when the paperwork comes due. He did ask Bethany to name the baby after him.

Liz thinks it was a one night stand in New Jersey, but she hasn't pushed. She's been the best birth coach Bethany could ask for, driving with her to appointments, giving her friendly back rubs upon request, and telling the protestors outside the clinic to fuck off whenever they give Bethany grief.

"Have you picked out a name yet?" It's been a slow day. Outside, everything is gray and chilly, the lingering clutch of another southern Wisconsin winter reluctant to let spring have her turn.

Bethany shivers in her sweater unhappily. "Not yet. Come up with more suggestions?"

Liz grinned. "Brunhilda."

"Too gym teacher."

"Carrie."

"Too covered in pig's blood serial killer."

"Mm, good point. I liked that one, too." Liz consults the little notebook where she's been jotting down ideas for everything from the theme of Bethany's nursery (Noah's Ark is the front-runner) to plans for her next vacation (she's thinking Cabo) to that smutty novel she's going to write some day and make a mint from (the male lead's name this week is Dakota). "I have it. Your daughter's name should be...." She pauses dramatically for effect. "Buffy." She smiles, pleased with herself.

"As in the vampire slayer?"

"Why not? It'll give her something to live up to."

Bethany passes a hand over her belly. As if that's going to be an issue. She's not sure yet how much her child will live up to. Is she a saint? Is she the Second Coming? Saints have a bad habit of getting martyred, but it isn't as though Jesus had a clean end. Bethany wants to protect her little girl and has a terrible sense that won't be possible. Her friends are starting families, yet all they have to worry about are what colleges to save up for, and the hundred little darker worries every parent has about car accidents and child predators. Bethany has to consider the near-surety that her child is destined to wind up murdered for the sake of the rest of the world.

"You okay?" Liz's face floods with worry. "You look like hell."

"Yeah."

She makes it to the restroom before she bursts into tears. Stupid hormones.

The brunette is waiting for them in the parking lot after work. Liz immediately goes on the defensive, wondering if this one brought a nasty sign or pepper spray like those last three yahoos. "Sorry, we're closed," she says, getting between the newcomer and Bethany. She's tall, good-looking, but alone, unless her friends are waiting somewhere out of sight.

But Bethany gasps and pushes right past, running into a hug with that mutual half-squeal reserved for good friends who've been long absent. When they finally let go, Bethany is out of breath, and she turns back to Liz. "Sorry, this is my friend." She stumbles through the beginnings of a name, but the other woman reaches out a hand with a strong grip.

"Serendipity. Any friend of Bethany's." She smiles, and it's a nice smile, reminding Liz of poems she last read in college.

"Liz. Nice to meet you. My parents overdid the sixties, too."

Serendipity's laugh is gorgeous. Inspiring. Liz already likes her.

Kenosha isn't known for its dining pleasures, but they settle comfortably into a table at Luigi's and make small talk. As the words spin out, Liz notices gaps in the conversation. For example, who this person is and why Bethany is treating her like an old, dear friend she's never once mentioned before now, why doesn't she have a car, and a dozen other little incongruities.

Liz decides to solve one off the bat. "What are you in town for?"

"To visit." She opens her handbag, and she pulls out a sloppily-wrapped package. "Also, to deliver a gift."

Bethany narrows her eyes carefully at the present. "Who's it from?"

"The baby's Godmother."

Bethany tilts her head up sharply to meet Serendipity's sly grin, then matches with one of her own. "Really?"

"She's very proud of you."

There's a lot going unsaid. Godmother? Not like Bethany would or could have asked Liz, but it's still confusing.

"Can I open it?"

With Serendipity's nod, Bethany's eager fingers rip off the paper, dropping shreds on the table. Inside is a soft blanket, knitted. Bethany strokes the fabric. "It's beautiful. Did she…?"

"Not exactly. One of our friends. She's not really hands-on these days."

"The pattern's nice," says Liz. Uncomfortable, she takes a sip of her wine, and that makes her more uncomfortable: Bethany won't drink while she's pregnant, and for whatever reason, her friend is also abstaining. Everything about this situation is weird. She thinks she shouldn't have joined them, that there's a conversation they're trying to have but can't with her in the room.

"Here." Bethany hands her the blanket.

Liz wonders what on earth she's supposed to do with it, but she places her hand on a spiral of the soft texture. And she feels…good. Right. Liz relaxes into her chair as Bethany and Serendipity continue their not-conversation, and she enjoys her drink.

