If I could begin to be
Half of what you think of me
I could do about anything
I could even learn how to love
-Love Like You, Rebecca Sugar

Going to the movies seemed to thaw their relationship some, relaxing a tension Kate hadn't noticed until it disappeared. She still searched for a way home, but now restricted her research to a few hours every day. To pass the rest of the time, she tried to pretend she was on vacation and just enjoy herself. She slept late, watched crappy movies, and drank more wine than she really should. The hotel had a gym, empty at almost all hours of the day, where she was able to exercise and even relax in a hot tub. Kate wondered, vaguely, how the hotel managed to stay open with so few guests passing through it.

Often, though, she would still find herself in Metatron's rooms. She'd poke through the stacks and stacks of books, which appeared to be in no particular order, looking for something to read, or bother Metatron by asking his opinion on some book or movie or another.

That is, Metatron made a show of being bothered. Kate suspected he secretly liked those little talks. She supposed he wasn't much used to having someone to talk to, let alone someone interested in his opinion on things, for all that he'd like to give it. The people of the Two Rivers tribe, though they delivered books to Metatron, seemed wary of him. There was no real relationship there. But Kate was a willing ear, and Metatron was more than happy to talk.

One evening in May, Kate curled up in an armchair and attempted to struggle through one of the many Shakespeare plays she'd only faked reading in high school. Occasionally she'd ask Metatron what a particular word or line meant, and he'd absentmindedly explain it to her. Eventually his distraction distracted Kate in turn, and she looked up from the text to find Metatron staring ponderously at the mess they'd made of the wall. Particularly the end. His part.

That couldn't be good.

"Metatron?" He glanced at her to show he was listening. Kate couldn't read the look on his face. "Is something wrong?"

He turned, hands in his pockets, and stared at Kate like she was a particularly difficult puzzle. "Why do you trust me?"

Kate frowned. "I don't, really."

Metatron tsk'ed impatiently. "You know what I mean."

"Why did I trust you with this information when it could be so dangerous in your hands, you mean?" Metatron nodded, watching her closely. Kate sighed, looking up at the ceiling and wondering how to put it into words.

"There was this scene. After your grace was stolen, and you'd been human for a while." Kate glanced at Metatron to see if he was following, and had to look away from the peculiar look on his face. "You were struggling. Hungry. Digging in a dumpster for scraps. You finally found a sandwich, and you were overjoyed. Relieved. But then, right as you were going to take a bite, this dog whined. Begging for food. And you stopped, and you looked at the dog, knowing that he was hungry, how he felt, because you felt it. And even though you were still hungry, you took the meat from the sandwich and fed it to the dog."

Kate looked away from the ceiling to gage Metatron's reaction to the anecdote. He looked frustrated, almost angry. When he caught her eye he said insistently, "But I'm not that person."

Something in his voice sounded just a little broken, and Kate frowned thoughtfully. "No, you're not. But I think you could be." Metatron seemed to shrink a little at her words. "What brought this on, anyway?"

Metatron watched Kate a moment longer before turning and tapping a notecard pinned to the wall. "Dean Winchester goes to Hell."

Kate swallowed loudly, and Metatron shot her a grim look. It was beginning.

As long as everything went according to plan, they had about four months to kill before the road to the Apocalypse really started. Dean was in Hell now, sure, but angels wouldn't really get involved on Earth until he broke and Castiel raised him up. After that, she and Metatron would have to watch the proceedings closely. For now, it was the calm before the storm.

A week after Dean went to Hell, Metatron had tossed an amulet on a chain at her. Not expecting the assault, Kate watched the thing bounce off her forehead and into her lap. Metatron snickered quietly before sobering. "Put that on."

Kate lifted the necklace to examine it, tilting her head curiously. It was a simple leather cord with a small medallion about the size of a quarter, made of some wood she couldn't identify and covered in tiny, strange symbols. "What is it?"

"Extra protection." He eased himself into his chair and reached for his latest book. "Sam Winchester has been scrying for you."

"What?" Kate straightened immediately. "How? Why?"

Metatron rolled his eyes at her. He did this often enough that Kate was no longer offended, though. By this point the action was almost fond. "With magic, and because in the short time you spoke to the Winchesters, you A. said you were from the future, and B. clearly knew both of them. He's trying everything to get his brother back, including looking for you."

Kate cursed, looking at the wall. "I hope this doesn't mess anything up."

