A/N: holy shit this is over. After over a year, it's really over. Damn.
More notes and thanks at the end of the chapter.

Burgundine, Borginia. Eight months later.

"Hey, Lames Bond. You sure took your time. Bet the waiters were starting to think I got stood up."

The Yatagarasu – who, for the occasion, is a blonde woman in her early thirties with blue eyes and slightly tan skin – grins up at him as he approaches the table she's sitting at. She got a bottle of wine while waiting, and has already poured herself a glass. A very expensive bottle of wine, but the Phantom isn't up to complain: the bill is unlikely to ever be paid, after all... and even if it was, it would be on the government of the United States.

"I wish being rid of you was so easy," he says, lips curling upwards for just one moment before he sits across the table and reaches for the menu. As he pretends to be taking a look at the starters, he shoots a glance over the Yatagarasu's shoulder to their target – a middle-aged man with an immaculate gray suit, sitting at the largest table in the room with several other associates. Among them are sitting what are obviously body guards; their kind is especially bad at looking like anything else, regardless how much they try.

"I see he spared no expenses," he says, glancing back down at the menu.

"Well, duh. We're in the best restaurant in all of Borginia, and the guy loves to flaunt how rich he is," the Yatagarasu says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "It sure is a fancy place to die."

"Hmm."

"... Is your brand new conscience giving you trouble? This one is far from a nice guy. He deserves to die more than most. Not as much as we do, but hey. Almost there."

The Phantom doesn't look up at her. "... That's hardly relevant either way. I have a mission. I'll go through with it," he says. He wouldn't kill this man if his death was not required; he would try to find a way around it to get his hands on what they need. But his death is required by a direct order, and that settles it. Whether or not it is deserved is something he doesn't know, and something he doesn't have to know.

If the Yatagarasu thinks anything of it, she doesn't say. She merely changes subject. "Was the restaurant here already when you were a kid? I heard it's an old one."

"Yes. I stole some caviar from here once. As it turned out, I was allergic to it. I steered well away afterward."

"Pwwhhhfff-!"

"Not here," he hisses, kicking her slightly with his prosthetic leg. It's almost fascinating how well he can use it now; it works just as well as his real one.

To her credit, this time the Yatagarasu is able to muffle her laugh into a snicker that she quickly disguises as coughing. "Hehe! If you don't want me to laugh, stop being funny," she says. Still, her grin fades a bit when she looks back at him. "… So. How's being here again after all these years?"

The Phantom lets his gaze wander on the menu for a few more moments, looking for the right word to reply with. "Anticlimactic, I suppose. Almost nothing is how I remembered," he says. There is something that's still there, truth be told; a place he's going to pay a visit to the next day, before leaving the country. He feels like he has to. To pay his respects... and to retrieve something, if it's still there.

"Hu-uh. Still up for that trip down Memory Lane?"

"... Later, yes. At the moment, the mission is all that matters. Is everything ready?"

"Sure. He'll die the moment he guzzles down the amazingly expensive wine he ordered. I made sure to fix it. That, and his servings," she says. While the wine itself is not poisoned – the whole table is going to share it, and it would make for quite a bunch of sudden and very much unnecessary deaths – the food that man in particular has ordered was laced with a kind of poison meant to stay inactive until a specific, otherwise innocuous substance is added to the mix. One the Yatagarasu injected in the sealed bottle with a syringe.

Simply poisoning the food would have been easier, perhaps, but this is going to allow them to know precisely in what moment the poison is about to start working, and to be ready. The Phantom is ready to claim he's a doctor the moment the man collapses, and of course he'll make a show of trying to revive him. In the confusion that's sure to follow, it won't be difficult for him and the Yatagarasu to leave... and it will take some time for anyone to notice that the documents the man had on him are gone. They'll be on their way back to the States soon enough to hand in the documents, and then... then he'll see.

As though reading his thoughts, the Yatagarasu speaks again with a serious edge to her voice. "Once we're back in the States we should get a few days off. I can fiddle with your chip's signal to make it seem like you're with me for a while – it should give you about forty-two hours before they realize you're somewhere else. Are you certain you want to do it?"

The Phantom clenches his jaw. "It is not about what I want. It's something I must do."

"Do you even realize how much it took to get them to keep you alive in the first place?"

"And I'm grateful you went through the trouble. But it changes nothing."

"So this could be our last mission together."

"... It might be, depending on their judgment," he says, and she frowns before speaking again.

"Well, that would blow. You had better convince your ex not to get your ass arrested and be back."

Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up.

It takes the Phantom some effort to meet her gaze. "I cannot promise as much. But... I thank you for asking."

"Pfffftt-!" she snorts, and he holds back a sigh while she turns her laughter in another fit of coughing.

