Disclaimer: I don't own them, don't sue.

Author's note: I wrote this for Day of the Dead, 2006. Because I wrote one for it last year. And it's been a rough one this year, but I think sometimes we all need to be reminded that when we remember those who have moved on that we haven't lost them. They're always with us.

The girl at the coffee shop still gives her two cups every morning. The coffee at the station, especially early in the morning, tended to taste burnt and dusty with the dregs of what the night shift had left behind. Natalie had gotten into the habit of going across the street every morning when she and John pulled up to the station. He was usually so eager to pick up where he'd grudgingly left off the night before that he'd head straight to his office while Natalie went to get their last cups of decent coffee for what would likely be at least fourteen hours. The smiling girl behind the counter knew her by sight now and started preparing two large cups of black coffee before she even made it to the register.

Either the girl had never known who the second cup was for or she just didn't watch the news. At any rate, Natalie can't bring herself to correct the order so she carries the second cup out of the shop and deposits it in the trash can outside. Half the time she throws both cups away.

He took coffee away from her. She can't get any pleasure from it anymore; it reminds her too much of him. It's not just the memories of every cup they shared—there's something about John that was always like coffee. Dark and mysterious but also warm and familiar. Inviting.

Coffee isn't the only joy he took from her. She can't talk about her sister's impending wedding without remembering that the engagement ring on her finger, unlike Jessica's, is essentially meaningless. She has no wedding to plan. She can't play with her niece or new godson without thinking about the children she and John will never have. And sometimes she hates him for everything he took from her when he left.

The dead man tries to speak. He never knew how much movement was involved in forming a single word until every movement hurt. First he has to inhale which causes his ribs to spread, stretching the charred skin that's so desperately trying to heal, cracking the scabs, letting fluid seep out which stings the skin all over again. Then the mere vibration of his vocal chords causes friction between the tender muscle and skin in his neck and the layers of gauze which are supposed to protect him. Whatever protection they provide, they also cause more pain than he ever thought possible. And finally, he has to force his blistered lips to form the words so that it will come out as more than a guttural moan.

He has to make each word count so he says the only one that matters. Her name.

"Natalie."

It's the desperate cry of a tortured soul begging for his angel. And there's no response. There never is.

The ground on top of his grave is soft, she thinks as she sinks down to her knees. Absurdly she's tempted to lie down and go to sleep. And the thought of sleeping once more beside him, as close as she can be to resting her head on his chest, is strangely comforting. Instead she stares at the marker and the ground below and tries to grasp the fact that John's down there. She can't.

She should have forced Bo to let her see the body. Maybe then she could believe. Because it just doesn't seem possible that the man who dug her out twice when she was buried alive could just be resting under the earth.

Sometimes she finds it hard to believe in heaven. Everyone tells her that's where he is. With his father. With Caitlyn, she thinks, unable to stop the pang of jealousy the thought provokes. But how can he be in heaven when he still seems to be here? When she feels him touch her as she sleeps? Hears his voice asking her for help? Maybe that's the ultimate proof she's gone crazy—when did John ever ask for help?

Sometimes she finds it hard to believe in death itself. No one in her life seems to stay dead for long. So death has almost lost all meaning.

Sometimes, when the medicine is fully in effect and he's totally numbed out he forgets how much it hurts. He can't believe that pain that he remembers actually exists. Pain that in his memory seems like something that must be out of a horror novel or a nightmare. It couldn't possibly be real.

And sometimes he thinks that about his very life. He wonders if any of it is really possible. If a wounded little boy could actually track down his father's murderer after twenty-five years. If he could move to a tiny little town and find that the woman of his dreams had grown up only blocks away from him. If he could destroy that girl's life over and over again and still find out that she loved him for some unfathomable reason. It has to be fiction.

Whatever his life had been before, he suspects maybe he really is dead. Just like everyone thinks. Because what could this possibly be but hell?

Her nephew Duke is dead. She gets that. Feels that. Senses that he's gone. But John's presence hasn't gone anywhere. He could be in the next room, just across town…

Yesterday while talking to Vincent she heard him, as clearly as though he were standing over her shoulder. He asked her to wait for him—now that was more like John. John who had to know she'd always wait on him. John who had silently asked her to wait on him for years while he coped with his grief over Caitlyn, his mess with Evangeline, and his torment over his father's murder. She'd have waited on him forever. But in the end he was the one who couldn't wait on her.

He knows people have been here. Been and gone. Through the drugs and the pain he can't be certain what was real and what was dream. Truman was here once; it seems like a long time ago. And that must have been a nightmare, just his subconscious dreaming up the one thing that could make this worse. He thought Michael was here once but he kept calling him Hugh. He can't remember ever being called that before. But that seems to be what everyone's determined to call him.

