I've taken a long break from the newsiverse, but I wanted to write this story. I love these characters and have always wanted to write a story about them. I did once, but it was never finished. The beginnings of it can be found under the name Half-Pint. Just thought I'd write what was on my mind, whether I finish it or not.

Fiona. It was a name that had tormented me, taunted me, made me crazy with desire and lust, made me crazy with love. She was the one person I would do anything for. I would walk over broken glass in bare feet if it would make her smile. I loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her, and there could never be anyone else. And now, they said she might be dying. And maybe it was all my fault.

She lay in our bed in our modest 1 bedroom home. Our twins, boy and girl, sat in the other room quietly playing with blocks. They were one year old, and gorgeous. But I couldn't afford them. I couldn't afford anything. I could read, and speak Italian, and that was about it. And if she died, I knew I would be dying with her. I wouldn't be able to take care of them. They deserved better. I'd take them somewhere where I knew they would have a better father than me. I knew it would be a quick plunge into nights of reckless abandon in the arms of fallen women, drinking until I was sick, until I died too, until my body caught up with my soul.

"Race?" She asked weakly, taking my hand. It was the first I'd heard of her speak all day. It was breathtaking, it calmed me down a bit. It made me hope for a split second.

"Yeah, baby?" I asked her stroking her long, blonde hair.

"Can I…can I have just a little bit of water?"

I nodded and ran and got it for her, pouring it into her mouth slowly, making sure she got every last drop in before putting the cup aside.

"Feeling any better today? Maybe you'd want some soup?"

She nodded. "I think….I think I'll be okay. If you make me eat it. If I make myself eat it. For the kids. For you."

I nodded again and squeezed her hand, letting her know she'd be all right.

You see, Fi was born in Ireland. Her pa took her over here with her ma when she was 2. She was a gorgeous baby, I saw the pictures. Anyway, her father started to go crazy. He would strike out for no reason at her and her mother, and Fiona would be forced to watch him, hitting her mother with everything he could get his hands on. Sometimes knocking her unconscious. He wasn't as cruel to Fiona, but during his moods, he told her he hated her anyway. He struck her across the mouth, made her bleed a few times, pulled her hair. The worst he got, though was when she did something "bad" and he pulled her dress up and put out his cigarette on her thigh. She still has that scar there, and sometimes when we're lying together I kiss it to let her know she's safe with me.

He went so crazy that he struck her mom to death and told Fiona the same would happen to her. That's when she ran away. That's when she met me.

But her ma, she was so concerned about being fat, about taking up as little space as possible. She'd not eat and give her food to Fiona, and Fiona started to not eat so she could give her food to her doll. She'd hide the food, do crazy things like that. It wasn't until later that I realized Fi had a problem that came and went. I read about it in some book, but its weird that she has it because it usually only affects these hoity toity rich girls who've got nothing better to do than eat as little as they can.

Whatever happened recently, Fi stopped eating for days. She got real sick and she looked pale, white as a ghost. She lost so much weight that her cheeks were sunken in. We couldn't afford a doctor, but they told us to just make her eat, but she says she isn't hungry anymore. Its like she's disappearing right before my eyes. And I can't do anything to make it better. And I would do anything too, she knows it. And I can't see why she doesn't see how beautiful she really is.

For the shit life we got dealt, she's pretty smart. Never went to school, but sings like an angel and…well I taught her to read and write but know that she knows how to, she doesn't stop. And she's the first woman who taught me that you can actually love and respect the same woman that drives you mad with desire.

And I knew it was love only because my feelings about her didn't change from when I met her. I think I fell in love with her when I was 12, when my sexuality was beginning to awaken. In a weird way, maybe she was the one to awaken everything within me. Its like I was dead inside before.

And I joke that I loved her before she developed, so I know its true love. And she developed goddamn well.

But watching her like this, I feel so helpless. Some people say its her fault, but I know it isn't. I know it isn't my fault, but I feel like it is sometimes, like I just can't make her happy enough. When we were little it was so easy. I would make a funny face or stroke her hair when she missed her ma or pretend to feed her doll and she'd smile at me and be happy again. But now it was different. It wasn't just missing her ma. It wasn't anything I could fix real fast. And I wanted to fix it for everything within me.

I loved her. And I loved our children more than I knew I ever could. But I knew without her, just as she had awakened everything within me, everything within me would die again with her. She as my angel, which is what I called her secretly at night when I thought no one was listening, so the guys wouldn't tease me about being fruity about it. Angel. That's what she looked like, that's what she was, and that's what the children she bore me looked like. Little fat, innocent, inquisitive cherubs.

I couldn't let my angel fly away from me.