"Why do you feel the need to do that?"

"Haha! I can't help it! You're just so funny," she says, grinning. "I mean, aww. You're moved!"

"You know what? I take it back."

She blows him a kiss. "Too late. You know you like me."

"As I like caviar. I'm still allergic to it," he says drily, then something else catches his attention, and he narrows his eyes. "... They're taking the wine to his table," he says, once again focused on the mission, on what he'll have to do a minute from now. He's ready to play his part for what may be the last time.

After this is done and once he's retrieved what he needs to retrieve from the house he once shared with Seymour, he'll be ready to face whatever fate Simon Blackquill may see fit for him.

Nearly thirty years since the last time he set foot here, he remembers the house's layout like the back of his hand.

It wasn't always the case, of course: the memory of this house's existence has been buried in the most unreachable depths of his mind for a long time, along with everything else that was part of Robert LaRoche's life. Unreachable but never lost, not really, and he was able to reclaim it eventually, along with his name.

This place looks different from how it did back when he and Seymour lived in it; it was abandoned, then, though not a ruin as many other houses in the capital. It's obviously been renewed in the past, the walls fixed and roof rebuilt from scratch. There is a whole family of six living in it now, as the pictures on the walls show when he makes his way inside. But the layout has not changed, and neither has the flooring: it's made of quality wood, after all, and withstood the years of abandonment just fine. That's exactly what he hoped.

Safe in the knowledge the house's inhabitants won't be back for at least another hour, LaRoche walks upstairs unhurriedly. It is a large house that could become mercilessly cold through Borginian winters, but up in the attic he and Seymour chose as their bedroom – it never occurred to them to get a room each, even with all the rooms they had to pick from; it certainly didn't occur to Robb, who couldn't remember sleeping in any other place but the orphanage's dormitory – it wasn't bad once they had enough blankets and a heater they stole from a store. He stole it, he recalls, while Seymour distracted the owner by pretending to be lost.

He was good at it, because he could cry at will just like Robb could, and he was thinner than him, which got people to pity him more easily. Robb always looked a bit too healthy to convincingly play the part of the poor little orphan, and as they grew older and he began to beef up it became clear that had to be Seymour's act. It feels like another lifetime and, in a way, it is. Sometimes it's almost hard to believe any of it was real – but it was, and LaRoche hopes to find a tangible proof that those years even happened.

That's why he's there, after all. With Seymour's grave unmarked and no way for him to find it, he thinks as he opens the hatch leading to the attic, this is his next best chance.

The attic isn't as neatly clean as the rest of the house, obviously enough: it's dusty and filled with old chests and discarded objects. It was almost entirely empty when they lived there, LaRoche thinks. With the mind's eye he can still see the old mattress and the heap of blankets where they used to sleep, under the skylight at the far end of the room. That spot isn't cluttered, thankfully: while he has time, there would be no point in wasting it digging through useless junk.

It may not be there anymore. It's been almost thirty years. Maybe someone lifted the board and found it.

The thought causes LaRoche's insides to clench, but he doesn't pause to think over it too much. He walks up to what he knows is the right spot without a hitch in his stride, then he kneels over the floor and presses his hands – both the real one and the prosthetic one, although they're hard to tell apart by just looking – on the boards. He presses against the end of each board, one after another, because it one of these, it has to be.

And it is. There is a small creaking noise, and the other end of one of the boards rises slightly; it's no more than half an inch, but it is enough. LaRoche's heart seems to still for a moment.

Someone probably took it. It's been so long. Too long.

LaRoche clenches his jaw, chases away the thought and reaches to lift the whole board. It comes off easily, just as easily as he remembered, and there it is – all of it.

Seymour's books, covers stained and ruined and pages eaten by rats; his own slingshot, the one made of metal he was so proud of, the rubber band now chewed up as well; metal tins of canned food, dented and sealed closed as they left them. Their secret stash is now only a heap of broken things, much like their lives.

But there is something else, something the sunlight coming from the skylight is making glint even through the layers of dust that cover it, the very thing he's here for – the crystal bird he gifted Seymour on his thirteenth birthday. LaRoche's hand, his real one, reaches inside to take it. He wipes off some dust with a sleeve, and it's with some relief that he sees it's still whole, unlike everything else: a bird figure small enough to fit in a boy's cupped hands, sitting as though in the nest, wings folded and beak tilted upside.

Hey, birdbrain! Look here! Look what I've got!

It's for you, stupid. Happy birthday and stuff.

A lump in his throat warns him not to focus on the memory any further, and he puts the bird aside to focus his attention on Seymour's books instead. He has no plans of taking those away; in a way it feels more fitting for them to stay there. But on the other hand, there is time. Enough time for him to take one last look.