"No offense, but I doubt you're that important," Metatron said dismissively. "Just put the necklace on."

Kate obeyed, but she wasn't happy about it.

At some point Metatron grew tired of her lack of appreciation for his literary references and began giving her books to read instead of letting her select her own. Kate didn't much mind, as it saved her the trouble of sifting through the dangerously tall stacks of books. She wasn't sure how Metatron managed to retrieve what he wanted without toppling the stacks like a Jenga tower, but she was beginning to suspect angel magic was involved.

Some of the books he gave her she happily read. Others she trudged through reluctantly, and still more she refused to read outright.

"You won't read Frankenstein," he'd said in disbelief when she'd handed the book back to him after reading only one chapter. "It's a classic!"

Kate wished she could read it, too, but the writing was too dense and dated for her to enjoy. "I'll stick to Young Frankenstein, I think. Shelley's writing is too flowery. It's unreadable."

Most of the time, Metatron would accept her rejection of his selections with a judging grumble, a roll of his eyes, and a new book to read. Rarely, as was the case with Frankenstein, he would purse his lips and narrow his eyes and press a hand to her forehead, beaming the book in its entirety straight into her head. This always gave Kate a headache, but she would sooner take the headache than the hassle of poring over dull writing for hours, so she accepted the knowledge with grace.

In a way, she found it nice that Metatron took the time to do these things for her. Despite their vast differences, in age, and knowledge, and species, there were times when she talked with Metatron over one aspect of a story or some literary trope she'd noticed that she felt less like a reluctant partner he put up with and more like a friend.

After their first foray to the movie theater hadn't wrought any disastrous effects, Metatron was more willing to give in to Kate's suggestions of going out to the theater. To Metatron, these were new stories. To Kate, they were throwbacks to movies she'd enjoyed nearly a decade ago. Still, she enjoyed re-watching, and watching Metatron watch them for the first time.

One day, when they'd arrived early in the theater to ensure good seats for a showing of Burn After Reading, a couple who looked to be on a date scooted past them, fingers intertwined. Metatron scowled, crossing his arms and huddling into the seat. It was a more overt expression of distaste toward humanity than Metatron had ever expressed in front of Kate, and she raised an eyebrow at him curiously. He caught the look immediately, and his jaw worked silently for a moment before he spoke.

"These people think I'm your father," he grumbled, gesturing vaguely at the dozen other movie-goers scattered through the theater.

Kate blinked, momentary surprise at the casual telepathy he was exercising distracting her from his words at first. When she processed his words, she frowned, unsure why that would matter, let alone warrant Metatron's sulking. "Does that bother you?" Then she added, jokingly, "You're more than old enough."

Metatron shot her a short glare, muttered something about his vessel that Kate didn't quite catch, and sulked as the lights went down.

On a bright day in mid-August, Kate stumbled into Metatron's room, already drunk at four in the afternoon. Metatron raised an eyebrow as Kate dodged the stacks of books clumsily, lacking the grace she'd acquired with experience navigating his labyrinth.

"Are you drunk?"

Kate nodded, collapsing into the unoccupied armchair with a lazy smile. "Yep."

Metatron's lips pulled up at one corner, a bemused half-smile. "May I ask why?"

Kate sighed, closing her eye contentedly. "Celebrating."

Metatron blinked. Kate opened her eyes and could see the cogs turning in his mind as he tried to come up with some reason why and coming up blank. "Celebrating what?"

"I'm 28," Kate informed him seriously.

Metatron stared at her. "So?"

Kate scoffed disbelievingly at him. "So, yesterday I was only 27."

"Oh, now I understand," Metatron said in a mocking tone that Kate knew, even in her drunken state, meant he did not understand.

She scoffed again. "You angels have no appreciation for birthdays. Probably 'cause you're too old…" Kate sat up a little, realizing something absurd. "Oh my God, you're older than birthdays." The notion that Metatron and the other angels were older than any human calendar, and therefore the concept of birthdays, was for some reason incredibly funny to her. After a good few minutes of laughter, Kate's chuckles trailed off and she sighed, looking morose.

Metatron eyed her cautiously, wary of the sudden change in mood. "What's wrong with you now?"

