A/N: I know, I know, I know. Don't judge me. I don't control my muse, it dictates to me. Typos/spelling errors are entirely my fault, however.

Other than excuses, I'd just like to comment on the title/lyrics. I know that it's a political song, a lament for the American dream, and as someone fairly politically involved, I appreciate its beauty from that point of view. But as a teenager, my romanticism and hope still in tact, I think it's stunning in the love-story sense. Either way, it's a gorgeous song that I wholeheartedly suggest. (And yes, I did tweak the lyrics to better fit the plotline…this isn't exactly how the song goes.)

Reviews are love. :)

Flightless Bird

Have I found you, flightless bird?

Jealous, weeping.

Or have I lost you, flightless bird?

Grounded, bleeding.

-- Iron & Wine (Flightless Bird, American Mouth)

She'd never been one to overreact. She handled things as calmly as she could; stoically. She'd shed more than her fair share of tears in her lifetime, but she rarely allowed herself a full-scale breakdown. What she was feeling now was strange. It was an unsteadiness, a haziness. The room was filled with people and tasteful décor, but it wasn't cramped or overly warm – yet, her cheeks felt very warm. Her heart was pounding quickly in her chest; she could feel the beats throbbing in her neck and at her wrists. She didn't feel unwell, exactly…it was just that she couldn't stop thinking I have to get out of here.

She jumped a couple of inches off the ground when she felt a large, warm hand land on her bare shoulder.

Startled, she turned, placing a hand on her chest as if that alone could coax her heartbeat back to its normal cadence.

All the air left her lungs when she saw who was standing there. His classy black suit contrasted violently with the pink martini he held.

Said martini almost toppled from his hands as she flung her arms around him in a fierce, grateful hug. "You came," she whispered thankfully into his shoulder. She honestly hadn't expected him to make an appearance.

His hand rubbed soothing circles on her back and she felt his lips press against her temple. "Of course I am," he replied as though it was the only place in the world he could possibly be.

When they finally pulled away from one another, he kept one hand on her waist. "You alright?" he asked cautiously, taking in her glassy eyes and red cheeks.

Her lips twisted into a regretful smirk. "I feel like I can't be here."

He tugged her toward him again and she let him engulf her in a protective embrace. She rested her forehead against his chest, letting her curls fall in curtains on either side of her face as she resolutely blinked back tears.

"S'alright," he said, close to her ear, his voice deep and lullaby-like.

"No," she responded vehemently, so harshly that it shocked him. "I cannot break down right now."

She felt safer, tucked into his arms, so she stayed there, hiding from the stifling atmosphere and the sight of the rock hard mahogany chairs that no one wanted to sit in. She concentrated on taking deep breaths. The air stung her throat as she struggled to fill in lungs.

In and out.

"Where's Allie?" she asked softly, suddenly realizing that the little girl was not with either of her parents. Instinctive panic rose within her, choking her as she gasped for breath once more.

"Baby-sitter," he answered, his tone of voice steady and even; he was trying to comfort her in whatever way he could.

Another hand came to rest on her back. "Hey, are you okay?" the male voice attached to the hand asked.

She straightened up and glanced over her shoulder to where Nathan stood. She opened her mouth to reply and then paused. Her mind was blank. "What was the question?"

His eyes were shrouded by the solemn mood that encompassed them all. There had been a couple moments that morning at which she'd thought she might faint, and she'd wanted it. She craved the loss of consciousness, the sense of relief, the momentary loss of memory.

She realized that, again, she'd missed Nathan's words. "Nate, I'm sorry…what?"

He shook his head and glanced over her head at the man that still held her close. "Why don't you two go upstairs? Just take a minute."

"I'm fine," she responded automatically, complete with the gracious, sympathetic smile that had always accompanied those words in recent days.

"Honey…" The arms around her retracted and she turned back to their owner, frowning. The fact that he'd just called her honey was setting off alarm bells in her already frazzled mind. He took her hand in his. "Look at you. You're trembling."

Nathan spoke up again, still looking over her head. "It's…good that you came, man," he said gruffly, reluctantly.

He nodded in acknowledgement. "If only…"

Both men nodded at the sentiment, which was both compulsory and heartfelt, before they looked at the ground.