Most of the books are so ruined there is no telling what their covers once read; he can recognize a couple of them – Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. He remembers how Seymour almost got caught while stealing them, and the bickering that had followed.

To Kill a Mockingbird? This is just about the last thing I expected from you, birdbrain.

It's not about killing birds, obviously. It's about a lawyer who––

Boring.

Hey, let me finish! It's more than just that! It's about––

Booooring!

"At least I have learned how to pronounce Friedrich Nietzsche's name," LaRoche hears himself murmuring, his voice a little strained. He – Robb – had been such an annoying, loud-mouthed, reckless boy he had to wonder why Seymour put up with him all the time. Come to think of it, he thinks with a hint of amusement, Robb had been rather similar to the Yatagarasu, in a way. Not that he was going to admit as much aloud.

LaRoche puts the books back in place, and that's when it catches his eye: a book with a black, blank cover, a chewed-up bookmark still sticking out of it. It's not one he recognizes, but he reaches to pull it out anyway, and opens it. The bookmarked page is badly damaged by humidity and rats, but he can tell it's a poem; he can read the author and title clearly enough.

Robert Frost – The Exposed Nest.

"... Heh. Birds. I don't know what I was expecting," LaRoche says, his voice a little hoarse, and he squints to read what little is left of the text. Most of the first part is unreadable, but some parts of the mid-section and the ending can still be read... and as he goes through them, LaRoche could swear he can hear Seymour's voice reading it to him a lifetime ago.

'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground/The cutter-bar had just gone champing over/(Miraculously without tasting flesh)/And left defenseless to the heat and light./You wanted to restore them to their right/Of something interposed between their sight/And too much world at once—could means be found...

The next few lines are an unreadable mess, and LaRoche skips them without a second thought, chest aching.

Made me ask would the mother-bird return/And care for them in such a change of scene/And might our meddling make her more afraid./That was a thing we could not wait to learn./We saw the risk we took in doing good/But dared not spare to do the best we could...

LaRoche's eyes move to the last lines, and he doesn't even care that there is something falling from his face onto the page, further staining it. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

I haven't any memory—have you?— Of ever coming to the place again/To see if the birds lived the first night through/And so at last to learn to use their wings.

It is a good thing that he has time, that the family living in the house won't be back for another hour or so, because for a while – for a long while – LaRoche can do nothing but weep. But that's fine; it feels like something he should have done a long time ago and, by the time the tears stop falling, he's feeling far better than he thought possible.

His eyes are still damp when he reaches into his pocket to pull out something – a piece of paper Blackquill gave to him once, a piece of paper he's not supposed to still possess but that he couldn't bring himself to get rid of after his fake execution: the copy of his certificate from the orphanage, the first proof he ever held that someone called Robert LaRoche even existed.

Only that he has no reason to cling to it anymore. He knows precisely who he is, he thinks, and slips the folded paper on the bookmarked page before closing the book and putting it back. He takes the board and puts it back in place, to hide everything from view once again. No one else needs to see what's beneath that floor, after all; no one else has the right to, he thinks, and reaches to take the crystal bird in his hands.

Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up.

"... I'll try, birdbrain. But if I fail, then it's all right. Whatever happens now, it will be all right."

"What complete balderdash."

Blackquill's snarl causes Taka to flap his wings briefly, taking his attention away from the papers he's been ready – the papers of an entirely botched trial he'll have to somehow try salvaging on Monday. The defendant is guilty, that much is certain, and he will not let him escape justice because of Detective Gumshoe's incompetence.

"I have to wonder how come that bumbling oaf is still employed," he mutters, putting down the papers and reaching to scratch Taka's head. "Hmph. If you had the gift of word, I'm certain you'd make a far more reliable investigation partner," he adds, and has to smile when Taka closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention. He doesn't need to talk for them to understand each other, after all. On the other hand, that useless detective-

A sudden buzzing noise snaps Blackquill from his thoughts. The intercom, he realizes with no small amount of confusion – but who may it be? He's not expecting anyone, that's for certain.

"If it's yet another prankster, I'll cut them down without mercy," he mutters. It has happened a few times that some children rang everyone in the block before running away. But, as soon as he picks up the receiver and the small screen in the wall shows who's downstairs – a small precaution that cannot hurt in his line of work – he can see it's not the case. On the black-and-white screen he can see a grown man with a baseball cap whose visor hides most of his face, holding a large box.

"Sushi World delivery service," the man says through the intercom, causing Blackquill to frown.

"You must have the wrong address. I have ordered nothing."

"Is this Simon Blackquill?"

That causes Blackquill to pause, the receiver he was about to put back in place in mid-air. He brings it back to his ear. "... That is my name. However, I stand by what I said. I ordered nothing."