"I've missed you," Bethany says around her second piece of pizza.

"You know I'm always here. We all are." She twists her mouth. "Except those two stoners. They're back in New Jersey."

"Thank God."

Liz's mind begins to wander as they chat. Her novel is nibbling at her again, a new plot difficulty sorting itself out in the back of her mind as she chews the crusts from Bethany's second slice of deep dish. She nods and laughs when the conversation allows, thinking more about Dakota and his true love Summer Skye. Watching the two old friends in front of her, she's inspired to add another subplot. She's a modern woman writing a modern romance, there's room for a lesbian couple to round out her B plot.

When Bethany gets home, she sets the present down in the baby's room. It's been wonderful to see Serendipity again in person rather than as an abstract. So why is she sitting in the new glider rocker and sobbing?

She forgets the blanket by morning.

By strictest definition, Bob and Jay are homeless. They live at no fixed address, and haven't since Bob's last girlfriend kicked them out, screaming at Jay's latest obscenity against humanity and good taste. Bob just gave him the familiar look that they both knew meant, 'Wtf, I told you not to sleep naked on the couch again,' and they moved on, taking up sofa space in one place or a floor for a week in another. It's a nomad's life, Bob ponders, an epic wanderlust as described best by Homer although perhaps Sallinger or Kesey are more apropos. The Argonauts never funded a voyage by selling dime bags outside the Quick Stop.

"I am on a great adventure," he says on a quiet, cold midnight. His own voice scares him, reverberating like a drum when he's toked up, but here on the balcony porch of a cheap apartment belonging to some girl Jay met at a party, he's got fantastic acoustics.

"So you are."

He's suddenly not alone on the porch, but Bob's too baked to be startled. He's met God and killed a demon. The Metatron is just another guy with wings and no junk.

Bob lights up another joint, and considers the stars. Then he shrugs at Metatron.

"Oh, you can quit the silent treatment. I speak for someone whose voice would make your head explode, I'm bloody well used to it." His irritability is half-affectation; Bob's nominally Catholic, but he's always been keen on the notion of balanced male/female divinity, and if God is the pure joy of creation, the Metatron is Her annoyed other half who comes along behind to keep the electrons spinning tidily.

This earns him a raised eyebrow. "Not that it was difficult for you to be the smart half of your own perfect pair, but very good." He turns, resting his hip against the railing and folding his arms. "There's a task ahead of you. She has plans to which even I am not privy. Ineffability." For a being who is designed to be entirely made of words, that's got to be a bitch.

"Go visit Bethany." He points to a star. "Thataway." He mutters, "She deserves wise men, but you two wise asses will have to do."

Bob nods his assent, knowing he's about to undertake another great quest. Then he offers his smoke to the Metatron.

The Metatron waves him off. "Angels aren't allowed to imbibe." Bob raises an eyebrow of his own, and the angel considers. Then he takes the joint and pulls a long drag. "Sometimes I wonder if this was another thing she never told me. Officially, we're to say the other side came up with the plant, but I know for a fact she personally designed every one."

The girl owns a motherfucking sweet DVD player that sells for just enough to take him and Lunchbox on a train ride. Sure, the last train ride had ended with the Dickless Wonderfucks, but whatever. It's an easy ride and Jay sits back in a haze of his own making, trying not to think too hard about fucks with exploding heads. It's the overnight with plenty of stops to wake him up just when he tries to doze, and Tons of Fun snores the rest. Better than walking, though.

They're kicked off the train and banned from Amtrak for life by the time they pull into Union Station.

Jay doesn't know where Bethany lives, so they wash up outside the clinic where she works and wait, trying to peddle to the protestors for kicks and spending money.

"We don't need your poison here," says the biggest motherfuck, waving his sign with a dead baby.

"Fine, fine," says Jay. "We're just looking for our girlfriend Bethany Sloane. She works here. Know where she is?"

"Works here?" asks a pinch-faced chick with the saggiest boobs Jay has ever smacked eyes on.

"You don't know where your girlfriend lives?" asks the big motherfuck.

Silent Boo shrugs. Jay spreads his arms. The protestors fall back. What? So he hasn't showered in a couple-three days. Maybe a week. It's righteous stink, not the stink of righteousness. Jay grins at his pun and opens his mouth, but the pinch-faced chick says, "Tell you what, you find out where she lives, and when you come back, you can tell us, and we can, uh, bring her presents for the baby. All right?"