Was he on some sort of undercover assignment he can't remember? Are they all just playing along? Or did the world forget who he was already?

Or maybe they're torturing him now that he's too weak to torture himself. Maybe that's why everyone's so determined to call him by another man's name and why, no matter how many times he says her name, they won't bring Natalie to him.

Sometimes he sees her. Not with his eyes, but he sees her nonetheless. Sees her crying, calling out for him, but she won't listen to his replies. It's so real. It's just like he knew she was alive even after all those weeks when Barber had her. His pulse starts racing at the thought that maybe someone has her again, maybe that's why she can't come.

And a nurse comes running in, summoned by the alarms that mark every change in his vital signs. And she gives him another dose of something and he can't even think anymore.

His headstone glows in the moonlight. She knows it's just a reflection of ambient light but the light seems to be coming from within. Just like John, she thinks. He always had that that light, that fire inside, no matter how dark he could get on the exterior. A lot of people didn't see it, just thought he was morose. Brooding. And he was, but that wasn't all he was.

She hears it again. His voice calling her name. She puts her hands to her ears to drown him out but the voice only gets stronger. And then she feels something else. A tug. A pull inside her chest like someone's yanking her backwards. Away from his grave and back towards her car.

Fine. She's tired of fighting it. Whether this is John's spirit or her own subconscious or the final step towards lunacy she decides to follow it. What's the worst that could happen? The worst has already happened.

She drives on instinct with no idea where she's headed, but certain of each turn she makes, until she finds herself in the parking lot of a hospital. Climbing out of her car, she looks around, unsure what to do next. And then a breeze catches hold of her. Caresses her like a lover, tousling her hair, teasing her nipples already erect from the cold. It takes her a moment to realize what's so peculiar about it but then it hits her—it smells like him. For a second she closes her eyes and lets herself get lost in the memory of those nights with her head buried in the crook of his neck. The warm smell of his skin.

Then gives in to the tugging in her chest and lets it lead her into the hospital. She might have spent all night trying to figure out why she was there if she hadn't run into Paige in the lobby.

"Natalie?" She asks in surprise, "Are you here to see Hugh?"

Of course. Hugh's still in the hospital here. "Yeah," Natalie says, "I guess so."

"The burn unit's on the second floor," Paige says with that pitying smile everyone gives her these days, "I'm glad someone will be with him. I'm just going out for a moment. Your uncle keeps fussing at me to get more fresh air."

Natalie knows she should say something in response, but the pull is getting more urgent and she's starting to get anxious. She doesn't understand it, but she knows she needs to get to Hugh's room so she forces a smile and says, "I'll see you later."

She walks to the burn unit as fast as she can without attracting attention. Finding his room is easy enough, there aren't many patients there. She looks inside and tries not to shudder at the sight before her which looks a little too much like something from a horror film.

He's dreaming again. Floating away on the river of pain suppressant the nurse just administered. But at least this time it's a good dream, he thinks at the sight of the angel peering in his window. It can't be real. Just his subconscious bringing out what he wants to see.

She walks in the room, draped in yellow film, and starts talking. Through the haze of the drugs he can't make sense of what she's saying, but he tries to respond anyway. The pain is dulled enough that he could fight through it to talk if he could remember how to speak. Once again he tries to force the air from his lungs over his vocal cords and out his mouth. And he can't be sure, but he thinks he says her name.

She stops short mid-sentence. She can't remember what she was saying and it was small talk anyway. Did he just make a sound?

She walks closer and stares disbelieving. But she can't deny what just happened.

Hugh Hughes is speaking with the voice of a dead man.

No. This isn't real. It's just her imagination making it happen because she wants it so bad. It did this before, and she was wrong before. But he says her name again and it's not just the voice but the tone. It's not the way he'd say her name at work or even when they were playing pool; it's the tender, secret way he used to say it when they were all alone and wrapped around each other.

"John?" she whispers as a tear rolls down her cheek.

There are so many things he wants to tell her. Things she needs to hear. But he can't manage to get them out and so instead he repeats the phrase he's been saying to everyone that none of them seemed to understand.

"It's me."

Natalie understands it; of course she does. She always understood him better than he liked to admit. She sits down beside him, tears streaming down her face. "It is, isn't it? I should have known. I should have known you'd never leave me."

He loves her and he thinks she knows that. And he'll tell her as soon as he can. But for now he lets himself relax into that sea of numbness. Secure that his angel is here to rescue him from hell once more.

Fin.

"The ones who love us never leave us"