"Then perhaps someone else ordered it for you? It's all paid for. And I'm rather sure there's some of your favorite in here," the delivery man adds, and it's that last sentence that makes Blackquill still, his heart seemingly skipping a beat – because there is no reason, none at all, a stranger would have any idea of what's his favorite kind of sushi. He stares at the screen more intently. "... Look up. Look at the camera."

There is a moment of hesitation, then, without saying anything, the man does look up – and, while it's not a face he knows, what the man says next is enough for him to know he's looking at a mask. "You should know by now a face is not to be trusted," he says quietly, and it's a voice he knows.

"... Tch. What a useless charade. I trust you know the way to my door," Blackquill replies, and presses the button to open the door without waiting for a reply. The screen goes blank, and he has a minute to recollect his thoughts – or try to, without much success – before the doorbell rings.

He throws the door open before the sound has even faded and there he is, standing right before him – not with the same face as last time he saw him, but there is LaRoche's own blond hair beneath the cap, and the familiar pale blue eyes looking back at him.

For one long moment, they stare at each other in silence. There is nothing showing on LaRoche's borrowed face, not one hint of what he may thinking, and Blackquill keeps his own face blank as well. His eyes shift from LaRoche's face to the Sushi World shirt he's wearing, to the arm holding the box – a left arm, certainly prosthetic – and then to the box itself.

"... Is there even any sushi in there?" he finds himself asking.

LaRoche shrugs. "Yes. Some of your favorite. As I said."

Blackquill shoots a glance over LaRoche's shoulder, to the empty hallway. "I suppose the whole point of this charade was making sure no one would notice you coming in?"

"Obviously enough."

"How predictable. Come inside," Blackquill says, and steps aside to let LaRoche in. He walks in, and puts the box down on the nearest table before turning to face Blackquill just as he shuts the door.

"You... don't seem surprised to see me," he finally murmurs.

Blackquill can't quite hold back a smirk. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," he says. "I wouldn't simply accept whatever tale I was fed without seeing your body first. As none was shown, I knew there was a possibility you may still live. Information being strictly classified, I had nothing left to do but to wait. I knew that, if that was the case... then perhaps you'd be back, sooner or later."

LaRoche nods. "... I see. Still, I was under the impression they sent some ashes."

"Ashes from which no DNA could be recovered."

"That's what usually happens when a body is properly cremated."

"I'm aware of that. Very convenient, isn't it?"

A chuckle. "True enough. They were very careful to leave nothing behind that could prove I still lived. If anyone found out they never executed me, then there would be no hiding the truth."

Far from surprised by his words, Blackquill nods. "So it was them you worked for? The government? Was it them to get you out of prison the first time?"

LaRoche nods. "Yes. It was on their behalf that I began investigating YggraCorp along with the Yatagarasu. Did you suspect as much?"

"Athena could tell they lied when they talked about detaining and executing you."

"... I see," is the reply, and this time he can't quite meet Blackquill's eyes. "I... wold have shown myself sooner, if I could. But my ability to move was impaired for quite some time. Even after receiving my prosthetic limbs, I needed a long rehabilitation."

Blackquill nods, his gaze shifting to the left side of LaRoche's body. His left hand looks perfectly normal, covered in what he can only assume must be synthetic skin. His movements as a whole seems perfectly natural, too: no limp in his gait, no stiffness in the arm or in the fingers. "They must be quite advanced."

"They are. I may not need them for long, though. It depends on you, I guess," LaRoche says, and looks back at him. "If you or Cykes decide to call the police, I won't attempt to escape."

Somehow, the statement fails to surprise Blackquill. "That would be a death sentence. Have you returned to atone for your crimes?"

LaRoche clenches his jaw. "I have returned to keep my promise. Remember what I wrote you when I warned you about Outis?"

Once this matter is over with, I'll turn myself over to you.

Slowly, Blackquill nods. "I see. So is this what you're here for? To receive my judgment, and Athena's?" he asks, his own voice and words from three years ago echoing in the back of his mind.

Throw yourself at my mercy! And don't you ever betray me again! Have you got that?!

Rather than answering – for there is no point in it when they both know what the answer is – LaRoche lowers his gaze. "There is... something else. Something I need to give you to keep, whatever the fate you'll choose for me will-"

A sudden screeching noise causes him to trail off, and Blackquill only now realizes that Taka is perched on top of the door that leads to the kitchen, staring warily at LaRoche – who, on the other hand, gives a weak smile. "Hello, Taka. It's been a while," he says. Taka keeps eying him suspiciously, not recognizing him. And how could he? He looks and sounds nothing like Fulbright did.