"C'mon." She found herself following him up the ornate staircase. When they reached the top, she noticed that he was still holding his martini.

"Why do you still have that?" she demanded impulsively. "It's disgusting."

"Oh…good." He set it down on the sill of a window. "It really is, I just…I thought it would be disrespectful."

She wrapped her arms around herself and paced into the nearest room. It was a boardroom, built for small conferences – one of many over the auditorium they had gathered in.

"This place is pretty spectacular," he commented lightly, whistling softly, as though he'd read her mind.

"Yeah…" she said as she turned back. Meeting his eyes, she said firmly, "It's perfect."

He understood her meaning perfectly and clearly. "It is," he agreed with a nod.

Her heart was still pounding at a tempo faster than its norm. Carefully, she perched on the windowsill and pressed a hand to her chest. "Talk to me," she begged.

Again, he asked, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, not wishing to share any of the details in her spiraling mind with him, not right now. He knew her, better than almost anyone, but even he couldn't understand. "I just need you to talk to me about…something, something else. I can't…I feel like I can't calm down." It felt like her muscles were shaking.

He walked over to her, nothing but worry in his eyes. He cupped one hand over hers, the one on her chest, and pressed the other to her flushed cheek. "I think you're having a panic attack," he mused.

She didn't want a diagnosis, she wanted a distraction. "Please," she begged, "just talk to me."

He backed off and nodded in agreement and she leaned back against the window, letting the chilled glass cool her skin. She let her eyes flutter closed.

"Allie knows all the words to American Pie now," he offered, and she could hear the amusement and pride in his voice, fighting for control.

She smiled in spite of herself. "Of course she does."

"That kid's got some seriously strange music taste," he continued, easing into the conversation topic. "I walked past the door when she was in the bath the other day and heard her singing Amazing Grace. Two hours later she's bouncing around the living room belting out Gym Class Heroes."

"Her taste is varied," she replied without hesitation. "It's a good thing. Besides, she's barely six years old."

"My point exactly," he countered, gently and playfully. "When I was six I was picking out Heart and Soul on the keyboard and singing Oh, Susanna, not listening to twenty different genres of modern music. I feel upstaged," he joked.

She opened her eyes and grinned, though she tried to stifle it. "I cannot picture you singing Oh, Susanna."

"Oh, but I did," he replied, grinning back. "I still sing it now," he continued teasingly. "Y'know, when I'm trying to score. Sexy song."

Had she had anything in her hands to throw at him, she would have, but instead she simply covered her face with her hands and mumbled, "You are such a pervert."

When she dropped her hands, the mirth had left his eyes and he was studying her carefully. "Are you feeling better?"

"I can breathe again, if that's what you mean."

He stood from the table he'd been half-sitting on and approached her again. "You'll get through it," he said gently. "You can survive anything."

She bit down on one side of her bottom lip, looking up at him vulnerably. "But it's not fair that I have to."

His facial expression melted into one of complete sympathy, shedding all usual bravado, as he reached out and cupped her cheek tenderly in his hand. "I know," he murmured.

"I don't…want to hurt anymore," she admitted quietly as though it were a treasured secret.

Joining her on the window sill, he asked, "Have you been, prior to this? Hurting?"

She shook her head, wishing she had phrased things more accurately. "I've been happy, you know that. It's just that…it seems to come in waves, and they always seem to hit me when I'm down." She shook her head yet again, her curls whacking against her shoulders as she waved her hands vaguely as if physically trying to clear the air. "I'm a mess. Don't listen to me. I'm tired and…grieving and just…" She cracked a halfhearted smile. "Why don't you say something inappropriate and irritating so that I can laugh?"

"There's no escape, babe. You know that."

She blew out her breath, unable to help pouting a bit. "Yeah. I do."

His hand slipped deep into her loose curls, fingers finding their way to the nape of her neck and massaging lightly. "Do I need to worry about you?" he asked seriously.

"No," she said instantly, brushing off his words. "No."

"Okay…" He made a face, similar to the ones he employed when being silly with six-year-old Allie. "I think I might anyway."

