A/N: I was inspired by this lovely post on tumblr where a weeping angel falls in love with a human. This was written late on a school night, because I was having writing urges that could not be surpressed. It may not be very good, since I took about only an hour. Hope you enjoy though.

I am open to constructive criticism. Please.

"He's so beautiful,"she thought, reaching out her hands, aching, dying to touch him, to stroke his hair, to hold him in her arms. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Suddenly the boy turned, and she froze. His face looked strong, with chiseled features and an angular jaw. His eyes, the deepest, warmest green she had ever seen, flecked with gold, stared back into her own stony grey ones, and his hair was the colour of polished gold.

He stared at her for a while, in her petrified state, squinting his eyes, and she almost felt as if he could see right through her; pick apart every single detail, read every single memory. Felt as though he knew her, completely understood her, possibly even better than she knew or understood herself.

But in the end, he only sighed, tilting his head to the side.

"Gorgeous statue," he said aloud to himself. "You can almost feel her pain, and suffering, and loss, and oh Christ," he stopped himself, pressing a finger to his temple. "Christ, just listen to yourself, Daniel. You sound like an idiot." He sighed once more, then walked away, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

The weeping angel unfroze then. She watched him walk away slowly, thinking if she had a heart, it would surely be breaking by now.

She, like most of her kind, didn't have a name.

This never bothered her much, since she'd never actually needed one. Weeping angels were mainly solitary creatures, although quite a few enjoyed hunting in packs. But that was all there was to their relationships; hunt, kill, devour. If there was a God, he would condemn them to hell. "These are not angels," he would say. "These are animals, these are beasts."

Beasts are incapable of conscience thought. Beasts do not feel. Beasts do not love. Yet standing there, watching her golden haired boy walk away from her, she was certain she felt something. Something deep down, in the very pit of her stomach. Something stirring. She wanted this boy, wanted him bad. Wanted nothing more than to hold him and to touch him and to … love him? Love. What a strange, new concept. Angels do not love. Angels hunt, angels kill, angels devour. Humans love, and it makes them weak. Angels do not love.

The angel drew her hands up to her face, resuming her weeping position. And there she stood, in the garden, weeping.

And she wept, all day and night, until the boy came back again.

She wasn't expecting for him to come back. Especially not at midnight. She'd never dared to go after him. She was too afraid she's scare him away. So she waited. She waited for 3 months, exactly. She remembered. She'd spent those 3 months counting. Counting and weeping.

The boy was weeping as well, when he came. His hard face had softened, and his cheeks were glossy with tears. His golden hair had remained the same, although it was longer now, and messier than last time. He stood infront of the statue, gasping and sobbing, but never once glancing away. She wished he would though. She wanted to smile at him, reassure him. Anything to stop him from crying. It pained her to see him in such a state.

And then he blinked. And in that moment, she forgot. She forgot how fragile, how breakable, he was, and she forgot how strong, how destructive she could be, and in that moment, she broke him. In that moment her cold fingers came into contact with his warm skin, and in that moment, he vanished.

At first, there was nothing. Nothing but a deep numb sensation. And then it hurt. Everything hurt.

"Surely," she thought, "I must have a heart. For I can feel it breaking. Shattering like broken glass."

A group of people, dressed in black, gathered around the newly dug grave. An old lady stood nearest, hand covering her mouth, weeping. Slowly, they lowered the dark brown casket. Amongst the trees, a weeping angel watched.

1945. That was the year she had sent him back to. He had gotten married, had children, lived a good long life. He was 88 when he died.

She was glad that he found happiness in his new life. But she could still feel the loss and the pain, and every once and a while, she still felt yearning. Yearning for that boy with the golden hair and the deepest, warmest green eyes she had ever seen.

So she stood by his grave for the rest of time, guarding him, as an angel would.