A/N: I love this scene from the film for its tenderness. And as I just adore the character of the Metatron, I wanted to explore it a little further (and to explain how he gets his coat back from Bethany, because she doesn't have it in the next scene). I hope you like it!

Water shimmers around my feet as cries of anguish split the night air. Born of hurt, sorrow, denial, fear, and lack of comprehension – why me? What did I do? Couldn't it have been someone else?

I've been through this before, and that wasn't exactly a picnic, either. "He can't hear you, you know," I say quietly, when she stops railing at the sky, at God. But I can hear her, and my heart goes out to her. Maybe I shouldn't have involved her in this, but that's the default plan, the failsafe, that God always leaves me with: Anything happens to me and the world's going to end, make contact with the Last Scion, say that it is my especial wish that this is a task entrusted to him or her. Give whatever guidance you see fit. I trust you, Metatron.

I wish I trusted myself half as much as God does, and I'm fighting blind on this one.

"That's why we needed you," I tell her, deciding that honesty is the best policy. I can't help being glad that it wasn't me who told her. It's been too much for her, tonight; she's struggling.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she sobs.

Because I didn't want to hurt you. And you'd have freaked out even worse then than you're doing now, if I'd tried. "Would you… Could you have believed me? It was something you had to come to gradually." I start walking towards her, the water sparkling in drops off my shoes. "Only after everything you've seen, everything you've heard, could you possibly be able to accept the truth."

She moves away from me, back to the bank. I can tell she's still crying. "I don't want this," she sobs. "It's too big."

I bite my lip, and make a snap decision. "That's what Jesus said. Yes, I had to tell him." Taking my coat off, and crouching down, I wrap her in my coat to keep her warm. It's a cold night, and the poor girl's soaked through and in shock. But she's calming, the longer I talk to her, so I keep on talking. "And you can imagine how that hurt the Father – not to be able to tell the Son Himself because one word from His lips would destroy the boy's frail human form? So I was forced to deliver the news to a scared child who wanted nothing more than to play with other children. I had to tell this little boy that He was God's only Son, and that it meant a life of persecution and eventual crucifixion at the hands of the very people He came to enlighten and redeem. He begged me to take it back – as if I could. He begged me to 'make it all not true'. And I'll let you in on something, Bethany, this is something I've never told anyone before... If I had the power, I would have."

It surprises me, even as I go on talking, that I've admitted that. Poor kid, twelve years old… it was so unfair. Unfair to Bethany, too – she didn't even have any divine powers to help her, just her brains and a few friends. Of course, that can get you an awfully long way, if your friends happen to include the thirteenth apostle, a heavenly muse, and the Voice of God. And a couple of 'prophets'; clearly God had been in a humorous mood when choosing those two, though they'd done pretty well to get this far. Quite impressive, actually, the way the quiet one dealt with the death-monger and the nutcase voyeur.

"This… is who you are," I finish by saying.

"Everything I am has been a lie."

"No, no no no," I tell her. "Knowing what you know now doesn't mean you're not who you were. You are Bethany Sloane; no one can take that away from you, not even God. All this means is a redefinition of that identity – the incorporation of this new data into who you are; be who you've always been. Just… be this as well. From time to time."

I smile sympathetically at her as she tries to smile at me.

"I guess this means no more cheating on my taxes."

I'm relieved to hear that little hint of her sense of humour returning, and no doubt it shows on my face. "To say the least," I tell her, and I can feel the atmosphere lightening as I smile.

She laughs a little, so I take it as a cue to get up, holding my hands out to her to help her; she gets up willingly, but she's still cold, and frightened, and lost.

"Look, do you mind if we adjourn to somewhere a tad more habitable? And a bit warmer?" I'm beginning to feel the cold, though as much as anything it's in sympathy. I snap my fingers, and we're in a warm room, a large, grand, station restaurant, soft music in the background. Bethany's clothes and hair are dry, and I thank my creator that, given that I usually appear in a pillar of flame, drying out one soggy female is child's play. As the others fall into their places at the table, I order hot drinks for them, in addition to the brandies already on the table. I figure it's the least I can do. It's a busy evening, so the order will take a while to come, but Bethany at least needs a hot drink, after the shock she's had.

We sit and talk, the five of us, going round and round in circles, but I keep an eye on the girl, just to see how well she's handling things. She's doing pretty well, all things considered.

When Rufus asks her if she's back on board, I raise my eyebrows and look at her pointedly.

She rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't want to let the family down, now would I?"

I make a sarcastic remark about the prophets, but I'm smiling, and can't quite hide it.

I'm hoping to slip away again unnoticed – I can't be away from Heaven, and the search for God, for too long, someone's got take charge, or there'll be mayhem – but while the others bicker about the best way to approach their discussion with Cardinal Glick, I notice that Bethany's edging a little closer to me. I raise an eyebrow in question, and get a rueful smile in response.

"Thanks," she says quietly, handing back my coat. "Not just for that, but for what you said earlier. It helped."

"Good."

"It made me realise... I'm not so alone as I sometimes feel."

I lean forward to her just a little, so there's no chance of the others overhearing us. "I promise you, you're never alone. Not really," I tell her. "I know you feel it. And I know tonight was hard on you."

"I'm sorry I lost it."

I reach one arm around her, comfortingly. "I won't tell if you won't," I say with a smile.

She laughs a little, dropping her head briefly on my shoulder. "Including about the taxes?"

I tap her on the nose. "God already knows, but I won't tip off the tax man."

"I really appreciate that." She sits back a little. Smiles. I smile back.

"Be seeing you," I say to her, motioning her to drink the hot chocolate that's just arrived for her. She nods, and gives me a grateful look, falling on the chocolate flake they've served with it as if she hadn't had chocolate in years. I think I made a good choice, there. Maybe in more ways than one. "Promise I won't tell a soul," I whisper, just before slipping away. I know she won't tell, either.

As I pull on my coat – which was always more for her benefit than mine – I reflect that it feels good to have given a little healing.