Third time's the charm, or so they say. That voice. It cuts through all the other horrendous noises in this God forsaken place.

He's died and finally gone to wherever they were going to meet. In their holiday home with the children they were going to raise together. Santorini, listening to the sunset in Fira between blue-domed churches with the smell of donkeys and barbecued fish tickling his nose. Decrepit and old in purgatory. Still arguing over the most mundane things in hell. He doesn't care. If there's no place for her in heaven, he will gladly burn with her in the depths below.

But he hasn't died. And neither has she.

This is their life, before the first time she died in his arms. The second chance they never had. They've run so far from the Hand he doesn't know where he is anymore. And they'll make it work this time.

He twitches when she approaches, and when she gets close enough the bewildered look in his tired eyes fade away. He reaches out to touch her. Pull her in. Hold her close. The ridiculous crinkling of jumpsuits when their bodies meet makes him want to laugh but that's not why his shoulders are shaking.

What're you talking about? He's not crying. She's crying.