A/N: I actually really like this drabble. That is, at this very second. Tomorrow I shall probably read it and wonder what I was thinking in my insomniac state of mind. This was inspired by the Scott Alan song 'It's Good to See You', which I'm insanely in love with at the moment. When I listened to it, the first thing I pictured was Galileo and Scaramouche, alas this is the outcome. I was too hasty to have it beta'd and also I am without Microsoft Word at the moment, so the spelling could well be borderline embarrasing. But before I ramble on any longer, here it is. Comments as always are very much appreciated, I love to hear everyone's feedback. The song 'Good to See You' does not belong to me, neither do the characters I'm afraid.

"Your hair's gotten longer." I broke the silence with my pointless observation. As if to confirm it she drew her thumb and forefinger slowly down one of her magenta ponytails and shrugged. Her gaze flickered up to mine for a mere second before she returned it to the smeared chrome tabletop between us.

It had been almost two years since we'd last spoken, yet she still seemed stubbornly determined that she had nothing left to say to me. It had been only by chance today that we had been in the diner at the same time and while she hadn't protested to me taking a seat at her chosen table, she hadn't been exactly welcoming either.

Every question I had asked or comment that I had made so far had been answered with a shrug or a shake of her head. I was surprised that she was yet to comment on my now bleach blonde crop of hair, knowing that she must have noticed it, but also knowing that once Scaramouche set her mind to something, she would go through with it. In this instance the thing she had set her mind to was paying as little attention to me as possible.

I wondered if she even cared anymore. I stared hungrily at her face, longing for her eyes to meet mine again, just to feel the surge of butterflies I always had whenever our gazes locked. I heaved a soft sigh as she stared pointedly at a round coffee stain on the table, refusing even to lift her head up now.

She'd gotten so thin. Her once teenage features had now been replaced by striking cheekbones and pursed lips, she was beautiful as ever, but now she was a young woman and not the teenager that had visited me in my dreams every week since she'd left. Her brightly coloured hair seemed to be the only thing that even resembled the Scaramouche of two years ago, that and her deathly pale skin. I felt a guilty twinge in my gut, she looked so weak and run down, perhaps if I'd have forced her to stay those years ago, she wouldn't have been this way now.

She extended her hand into the pocket of her skinny jeans, I noticed as she moved it past me that she was still a nail-biter. Her chipped burgundy nail polish looked like flecks of blood across her gnawed nails and fingertips. Withdrawing a packet of cigarettes, I watched in stunned silence as she ignited one and began to inhale the poison into her fragile body.

"But your voice-" I finally protested, unable to watch it any longer, "Don't you realize what those things do your voice?"

She raised an eyebrow and spitefully exhaled the smoke directly into my face. Though my chest contracted painfully, I refused to open my mouth to let a cough escape, knowing the fact that she had affected me would only please her.

"I haven't sang for two years." She told me sedately, the first full sentence that she had uttered since I'd ran into her. "I'm a guitarist. All I need is my hands."

It was my turn to shrug and murmur, though it wasn't because I didn't have a reply. I wanted to ask her why she didn't sing anymore, such a beautiful voice and yet she'd ceased to use it the minute she'd left the Heartbreak. I bit the side of my cheek in confusion and felt my stomach tense under the weight of all the questions I wanted to ask her, but just couldn't get to leave my mouth.

She must have noticed my pained expression, for she finally spoke again. "I've been touring with a band. Their music's a little heavier than ours was but I still enjoy it-" she paused to correct herself, "enjoyed it."

I still didn't speak, simply stared back longingly at her, waiting for her to speak again.

She shifted her weight awkwardly in her chair and wrapped a piece of her hair around her finger nervously. "I uhm... I got a call while we were in Germany. My Dad passed away a few weeks ago..." she swallowed and tugged harder on the lock of hair that she held. "I only just got back yesterday, it took them a week to contact me."

I moved my hand across the table to stroke hers but just as I did so she retracted hers and stubbed her cigarette out firmly in the tin foil tray to her right. I slid my own hand back down into my lap dejectedly.

"I'm sorry." I told her earnestly. She'd always been close with her father, even after we'd been at the Heartbreak for sometime she still spoke about him. I'd encourage her to go and visit him every now and then but she'd say it was too late for that. I knew she'd be feeling guilty for not seeing him before he'd died.

"I know." she replied softly, looking up at me. I felt my eyes burn as they stared back into the two blacks pits that were her pupils. They seemed so cold and empty, their sparkle had disappeared.

"When's the funeral?" I asked tenderly, trying desperately not to break eye contact with her.

"Tomorrow." she looked away, turning her entire body now so that it wasn't facing me. I knew she was crying, it was evident that her damn pride still remained.

We sat in silence again. There seemed nothing else that I could say to her that would pick her up from the depressive state that we were both now in. Part of me wished that she hadn't spoken, I'd have given anything for her still just to be shrugging and mumbling but now there was nothing. Just a heap of skin and bones sat slumped on a chair, completely mute.

"I have to go." she stood up so promptly that it made me jump. Her chair made a loud scraping noise across the floor and her cheeks flushed as people turned to look. Letting her hair fall over her face she hastily picked up her bag. That same bloody rucksack. It had been patched up so many times that I was sure none of the original canvas material still remained.

I nodded and stood up, leaning in to kiss her cold cheek. She stood firmly on the spot, so rigid that I wondered if she even felt my lips brush across her.

"It's good to see you again, Scaramouche."

She nodded and walked off, not even turning back to look at me. I watched her go and felt my heart drop, I still needed her now just as much as I had the first day we'd met.