"Sure," Jay says, and Bob grabs his arm and yanks him away from the parking lot.

They stake out a nice spot out of the wind, and they get in some quality hanging out and shooting the shit time until the last protestor has gone home, and the workers come out.

One of them tells Jay, "Bethany's in the hospital in Lake Forest. The baby came a little early."

"The baby? Oh shit, right, the baby."

The woman looks him up and down. "Don't tell me you're the father."

"Me? Fuck no. Bethany never let me fuck her, even when it was the end of the world like she promised." He elbows Lunchbox. "Can you believe that shit? Did you ever get to explore the great pink, mon ami?" Silent Bob shakes his head. "See? Wouldn't fuck either of us."

"Lake Forest," says the woman, and hastily makes her retreat.

"Where the fuck is Lake Forest?"

Bethany is exhausted. She's heard all the things from her birthing class, how labor and delivery is worse than running two marathons, but her baby is so small and seems like she shouldn't have taken so much effort to slide wetly into the world.

Liz is napping in the armchair normally reserved for the dads. Bethany knows she shouldn't have thought the plural when she hears the altercation in the hallway outside her door. Sure enough, Thing 1 and Thing 2 come through the door loudly, bearing gifts. She convinces Liz they're not serial killers, God alone knows how.

"So what's her name?" Jay asks, when they've made the gentle walk to the window of the NICU and Bob is busy pressing his beard against the glass.

"I still haven't decided." The first Christ was named Yeshua. Hers may end up an Ashley. Or Emma. Virginia? Bethany is rapidly running out of time to choose.

Bethany talks Liz into driving the two morons to Bethany's place and even gives them the key.

"You trust them?"

"No. Not really. Don't be alone too long with Jay. And they're dealers, so don't let them leave anything in your car. And don't lend them money. Actually, never mind. Call them a cab and give them the key."

"Why are you letting them stay with you?"

Bethany blinks. "Because they don't have anywhere else to go."

She is, sadly, not surprised when Liz reports to her the next day that they accidentally burned down her house while toasting marshmallows on the stove.

Creation is neither a shopping mall nor a zoo, despite close parallels with both. Nevertheless, if the sum of creation were either, this would be the Lost Items box. 'Lost and Found' implies a hopefulness, wherein shoppers (or zoo patrons) can rummage through the detritus of other visitors' lost possessions in search of that pair of shades. There's a chance of coming out of a Lost and Found. The items, and more, one might find in this place will not be Found. They are merely Lost.

Loki and Bartleby are unique in all of creation, in that neither Heaven nor Hell wants them. After millennia as angels, they incarnated as human just in time to die before achieving a return to Heaven, but Hell took one look at them and the Morning Star said, "Get the fuck out, assholes."

Don't ask about Purgatory. They're not good enough to hang out there, either.

So here they sit, in the Dead Letter Office of the celestial Post, unaddressed, unwanted, and surrounded with the shades of similarly unwanted things. All souls have a place, but when a cellular phone the size of a football loses its last charge, the soulless remnant of all the good conversations and bad connections have a brief incarnation here. To one side is a mountain of discounted cassette tapes. To the other, Loki can see black market ripoffs of Simpsons t-shirts, discarded Hallmark cards, and a truckload of devices whose names once ended in -omatic. He's not the poetic one, and Bartleby has already exhausted his snide comments about the banality of non-existence.

"Incoming," Bartleby yawns, bored out of his incorporeal skull.

Sure enough, there's a flash, and a new pile of unwanted junk appears. Loki remembers kicking back for those awesome Rudolph specials way back when. He never thought he'd be spending eternity on the Island of Misfit Toys.

"Anything good?" Loki asks hopefully.

Bartleby gives him that patronizing look he's perfected and doesn't reply. Loki didn't expect him to, and dives into the pile. Yeah, so it's all probably trash, last month's TV Guide with the crossword already done and old sunglasses with one lens gone. It's still the highlight of their non-existence, and Loki goes through the pile like a kid on a sucky Christmas morning hoping for a new Gameboy buried under the socks.

All he finds among the latest pile are empty tissue boxes, an old wig, and a soggy baby blanket with a psychedelic pattern. He's not so bored that he's willing to put on the wig, but he grabs the blanket and spreads it out. There's no sun here, no moon, and physics doesn't work like normal. The blanket does dry out anyway. He doesn't ask why, just smoothes out the wrinkles, feeling warm every time he brushes what he remembers as his hand over the fabric.