Kate grunted and re-arranged herself so she could curl up in the chair, grasping her knees with her arms and resting her head on them. "It just hit me that I'll probably never see my family again." Metatron looked uncomfortable at this declaration. Kate wondered if he thought she was going to cry. She wasn't. The idea inspired a sort of melancholy longing, not a sharp pain. She wondered if it would grow or fade over time. "I only saw them a few times a year, anyway, but we always made time to get together on birthdays."

Metatron looked speculatively between the book he'd been reading before Kate entered and Kate herself. Finally he put the book away, folded his hands on his knees, and nodded at her expectantly. "Tell me about them."

Kate eyed him uncertainly. She didn't think he'd be particularly interested in her life in her own world, but she supposed a story was a story. She shrugged.

"Well, there's my Dad, my brother, my mother, and me," Kate said, then added, "And now my brother's wife and kids."

"Is your brother older or younger?" Metatron's voice was patient, but he did sound interested in the answer, which relieved Kate.

"Older by a year." Kate smiled fondly. "When we were little everyone thought we were twins."

"You're close, then," Metatron said, and Kate furrowed her brow at… something in his voice. Longing, maybe? She was too inebriated to dwell on it, so she dismissed it.

"Not really. Not anymore." She shrugged at Metatron's raised eyebrow. "There's no interesting story, there. I moved farther from home, Mark got married. Life goes on. We still love each other, but his life is… domesticity, and work, and kids. When we were children, going through school and living together, we were closer."

"And your parents?"

Kate sighed gustily. "Exhausting. Well, my mother is. I think you might understand that a bit, actually," she said thoughtfully, tilting her head at Metatron.

"How so?" He asked, clearly humoring her.

"My brother and I take after our Dad," Kate said, quite seriously. "That is, highly logical and somewhat empathically deficient. My mother is… hmm. Highly emotional and more than a little unbalanced."

Metatron's eyes narrowed curiously. "And what makes you think I would understand that?"

Kate blinked at him slowly. "Isn't that what humans in general are like, to you? Emotional and chaotic?" Kate grimaced, imagining trying to live in a world filled with people like her mother. She'd hide in a room full of books, too, she thought.

Metatron frowned, seeming to recognize the tone of voice Kate used when she parroted his own words that he'd never said back to him, and his eyes grew darker, mores solemn. "I wish you would stop comparing me to this… idea of me that you have in your head."

Kate straightened, the serious tone sobering her a little, and she squinted at Metatron, trying to read his face. She supposed it would feel unfair, to be judged for things she'd never done or said. But, at the same time, she couldn't ignore Metatron's capacity to do those things. He was too dangerous.

"I don't know if I can," Kate said apologetically. Metatron leaned back, eyes tight, and Kate explained. "It's just… if I throw out everything I think I know about you from what I've seen of what might happen in the future, then I barely know you at all. And I think that scares me more than knowing what you're capable of."

Metatron glanced away from her, towards the wall. Kate suspected he was less looking at it, than looking away from her, and let him be. Finally he said, "You are. Emotional, and chaotic." Kate waited, because that seemed like the beginning of something. "But that's what makes your stories so compelling."

Kate smiled. "I think that's why I really came to you, you know." Metatron snapped his head back to look at her, eyes sharp. "Your love of stories. Even…" Kate flapped a hand at the latter half of the wall, as if to say 'even with the things you did, or haven't done'. "I was very fond of you."

"You liked me?" Metatron sounded disbelieving. He followed her gaze, frowning darkly at the latter half of the wall. "Nebbishy little Metatron, hiding in his stacks of books? Betraying Castiel, trying to rule Heaven…"

"Very much so," Kate agreed, nodding towards the very end of the wall, where Metatron's redemption was tacked in bright colors. "Especially at the end."

"What about now?" Metatron asked quietly, looking very small. Kate tilted her head at him in question. "You've changed the course. I'll never do any of those things. I'm not brave. I'm not a leader, or a hero. I'm just a bad writer." He paused, then added, voice shaking a little, "The angel closest to the door."

Kate was not sure what to do. In human interactions, when she saw someone this upset, she would offer some sort of physical contact—a hug, or a squeeze of the hand. When she couldn't find words, the primal human need for touch offered comfort where she couldn't. But Metatron, she'd noticed, seemed extremely reluctant to touch her, and she was afraid reaching out to him would only make things worse. She grimaced, and attempted words.

"Fuck God."