"Hmph. No point in standing here, I suppose," he says, gesturing for him to follow him to the dining room. They sit at the table, and it doesn't escape Blackquill how stiff LaRoche is as he reaches into his jacket's pocket to pull out something – a bird made of crystal. "... Is that a peace offering of sorts?"

His question gets a chuckle out of LaRoche. "That was the sushi," he says. "No, this is... this belonged to Seymour Blaxton. I gave it to him as a gift a long time ago. It was still hidden in the house we shared after leaving the orphanage. The new owners never found it, because they never knew where to look."

Blackquill's gaze pauses on the object LaRoche is not putting on the table between them. "So you went all the way to Borginia and broke into someone's house to retrieve it?"

"Want to sue me?" the Phantom quips, but his grin dies down quickly. "It was hidden in there way before its new owners moved in. It belonged to Seymour, not to them. It's... it should be mine to keep. But I cannot own much, and whatever I own may be lost should I be killed on an assignment or... or should you call the police today. I... I'd rather have you keep it. Keep it safe."

Blackquill hums and reaches to take the object in his hand. "How could you possibly afford something of such craftsmanship?" he asks, holding up the crystal bird against the light. It's real crystal, no doubt about it: this is no cheap glass.

The Phantom shrugs. "I couldn't."

"You stole it."

"I plead the fifth."

"Hmph," Blackquill scoffs. "If anything, you had taste for a street urchin. Very well. I'll keep it safe, if that's your wish. But I expect you to take it back the day you're discharged from service; I expect you to make it to that day alive," he says, and the holds back an amused smirk when LaRoche stares at him in quiet incredulity. "If you have nothing to say, you'd do well to shut your mouth before Taka decides to nest in it."

He blinks a couple of time before he speaks. "Are you... not going to call the police?"

"Did you expect me to?"

LaRoche looks away. "I... don't know what I expected," he admits. "But what I did-"

"You have saved Athena's life. I cannot forget that. I will not, and neither will she. I'm certain of it. If you'll be caught, it won't be by our doing."

"You made me promise I'd die a man."

"And you were willing to, in the end. Now I want you to promise you'll live as one."

There is a moment of silence, and LaRoche draws in a deep breath before speaking again.

"I'll still be a spy, Blackquill. No matter for whom. I'll... I'll kill again, if my missions require it. I have killed already since last time we met. It's what I do, like a soldier at war. Only that I put on a mask and-"

"Take it off now."

Blackquill's order causes LaRoche to trail off and blink. "What...?"

"The mask. Take it off."

LaRoche stiffens. "What's beneath is... not my face. I don't-"

"Silence," Blackquill cuts him off. "If you wish to remain beneath my roof for a moment longer, you shall tear that mask off your head. You've worn masks around me for far too long."

"My face is gone. I can no longer take that mask off," LaRoche says, an almost pleading note in his voice. Blackquill can imagine the reason why: now that his face has been erased for good, it must be easier to keep wearing masks over his new one – so that he can delude himself into thinking his own face is still there, somewhere.

But, comforting as it is, it's only a delusion. A delusion that would do him no good in the long run, Blackquill is sure of it. "Take it off," he says again, "or leave me."

"It's not my-"

"It is your face now. Just a face and nothing more. It's not a face that shows who you are," Blackquill cuts him off, and makes an effort to soften his voice when the Phantom – no, not a phantom, he has a name and he won't let him forget it – winces. "LaRoche. I made you a promise once, remember? I promised I would never let you forget yourself again. And I keep my word, always. Take that mask off."

There is a moment of stillness and silence as LaRoche just stares at him. Then, slowly, he reaches up to grasp the mask and pull it off. The mask comes out, an empty heap of latex which LaRoche lets fall on the ground. But his head stays bowed, and his eyes stay shut.

Blackquill can't have that now, can he? "Look at me. I have seen that face. There is nothing for you to hide. Face me as-"

"As a man?" LaRoche says bitterly. His eyes open, but he still doesn't look up. "I promised you that I'd die as one once. I failed to. I left LaRoche behind to die and chose to live on as the Phantom. Again."

Blackquill can't argue with that: it felt – it still feels – all the world like a betrayal. But he will not, cannot ignore what happened next. "But when you were forced to choose, you were willing to lay down your own life for Athena's," he says. "You would have died a man, and willingly, had they not been able to drag you back to the land of the living. You didn't expect to survive, did you? You expected a slow, painful death. You chose a such death so that Athena wouldn't have to suffer it."

LaRoche draws in a trembling breath. "What I expected matters not."

Blackquill stands and steps forward, towering over him. "What you expected matters everything. It shows the kind of person you are. I expect you to stand up and face me now because there is no reason left for you not to."

For a few moment LaRoche says nothing; neither of them does. Then...

