A/N: I am very glad that this is well-received. Thanks for the great reviews. I'm also incredibly relieved that I'm not the only one with a newfound obsession for Chris and Meg. Chreg. Whatever you want to call it. ;)

Someone5 – I am ecstatically skipping a foot above the ground because you took the time to read and review this. You are so wonderful and such a good writer. Thank you!!!

Everyone else who reviewed – I love you more than lollipops. Trust me – that says a lot.

To all who saw last night's episode – this is VERY LOOSELY based upon the ending shots. Talk about a great one, huh?

............

Chris isn't well-acquainted with hugs. But he finds he rather likes them. It is snowing hard and there is no heat to be found, no matter how hard he looks. Then he stops looking because he knows he won't find anything more warm than the fragile, shaking body in his envelope arms.

He is angry at himself for yelling at her. He stood there, scowl masking his raw concern, barking things he doesn't remember. He does remember standing in a foggy, damp telephone booth in view of the Washington Monument early this morning when the snow was still preparing to fall.

Her flaxen ringlets are laced with snowflakes that dance and pool in the faint shape of a crown. Her shoulders are quivering and her face is buried in his red button-down, alligator tears soaking the cloth. But she is warm and flaxen and she is hiding in his arms instead of anybody else's...so he feels better. Not less apprehensive, but better.

The snow is falling, her hopes with it. He is praying that he'll steady her hopes for a little while.

Snow is beautiful this time of year and he can't find a word that matches snow. He can find a proper noun. Meg.

............

She slowly lifts her face off of his chest and looks at him. He adjusts his arms a little, loosens them, stretches them; he keeps staring into the purple darkness. He's beginning to think that purple suits Philadelphia well – not quite black, but not quite rose either. His face is a shadow, and his lips are thin and his breath is heavy on her left cheek. And she is pulled close to him, and her feet are touching his, and suddenly she wants to forget everything because thinking about it hurts too much. She wants to forget everything but the feel of his steady hands on her blue woolen back.

So she kisses him something fierce. It won't change anything that happened tonight (of course not) but she wants to forget horrifying things for a little while. She didn't know that she was keeping such pent-up fire in her mouth but Chris knew, he could see it in her irises, and now he knows that she's figured it out.

She is stronger than he thought and she has her fingers anchored tightly on his shoulders, and she is needing and wanting and begging and searching. Meg Pryor is one fluid motion and she is struggling to steady herself nonetheless, struck with the notion that she has grasped for something and it is there.

He runs his fingers along the powder blue wool. She is his new favorite scent and here in the falling snow, he breathes in her fresh clearness and sighs into her.

She pulls a hand from his shoulder and feels for the doorknob. In that split second he tries to remember if his mother and one of her occupations are inside. But now she has her hand around the little brass circle and he can't see her face so he knows there is no light inside.

They stumble. Chris has a hand on the blue wool of the small of her back and both of Meg's hands are back on his shoulders, squeezing them so tight that he can feel them bleeding heat into his skin. Her peach calves hit the back of the sofa and she pulls him down with her and then, she is lying there, a doll with golden hair and a flushed, tear-stained expression and those frosty orbs of color that are breaking him down, and he caves.

He caves, and they are like a broken record – he captures her lips gently, more gently than ever before (because she needs something gentle now) and begins to twirl his fingers in the loose strands of hair curving around her icy pink face. And her arms are wrapped around his neck, woolen ribbons, and she is pulling him close to her.

This is a good song, she thinks.

The snow is still falling. And she feels less shaken, and it is frightening, this warmness she feels when he is capturing her lips. And she doesn't want to stop holding him close but she knows that if she keeps letting him do this, there will be a new broken record for them to play and she will feel cold again.

She thinks of her brother. She thinks of Beth and how cold she must feel because her brother is not there anymore. And Chris is left capturing her cheek, rosy but cold.

"Meg." It is barely a noise but she hears him. She turns her head, bites her bottom lip, draining it of color. And she looks at him and his eyes scream trust. It is loud but it isn't demanding and she thinks she could just about drown in his eyes right now. They look...like the kind of eyes you can trust.

And the dim light is shadowing his cheekbones again and his shoulders are calloused and she is remembering how much she likes him when he is gently catching her lips with his own; how he makes her warm.

"We aren't gonna do anything," he says. It is firm, even, balanced – and she trusts him and she can't keep herself from pulling him to her.

He shifts and she buries herself in the hollow of his arm and he runs a hand along her side, and Meg Pryor is one fluid stationary, but still as strong.

She can't help but think how right this feels, even in the wake of what seems the worst time she can remember.

He can't help but think how much blue and curls and strong, motionless feelings are growing on him.

............

When she comes in it is late and she can still feel his fingers on her collarbone and running through her gold bangs. When she goes to sleep, she can't feel his warmth anymore and she is cold. And her brother–he is gone and his candle isn't burning on the kitchen table.

She doesn't cry much, but she cries enough so that her dreams are just purple night sky and a burnt candle, threads of smoke floating from it's dark wick and away from her.

............

Breakfast at Meg's house is silent. The snow is relaxed now, all of it fallen to the yellow fall grass, and the outside is a glass dome, keeping them inside.

Will has red eyes.

Meg thinks that now she knows what it's like to want to break a window or burn up like the orange embers on the tip of that cigarette.

............

He knows that she won't be back for awhile. After all, her brother is dead and things like that don't just come and go...he should know.

He misses her, even though he wouldn't just come out and say it. His fingers are sore and they ache for her blonde tresses.

He is eating cereal. His mother is talking a blue streak. Blue...eyes. God. She is plaguing his mind and he isn't sure if it's toxic or not.

In between what she is saying about a new occupation with light brown hair and the most unusual habit of something or other, he looks out the window and sighs. He needs a smoke.

His mother stops talking when they hear glass break outside, and chink down onto brick back steps.

His fingers ache. For now, a cigarette and a jacket pocket will do.

............

She needs that warmth that he makes her feel. JJ is gone, and the glass looks heavy on the snow.

A/N: Please review! I know it wasn't as well written as the last two chapters. Chapter Four will be up soon. –molly-