He hides the blanket from Bartleby.

Time, if time is a thing here, passes slowly, bringing pile after pile of useless trash to join them in their exile. Sometimes he digs up half a ruined book. Sometimes he finds action figures and Barbies missing arms or legs or heads, and he sets them up in vast battles, armies for God, fighting other armies for God.

"Why must you do that?" Bartleby asks him, as Loki makes "pow pow bang" noises.

"Why not?"

Time fractures in the in-between places. He doesn't know how long it takes to collect an entire set of fragile, rotted pages, or how long to paste them together patiently out of spit-out chewing gum stuck inside crinkled Hubba-Bubba wrappers. Sentences collapse on each other: "she walked into the/attach Screw 15 to Board C with hex wrench/fingers from the patient/starring Larry Hagman/love you to the end"

He wraps the book in the blanket. "Merry Christmas," Loki says with a laugh, because it's never going to be Christmas here. Even the Christ would not be seen dead in such a desolate dump.

Bartleby looks up from his hands, which he has spent the last month examining. "What?"

"Christmas. It's not, but what the fuck. Here." He makes Bartleby unwrap the present, shows him the book he made.

"I don't get it."

"I made it. For you. So you would have something to read."

He fidgets as his friend turns the pages. It's nonsense, and Bartleby is going to start shouting. "Never mind," he says, reaching for the book. "It's stupid."

Bartleby is faster, snatching it back. He reads out loud: "I sing the body twenty-four ninety-nine plus shipping, and God bless the child who's got I've never been here." He laughs. Loki scowls.

"It was a joke," he tries, grabbing again, but Bartleby keeps reading.

"Please mister new girl comes to visit, with Carol Channing." He grins at Loki. "It's cool. I like it."

"You do?"

"Sure. Very Dada. Thank you." He sits with the goofy book open. "You made this for me?"

Loki nods. "I thought, this place sucks. But it's something to do. For you. I've got stuff." He waves his hands at his toy army. Eternity is a fucking hole, but he has toys, and his best friend has a new book. Absently, Bartleby picks up the blanket again, setting it on his lap like a fucking napkin. Loki wants to snatch it back, but he gave that away too, didn't he? And it's making Bartleby happy, which is kind of a fucking miracle here.

So it's cool.

Bartleby begins quoting the book all the time. He climbs to the top of a trash pile with the blanket tucked in like Superman's cape. "I am the one who place the carriage nut in hand-crafted walnut stock!" He cracked up a while ago, but this is like the opposite, watching him come back to himself in song. Words are wings or some shit, railing in joy.

Armless Luke Skywalker karate-kicks melted Spider-Man, and Bartleby is singing his own body electric. An unmatched slipper makes a cool boat for Donatello, and Bartleby dreams of Jeannie.

The Metatron comes.

"What the fuck?" Loki asks, while His Voicyness glances around in disgust at their mess.

"I'm here for the blanket."

"Huh?" But Bartleby is striding over.

"Sifting through the refuse?"

The Metatron shrugs. "I have been informed there's grace here, even in the garbage."

Loki doesn't get it, but Bartleby shrugs off the baby blanket and self-importantly hands it over. The Metatron makes a face at how dirty the thing is, but with a wave, the dirt is gone. "Thank you."

"How do I say I'm sorry?" Bartleby asks, stupid book clutched in his hand like a drunkard's Bible. His voice is hoarse from reciting, from crying.

The Metatron glances at the blanket. "As a rule, you start with regret, and move into an honest desire to make amends. And a touch of grace never hurts."

"God banished us forever," Loki says. "That's like, forever."

This earns him a scornful look. "When we were given the gift of eloquence, you were busy sharpening your sword, weren't you?"

"The Glory of God and an all-star cast round out tonight's have you seen the tailor?" Bartleby reads.

"I like that one," Loki says.

The Metatron listens, though Loki's got the feeling he's not listening to the jagged poetry, but to something they can't hear. "Something to consider, boys. The enormity of God's wrath, which you may remember from when it was yours to mete out," he indicates Loki, "turns out to be miniscule in comparison to the enormity of God's love, and Her forgiveness." His pompous voice drops to a whisper. "I have a secret for you: at the end of all things, even Lucifer and the lost souls he keeps will be welcomed home again with fatted calves, should they learn humility and repentance. Do you think She loves you less?"

And he's gone.