"... He. Heh. Hahahaha!" LaRoche laughs suddenly, bringing a hand up to wipe his eyes. His shoulders shake, and Blackquill can tell it's not all mirth. "You... you always had a way with words, Blackquill," he says, and finally – slowly – he stands, and lifts his head to look up at him.

There are tears rolling down his cheeks, but a smile is still tugging at his lips. But that's not where Blackquill's gaze lingers: it's his forehead. The scar, the one from the bullet that killed Robert LaRoche for a time, is still there – less noticeable, but there. And then there are his eyes. Their shape was changed by surgery, but the color has stayed the same: such pale blue that they look almost like dirty ice. He stares, and LaRoche holds his gaze for a moment before he lowers his eyes and attempts to lower his head as well – but Blackquill won't allow him to, and he reaches down to grasp his chin and force him to look at him.

"Don't you dare turn away from me again!" he snarls, causing LaRoche to recoil and look back up at him, eyes wide. There are a few moments of silence, a long stare, and Blackquill's hand moves to cup his cheek instead. "Don't," Blackquill finds himself repeating, not quite certain what is it he's asking for.

LaRoche blinks, causing some more tears to roll down his cheeks. "... You should have kept believing I was dead, before... before Outis. You were better off."

"I mourned you, and so did Athena."

"But you moved on. You were doing better. I have... I have dragged you back to the start," LaRoche rasps. His right hand, the only real hand he has left, reaches up to cover Blackquill's own. It feels warmer than his own, the scar Athena left on him nine years earlier – almost ten now – still visible on its back. "I failed to die and I failed to stay dead. I'll never cease being your phantom, it see-"

He doesn't get to end the sentence, for Blackquill has had enough and, with his face so close, tilting down his head to cover the little distance between them takes one moment and no amount of thought at all. It's barely more than a soft brush, lips on lips, but enough to make LaRoche fall silent. When Blackquill pulls back the look LaRoche is giving him – surprise and hope and yearning – is almost painful to look at.

"Hmph. You dotard. You're nothing more than human," Blackquill mutters. "Why won't you-"

And then it's his turn to trail off, because LaRoche lets go of his hand to grasp the collar of his shirt with both hands – real and prosthetic both – and yank his head down.

This time, it's more than just a brush: it's eager and desperate and full of need, as are those that follow. Pulling back would take a too great effort of will than either of them can muster at the moment, it seems, and plenty of blind fumbling is needed to get their clothes out of the way without breaking apart one moment more than necessary. This may very well be the last time they can have each other, after all; there is no telling when LaRoche's life may end, whether or not a mission may result with his death in the near future.

But there is a chance it won't be, and that alone is enough to rid them of all the bitterness they endured over two years ago, in the cold prison cell that held them both for a time.

"Perhaps I should purchase a double bed in the future."

Blackquill's voice sounds still ragged when he speaks for the first time in a long while. LaRoche doesn't hold back a smirk, his own breathing still heavy against Blackquill's skin.

"Oh?"

"For the sake of practicality."

"Practicality," he repeats, the smirk widening. The bed certainly isn't as narrow as the prison cots they both know well, but it's narrow enough to force them to rest on each other. Not that he minds terribly.

"Of course. You have no objections, I presume."

LaRoche gives a breathless laugh and burrows his face in the crook of Blackquill's neck, absentmindedly noting that it's a good thing that Blackquill cut his hair; the mane he grew out in prison was quite bothersome last time. "Oh, no," he murmurs. "None at all."

"Hhhnnn...!"

Athena lets out a groan and blindly reaches for the nightstand when her cellphone rings, not even trying to disentangle herself from the sheets first. Last night was fun, especially after a few drinks convinced Apollo to actually use his Chords of Steel for karaoke – knowing him as she does, she can tell he's going to deny it ever happened for the rest of his life; good thing she took pictures – but now she's tired and she needs to sleep. Who is even calling this time? There should be a law against phone calls before midday on weekends, she thinks as she brings the phone to her ear. Especially lawyers who are still hangover from celebrating a trial win.

"Who is it?" she mutters, her voice still hoarse with sleep.

The chuckle from the other side of the line is a very familiar one. "And here I expected you to be up and running your daily mile," Simon says.

She groans, letting her head fall back on the pillow. "It's Saturday and it's early."

"It's nine thirty."

"It's Saturday. Hope you have a great reason to call."

"… As a matter of fact, I do," Simon speaks slowly, suddenly sounding a whole lot more serious, and that definitely gets her attention. She sits up, and her head doesn't even spin much.

"What is it?"

"Well, you could say I had an unexpected visitor last n- this morning. Someone you way want to meet."

That's enough for Athena's heart to jump in her throat, realization immediately sinking in. "Is it him? He's there?"

"Yes. In the kitchen, to be accurate, wolfing down what was supposed to be my breakfast."