Metatron looked like he'd been slapped. Kate counted this a good sign. "Seriously, fuck God. He gave up, and ran away, and because of the mess he left behind you've been hiding on Earth for centuries. I get that he's your father, and you love him, and want his approval, but you don't need it. His approval doesn't matter."

Kate was actually becoming a little angry on Metatron's behalf the longer she talked, which was probably good, because anger was one of the few emotions she was familiar enough with to run with. Metatron was watching Kate warily, as if she might be struck by lightning at any moment. Struck by sudden inspiration, Kate levered herself out of her chair, strode to the wall, and began yanking down all the notes about Metatron's actions.

Metatron shot up to follow her, staring in horror, fingers twitching at his side as if he wanted to stop her but couldn't quite bring himself to. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You want me to stop comparing you to this guy?" Kate crumpled a notecard in her hand and tossed it behind her carelessly. "Then you need to stop comparing yourself to him. You'll never be him. What might have happened doesn't matter anymore." Kate tore the last notecard with Metatron's name on it, his death, to the ground, and turned to face him. "All that matters now are the decisions you make, and whether you can be proud of them. No one else."

Metatron's eyes remained fixed on the notecards scattered on the ground. He looked… lost, Kate thought. And so, despite her previous decision to respect his personal space, she reached out to him. Slowly, so he could jerk away if he wanted to. She thought at first to reach out for his hand, but something stopped her. Instead, she lifted her hand to his face. Slowly, ever-so-gently, she pressed two fingers against his temple.

Metatron shuddered. His eyes snapped to Kate's, looking almost panicked. Whatever he saw in Kate's expression had him closing his eyes and releasing a long, shaking breath. He didn't pull away, and so Kate simply stood there, her fingers a warm press on his forehead, for long minutes, while Metatron stood with his eyes closed and heaved deep breaths.

Eventually—and Kate couldn't tell how long it lasted—Metatron raised his own hand and gently removed Kate's hand from his temple. Before Kate could pull her hand back, he opened his eyes, looking much more calm. He squeeze Kate's fingers, once, dropped her hand, and told her to get some sleep.

The singular point of contact was like a lifeline. Warm, and bright. Almost like the warmth of God's presence. Almost.

Metatron expected Kate to take her fingers away quickly, like the hurried press of his own fingers to her head in the past—short, efficient, cold. But her hand was steady, and after several long minutes of deep breathing Metatron realized that she wasn't going to take her hand away. Not until he moved. She would stand there, offering this comfort, until he broke the contact.

He wondered how long he could hold on to it. Minutes? Hours? Days?

But eventually his breathing slowed, and the hurt and panic and self-doubt that had welled in him slowly drained away, chased out by the warmth of Kate's fingers on his skin, and he couldn't justify the contact any longer.

He should pull away. Any second now. A tiny step back, and the contact would be broken.

But that seemed too harsh, too sudden a break, so he eased out of it instead. He reached up and grasped Kate's hand in his. Narrow, all bones, but warm. He brought her fingers away from his temple. He felt the weight of her gaze, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her, didn't want to risk seeing pity or something worse in her face. As long as he didn't look at her in the eyes, he could imagine they were soft, and kind, and accepting.

Like the touch.

It took an enormous amount of effort to let her hand drop, but he managed it, squeezing her hand only once, gently, before telling her to get some sleep. Because he couldn't be around her any longer tonight.

She left. Metatron felt cold.

In the following days, Metatron found a good many more classic books that Kate ought to read, but refused to slog through, and so it was utterly necessary for him to press his hand to her face every other day or so. And if Kate happened to notice that those touches lingered a little longer than they had in days before, she was kind enough not to mention it.

It was September when Kate was startled awake in the early morning by Metatron opening the door to her room and flicking on the lights. The nerves clear in his posture and expression halted any complaints she would have made about interrupting her sleep. At his words, she sat up, wide awake.

"Dean Winchester is saved."

Kate tugged a robe on over her nightclothes and followed Metatron back to his rooms, where he collapsed in his usual armchair with a distant look that she had come to associate with him listening to angel radio. It was only four in the morning, but there was no way she was getting back to sleep, so she made coffee in Metatron's postage stamp of a kitchenette and then curled up in an armchair, watching Metatron silently.

It was a little eerie to watch him like this, with his mind so clearly elsewhere. Though Metatron spent most of his days reading, he was rarely completely still, like he was now. He would twist and rearrange himself in the armchair, changing posture or facial expressions according to the mood of whatever story he happened to be engaged in. When he spoke, he did so with his whole body, pacing and gesturing and talking with his hands. Listening to angel radio, though, he was almost unnaturally still—as if, if he so much as twitched, he'd be discovered in his eavesdropping.