Angels don't weep, whatever the poets claim. Rufus knows that, having spent way too much time among their number these past two thousand years. The dead are similarly incapable of the old tear-jerking (or any other jerking, because Heaven may be Heaven but it is not heavenly when it comes to sex, sorry to say). He shouldn't have any reason to cry, either. Beyond the veil of tears, as they say, and all his friends are here except Judas. It's a good gig.

He spends his eternity watching the fucked-up shit living humans get up to, and he praises God, and he enjoys the presence of The Man, and having done his bit back on Earth, he can only hope someone gets their ass in gear to fix those annoying little problems he's got with the written Word. As Heaven goes, he's happy.

But not everyone is.

Like a bad soap opera, Rufus has his favorite characters, and when they hurt, he hurts in sympathy. He watches Bethany on Earth with her new little girl. Their house is gone, Bethany's mother is driving her up the wall, and while she has friends, even her best friend is busy with her own life. As a storyline, it sucks to watch, and it's worse because he knows things are only going to get more difficult for her.

The Metatron comes to him as he's watching today's Bethany Show, at the end of another unsuccessful date and a night sure to be spent wondering if this will all be worth it. She's standing in the spare room of her mom's apartment looking at the secondhand crib, and she's crying.

"Can I go down there?" he asks Metatron, knowing the answer.

"No. The dead must stay dead, with very few notable exceptions. Your time is over, Apostle."

Rufus licks his lips, dry as an old desert. "She needs a friend."

The Metatron holds something, and carefully gives it to Rufus. "Then choose her the best friend you can think of. Is there no other you may have noticed missing of joy?"

The blanket's cute, lamb's wool and tenderness, and grace warming him to the tips of his bare toes. "Maybe I can."

He finds her at work in her own shop, tirelessly going over lines in the dreams of a new poet. "Serendipity?"

She looks at him. Her gorgeous face is drawn. "Apostle?"

"What are you working on?"

"Love poems." She glances down again. "He's going to revitalize the sonnet form, writing about the most beautiful woman he's never seen."

"You miss her."

Serendipity narrows her eyes, but confusion doesn't work. Angels don't weep, and they can't lie here. They can't fall in love, either, but Serendipity lived as mortal for a while; although she is no longer an Abstract, she doesn't fit her new wings any better. "I incarnated. When we met, I was human. Part of me always will be. I saw her again, and I can't think about anything else."

He hands her the blanket. "Did I ever tell you I met The Man's father once? Good man, that Joseph. Someone's always got to look after things."

She's not weeping, not yet, not quite human again just yet, but Serendipity embraces Rufus like her heart is breaking, or like it's finally mending. Sometimes they feel the same, he remembers. "Thank you."

The drive to work from her mother's place is over an hour each way. Bethany can't decide if she wants to ask for a transfer to the Schaumburg clinic, or if she wants to spend the time to find a new place, maybe in Grayslake for the schools. Mom called earlier to say she was taking Grace to the mall for the evening, and Beth is done. She's just done. Her stuff is all gone. Her friends are almost all gone. Even Liz has moved to California in order to get her screenplay adapted. The idiot protestors scream at her every day, noticing she's no longer pregnant and not bright enough to realize that means she gave birth.

So done.

She pulls into the parking lot at her mother's apartment building, and wonders if this will ever get better. She wonders if things will always be shit for her daughter, shit for herself, if that's what it means to be the next Mary. She sits in her car, praying without words, because the despair is overwhelming. She doesn't feel any better when she drags herself inside.

There's someone sitting on the floor in front of her mother's door. She can smell blood, and she sees in the corner a mess tidied hurriedly out of sight. Beth slows her steps, wondering if things just got worse. Then Serendipity looks up, and she smiles at her, one bloody feather left on her knee, and a baby blanket clutched in one hand.

"Hi," says the former angel. "This is awkward, but...."

"I missed you," Bethany says, reaching out to help her stand, and their arms go around each other like twins.

This is God, watching over all Her children. It's a well-known proverb that She answers all prayers, if sometimes with a "no," and a lesser known truth that She prefers a "yes, but." Her Daughter is safe and happy, for now. Bethany has the third option in lovers she once prayed for, and the Muse has found someone to inspire her. The Apostle has front row seats for the Greatest Show on Earth. Even Her two lost angels have each other, and for the first time in an epoch, She has allowed them hope for real forgiveness.

God smiles mysteriously, and the Metatron says, "Yes, yes, you're very pleased with yourself."

She beeps his nose, and gets back to Her work.