"I got you sushi!" another voice calls out in the background, and Athena's heart seems to miss a beat. He's really there and he's alive, as she thought – hoped – through all those months. She throws the covers off herself and stands, nearly tripping over the cell phone charger's cable.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes tops!"

"You need not hurry, I don't think he's leaving until all food in my apartment is go—"

Whatever he says next is lost to Athena, because the next moment she ends the call and throws the cell phone on the bed before darting to the closet. Eighteen minutes later she's standing before Simon's apartment block, pressing on the buzzer, and she's upstairs ringing at his door exactly nineteen minutes after leaving her own apartment.

There are steps, and when the door opens there is a smirk curling up Simon's lips. "I must admit I through that of being here in twenty minutes was a hyperbole. If only you were so on time in court."

"Very funny," Athena wheezes, and she doesn't push past him only because Simon steps aside to let her in without prompting – and LaRoche is there, only a few steps away from her, wearing a Sushi World shirt she doesn't even waste time wondering about. His face is the same as last time she's seen him, but his hair has grown back and is a straw-like blond once again… and somehow he looks perfectly normal, like he never lost any limb to begin with – standing on two legs and with a left arm she could swear is made of flesh and blood.

"... Miss Cykes," he speaks, his gaze holding hers for only a moment before he turns it to the floor. "My apologies for taking so long to- ow!" he trails off with a yelp when Athena crosses the little distance between them and smacks him across the face. Hard. As hard as she can.

"That's for playing dead again," she shouts, giving him a shove. He's far taller and broader than her and he barely steps backwards, not even lifting his hands to shield himself. "I should wring your neck as I said I would, I really should…!" Athena trails off, the anger in her voice already fading – and Widget is as usual a dead giveaway of what she's really feeling.

You're back!

"Cykes," LaRoche starts, but she doesn't give him another moment to speak before throwing her arms around him and holding tight. He stiffens, and she can hear his surprise plain as day.

"I knew you couldn't be dead. I knew it," she says, and pulls back with a smile widening on her face. "What took you so long to show up?"

LaRoche blinks down at her, confusion still overriding most other emotions… but there is something else Athena feels for a brief moment, something very close to happiness. "There was some… physical therapy to get through," he finally says, lifting his left arm to clench and unclench his left hand. It looks absolutely normal, like it's made of flesh and blood – which she knows simply cannot be. "I was able to walk and grasp objects quickly enough, but regaining all my previous abilities took longer."

Athena bites her lower lip. "That can't have been easy."

"I managed. I have to admit that robotic limbs come with a few perks."

"What kind of—" she starts, only to trail off when LaRoche holds out the arm and a grappling hook shoots out of the base of the wrist, snatching the feather right out of Simon's mouth and causing him to rear back.

"Gah!"

LaRoche gives a somewhat impish grin that Athena can't recall seeing on him before, and despite the new face she can tell, for a moment, what young Robb must have looked like once. When he turns back to her, the grin is still lingering. "It does everything the watch did."

"Except telling the time."

"Well, actually—"

"Unless you wish to find yourself with another of those miraculous robotic limbs, you shall refrain from using any of its tricks on me again," Simon says with a scowl. "Whatever you may aim at me shall be met with my blade next time."

Athena makes a face. "Spoilsport," she says, and turns back to LaRoche. "So… does all of this mean that you were with the government? Is that why they never meant to execute you?"

That causes LaRoche's grin to fade. "Yes. It was on the government's behalf that I investigated YggdraCorp and its dealings. I'm certain they planned on ending me after I was exposed, so that I wouldn't reveal whom I worked for. The Yatagarasu convinced them not to, apparently. She was able to convince them that I could still be a valuable asset."

"So… you're still with them, right?"

He glances away. "They didn't invest their resources on me to let me go in an early retirement, I'm afraid. They own me in that sense. As long as they need me as a spy, I'll be one. I've… not truly been anything else in a long time, after all. Which means I may kill more people, if my mission calls for it."

His words are like a cold shower, in a way, but nothing too unexpected. It's a harsh truth, but it is the truth – the very nature of LaRoche's work means he might have to kill people. Dangerous people like those from YggdraCorp, or Outis... or people like her mother. The fact he's now working for the government rather than for his old organization won't necessarily make some deaths justifiable. The concept of a spy with license to kill isn't quite as great in reality as movies make it sound.

Her smile has completely faded now, and LaRoche clearly notices. He lowers his head.