She rolled her eyes, but sighed. She leaned on him, resting her head against his shoulder.

His arm slipped around her with natural ease, tugging her just a little bit closer. "You know I'm always here for you. And…"

She sat up abruptly, silencing him by pressing her index finger against his lips. "I know. And that's enough. You're here, and that means a lot. You don't need to say anything else mushy," she added with the ghost of a smile. "You can go back to your jackass persona whenever you want. I'm fine."

Despite his nodding and his brief smile, she could tell by the way his eyes were searching hers that he didn't believe her. Still, she didn't look away. If he could see deeply enough to realize exactly what she was going through, she would be happy to let someone in.

He tucked a finger under her chin gently, lifting her face up a bit. She watched him warily, waiting for him to speak, to tell her that she needed someone to take care of her. That was the general message she'd been getting lately, not so much from words but rather the worry etched into everyone's faces.

He didn't speak, nor did he judge her with his cerulean eyes. Instead, he leaned in, and before her tired mind had time to comprehend what was happening, his lips were pressed gently against hers.

It was a familiar kiss. She knew that to most the man she sat with now didn't radiate trustworthy qualities or any air of safety, but that's exactly what he was to her. She knew him better than most people. He was her one true love to date. She melted into him, against his lips – just for a minute, just for long enough to find her sanity again.

When they broke for oxygen neither one of them pulled back. She rested her forehead wearily against his, breathed an inaudible thank you, and let herself stay there for a moment, safe in the moment as his hands cradled her neck and back and his breath mingled with hers.

Her eyes drifted after a couple minutes, glancing through the frost-tinted window out into the gardens behind the auditorium, which had the atmosphere of a winter wonderland, everything coated in sugar-powder snow.

The wind was bitter and brisk; none of the guests had dared to venture outside. A lone figure was there, sitting on the bench, so still that she momentarily mistook him for a statue. Without clearly thinking about it, him or herself or the decision she was making, she was on her feet and moving toward the door.

"Wha…wait!" the confused man behind her called, standing from the window sill. "What're you…"

Even as she turned to speak to him, she continued walking backward toward the exit. She couldn't explain her sudden need to get out there, but it was present, and she was powerless against it. "I have to go. I…"

"Peyton," he pleaded; his voice was strong, but it was still a request. He frowned. "Please, stay." His voice took on that tender quality she knew he used only with certain people, and that she was privileged to be one of them. "Let me take care of you."

"I can't," she whispered regretfully, and turned away again.

He was faster than her – she had shaking legs and weak ankles in her heels – and he hurried forward, grasping her hand.

"Let me," she said simply, not even bothering to add the 'go'.

He didn't protest a second time – he was smarter than that. Instead, he shrugged off his suit jacket and held it out to her. He didn't bother with a full sentence, either; said nothing more than, "At least."

She accepted it delicately, tried for a smile, and raced out of the room and down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her.

She walked toward him cautiously. It was freezing cold – her feet were already numb – but she marched on nonetheless. He didn't look up or acknowledge her presence, but she knew that he knew that she was approaching him.

Suddenly, and maybe stupidly, she wondered how she looked. Somewhere on the stairs a couple tears had dripped out of her eyes, no doubt taking her mascara with them. Her skin felt dry and stretched out from too many smiles, and she suspected her carefully done curls were hanging loosely down her back. She dress was simple and pretty, but it was without sleeves, and she'd cuddled into the suit jacket to help ward off the chill.

In short, she probably wasn't looking too gorgeous at that exact moment, but she couldn't think of a good reason for either of them to care.

She was relieved when he spoke first, right after she sat next to him, shuddering from the feeling of the starkly cold bench against her legs, bare under her knee-length dress.

"Hey," he said.

She expelled a breath. "Hey, Luke," she replied, just as softly and respectfully.

They were friends, she knew. She'd never questioned it. But his subtle animosity toward the man whose blazer she currently wore, distance, and time, had broken their closeness in the years after high school. They still saw each other, at least a handful times a year, but they hadn't reached out to one another in quite a while.

"It's kinda cold," she remarked. Stating the obvious, she knew, but it was a start.

