George sighs as he leans back into his chair. He doesn't want to do anything, but drink. Fred is gone—really gone—and somehow the world is still turning. It seems impossible, but somehow it isn't. Somehow, he's sitting here—alive—drinking himself to sleep without Fred. It isn't right, nor is it fair.
"George," a sympathetic voice meets his ears, but he can't quite place it. Then Angelina appears into his line of vision. "What are you doing?"
"Angelina!" he says, glad to have someone take his mind off of Fred. "What are you doing here? Come to drink with me?"
"No," she answers gently. "I've come to take you home."
"I always wanted to go home with you," George slurs. "You're rather fit, did you know that?"
She gives him a sad smile. "Come on, George."
She slips her arm around his waist and throws his arm around her shoulders. They wobble a bit as they walk and no one speaks while they walk to his shop. Once they reach the flat, Angelina helps him over to the couch. After making sure he's comfortable, she throws a blanket over him.
"Angie?" he whispers.
"Yeah?" she answers, bending down so she can look him in the eye.
"I'm scared to let go," he mutters.
"Well, I won't let go of you until you let go of him," she responds. "Does that sound fair?"
George nods and is claimed by sleep a second letter. When he wakes up the next morning, Angelina is still there, asleep in the chair across from him.