Sunlight was beginning to creep in through the windows past the towers of books when Metatron blinked, returning to the present.

"Any news?"

Metatron frowned and shook his head. "It's begun, but all the chatter is about stopping the seals from breaking." He stood and strode over to the timeline on the wall, frowning thoughtfully at it. "The all-angel broadcasts will be useful for figuring out where we are and if events deviate from what we have here, but they won't have anything useful about the angels in the know. The ones actually working toward the apocalypse on purpose."

"Makes sense, I suppose," Kate said, trailing after Metatron and stopping about a foot away, following his gaze to the notes on the wall and the next major event to look out for. "How long 'til the rise of the witnesses, do you think?"

"A few weeks, maybe." Metatron looked tired. "If that."

Kate fingered her coffee cup agitatedly, though the dregs in the bottom had long since gone cold, and caught Metatron's eye. "Do you think they'll be looking for you now?"

Metatron looked only resigned at the question. Kate figured the possibility had already occurred to him. "Yes," he said simply. "But they haven't found me yet, and as long as things go according to plan, they won't."

Kate attempted a smile. "I guess that means no more sneaking out to the movies, then."

Metatron didn't smile. He stared at the mess on the wall, as if looking at it longer and more closely would make it reveal something new he hadn't considered. Kate figured that couldn't be healthy, even for an angel, and nudged Metatron gently with her shoulder. He jumped, looking startled, and Kate backed up a step, smiling apologetically.

"Staring at it won't help anything now."

Metatron glanced back at the wall, then cast his eyes over the room. The usual satisfaction that showed in his eyes when he surveyed the sheer amount of books he'd accumulated was absent. "I'm not in the mood to read."

Now that was downright alarming.

"Uh. Okay. How about you tell me a story, then?" Metatron looked unamused, but raised a hand. Kate dodged it, and Metatron stared at her, uncomprehending. "Tell. Not beam it into my skull."

Metatron stared a moment longer, then ground out, "Fine." He stalked over to the table next to his reading chair, sorting through the books he'd read recently or intended to read next.

"That's not what I meant," Kate said patiently. Metatron shot her an impatient look over his shoulder. "Not read. Tell. Tell me a story." Kate eased herself into her own chair, curling up and watching Metatron carefully. "One only you would know."

"Like what?"

Kate shrugged. "Whatever you like. A story about Heaven. Your time on Earth. The birth of your favorite star." It was bizarre for Kate to think about just how very old Metatron truly was, but surely in all of his time he had a story or two if his own to tell.

Metatron sat and folded his fingers against his lips, thinking. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. He told her about language.

Before Enochian, there was another. Something primal, and powerful, spoken only by God and Death and the Darkness. When God first created the archangels, he tried to speak it—but the sound of that First Tongue was as deafening and destructive to the archangels as an angel's true voice is to humans, and so God created Enochian.

"It's my first language, the language of angels, and I'll always love it," Metatron said fondly, "but I must admit that English is my favorite."

"Why?" Kate asked, genuinely curious.

"Firstly, because it has the greatest number of published books, including many of my favorites." Metatron waved his hand around the room. "But also because it's this wonderful, messy hodge-podge of borrowed words, each with their own special meaning and connotation. It has nuance, style, finesse. Enochian is…" Metatron gestured vaguely. "Functional. It conveys information, but not emotion."

"How do you mean?"

Metatron leaned forward, eyes light and alive with passion. "I mean that Enochian doesn't distinguish between like, love, or admire. There's no difference between a smile or a grin, or between sadness, or grief, or despair," Metatron waved his hands animatedly, and Kate smiled at the motion. "There is no poetry in Enochian."

Kate's smile slowly faded as she thought about the implications of Metatron's words. She couldn't help but think the pure functionality and rejection of emotion in Enochian reflected the attitude of angels overall: functional, following orders without question or doubt. She wondered if, had they been able to converse in English, the conflict that had the world teetering on the brink of destruction would ever have happened at all. Could either Lucifer or Michael express their frustrations if there were simply no words for such things?

Kate shook her head, banishing the thoughts. No use dwelling on what might have been. The apocalypse was on their doorstep.