"Yeah," he agreed with a sigh, and pulled off his suit jacket, draping it over her, adding an extra layer. She would have protested, but she still knew him well enough to know that it wouldn't have done any good. He was a gentleman. He continued, "I guess I just…wanted to get away from that. Drunk people with empty words."

"I know what you mean about empty words," she agreed softly. "But Lucas, trust me, no one in there is drunk. That drink tastes awful. You know that."

He smirked a little and she was proud of herself for coaxing even a semblance of a smile from him. "Yeah, I do. And she did, too."

She let a small smile grace her chapped lips, too. "Most popular and sweetest liquor, a touch of pink dye, served in a martini glass because it 'looked pretty'."

"The Brooke Davis," he agreed with a sigh and a nod.

"I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment of silence had passed. Empty, obligation-filled words from almost anyone else, hers were different, packed with sincerity. "How are you doing?"

"Not so great," he admitted; his words sounded heavy. "It doesn't really feel…real." He eyed her for a moment before returning, "And you?"

"Pretty much the same. I…I could have twenty of those drinks and I wouldn't feel as numb as I do now." Confusion and anguish convoluted her mind, and she ended up blurting, "How did we get here?"

"Complications with an ectopic pregnancy," he said gruffly, bitterly, mournfully. He sounded like he should have been downing an entire glass of scotch with those words.

"I can't…tell you how sorry I am, Lucas," she said earnestly. "You had happily ever after right in front of you," she choked out, surprised by the sob that had suddenly lodged itself in her throat.

"No such thing," he countered gently, "but we were pretty close." He paused, closing his eyes momentarily. "I loved her."

She bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent the sob from escaping. "I know you did," she said when she thought it was safe to speak. "I know you did. I did, too. She was my best friend."

"I don't…" He paused, as if unsure whether he should tell her what he was going to say. She let her eyes probe into his, and finally, he said, "I don't even know what it's really like to love anyone else. We've been together since high school."

Nodding, she thought of her own romance. Lucas' story was familiar to her.

"So, I guess I…I don't have the answer, Peyton. I'm not trying to be…I don't mean anything by it. I know you loved her as much as I did, and that you'll miss her as much. But I don't know how we got here. I can't help you."

"I don't expect you to have that answer," she said quietly, comfortingly, and he glanced over at her in surprise. "I meant…is it selfish?" she questioned rhetorically. "I meant…you…and me."

"O-oh," he stuttered out, looking taken aback.

She instantly felt guilty. "Forget it," she said immediately, heat rising to her cheeks, tingling and numb from the cold. "That was selfish; it was horrible of me to ask. Forget it."

"Stop," he chided her, much like he had back then, back in high school, when she'd be self-deprecating. Can never take a compliment, this girl, he used to say. She'll probably never learn. And then, just to tease her, he'd call her beautiful, intelligent, stunning, an amazing artist…anything he could think of just to make her blush.

"But it is," she whispered, clarifying: "Selfish. It's just as though…you're the only person who can really understand how hard it is to breathe right now, to be…in there," she said, gesturing to the building. "I asked because I feel like…I need you, and that's…not right. I mean, God, when was the last time we had a real conversation?"

"This…is more real than any conversation I've had in days," he muttered, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "Trust me."

"I knew her forever," she murmured, more to herself, to the snow, than to him.

"She was my forever," he returned, just as much to his own self.

Tears clouded her vision, swimming in her eyes and freezing in her lower lashes. She chanced a glance over at him and found that his eyes – beautiful, expressive eyes – were glistening, too.

"Oh, Luke," she whispered, and gathered him into his arms. His ice-cold arms closed around her and his chilly cheek rested against the smallest bit of skin that had been exposed at her clavicle. She felt his shoulders shake, and gently ran her hand up and down his arm soothingly, holding him tenderly, much like she would a child.

She cast her eyes toward the skin, hoping that would help to stem the flow of tears. The sun peeked cautiously through a couple grey clouds, as if wondering when it would be safe to come out again.

Peyton sniffled, glancing back down as the sun stung her eyes, and rested her cheek against Lucas' eyes. The world was a weird and mysterious place, as were the people that occupied it. It turned out that she wasn't in need of someone to take care of her.

She'd needed to watch over someone else.