"I can promise you I'd never again kill solely to protect my own identity, as I did with your mother, Terran and Fulbright. I can promise that I'll try to avoid any unnecessary death I can – but that's all. I can't even promise those I kill will have deserved it – I may be used to protect this country's safety or to damage some other. Whether or not someone's death is justified changes depending on who wishes them gone. It's like being in a war, I suppose," he adds, and gives a faint smile. "You're told to fight, and that's it. That's what you do. Whether those on the other side deserve death is not relevant. You do what you're supposed to do – you're not expected to give mercy. Nor you can expect to receive it."

Athena bites her lower lip. "And... and you can't get out of this in any way?" she asks, her throat dry.

LaRoche looks at her – forces himself to look at her, she can tell – and shakes his head. "Yes. I can. My other choice is death. Which is the reason why I'm here."

Athena isn't sure she likes where this is going. "You're… not going to turn yourself in, right?"

"… It is not my wish, no. I'm not quite tired of living yet, to be honest. But neither was anyone I murdered. Neither was Detective Fulbright, or Clay Terran, or your mother. Neither were the people I killed long before them."

That much is true, Athena thinks, a twinge of pain in her chest, and it can't be denied. The Phantom was a multiple murderer, and the sentence for such crimes is death. Still, Athena can't find it in herself to accept it – not while knowing what caused LaRoche to lose his emotions and empathy in the first place, not after watching him fighting step by step to regain them along with a sense of self, not after feeling his agony in doing so… and not after watching him laying down his life to save hers. He's become someone, and that someone is much more than the phantom who killed her mother could ever hope to be.

And none of them will be back if he dies.

She opens her mouth to speak, but she doesn't even know where to start – and Simon speaks up first. "He is willing to pay the ultimate price for his crimes if you wish so," he says. "He's leaving the choice to us. The fact I did not call the police should say enough about what my choice is. But I'll heed your word on this. It's your decision."

For a few moments, Athena is too stunned to talk. LaRoche is there to ask her whether or not she wants him to turn himself in, he's putting his life in her hands after nearly losing it to save her. It's completely unexpected, and certainly not something she's used to – she's a defense attorney, not a judge! She can't just pass a sentence, or… well, technically the sentence was passed already, and he was guilty of several murders. She isn't the only one who lost someone to the Phantom, and it shouldn't be up to her to decide. She almost says as much… but pauses when she thinks of Apollo, of Aura, of the whole police department. None of them would spare him, she's sure… but none of them owes him their life, none of them knows he's not dead already. As far as they're concerned, the Phantom is history.

"… I can't tell you to turn yourself in. I won't. They'd execute you in no time."

"That, or the government would end me first. But most would say I deserve it."

"Most don't owe you their life."

"Which I jeopardized in the first place."

"Don't start this again," Athena groans, reaching up to rub her temples. "Just… don't. Don't get yourself killed. Please."

LaRoche looks back at her before looking away. "… Thank you. For what it's worth, I'll try all I can to avoid unnecessary deaths. I'll let myself be exposed before I murder anyone for the same reasons why I killed your mother."

Athena manages to smile. "You had better not be exposed at all! I... you'll be back at some point, won't you?"

"I assure you he will," Simon speaks from behind her, and there is the reassuring weight of his hand on her shoulder. He looks straight at LaRoche, whose lips curl briefly in a smile. "We have already discussed as much. He won't dare cross the Styx until he has my permission to."

"Oh, of course. It would be truly effective should I find myself with a gun to my head. Please don't shoot, Prosecutor Blackquill will kill me if I die."

"Hmph. I'd find a way to follow you and make you regret leaving this world. Don't doubt that."

"... I don't. But you'd probably have to get in line," LaRoche says, and his smile turns into something more melancholic for a moment; Simon doesn't ask, and neither does Athena.

"So... how long are you going to stay?"

"Not for long, I'm afraid. My partner was able to rig the signal of the microchip they put under my skin, but it can only work for limited time. The government cannot know I am here. I'll have to leave in the morning."

Athena doesn't waste time to wonder why he'd stay overnight rather than simply leave in the evening – the brief slip Simon had at the phone earlier is enough of an answer.

Well, you could say I had an unexpected visitor last n- this morning.

This morning, sure.

"Another assignment?" she asks instead.

LaRoche nods. "Yes. But I'm afraid I can't speak of it."

She bites her lower lip. "Is it going to be dangerous?"

"No more dangerous than others I've taken on. I'll be fine. I had better be," LaRoche adds, briefly glancing at Blackquill, who scoffs. "And, Cykes?"

"Yeah?"

"... We still disagree on whether or not I deserve your forgiveness. I don't believe I do. But I intend to, somehow."

Athena has to hold back a sigh. Really, what else does he think he can do that tops saving her life at the cost of agonizing pain, a couple of limbs and very nearly his life? "Can't think of much else you could do to. It's fine. You've got nothing left to prove. Just… don't be a stranger, okay?"

LaRoche stares at her for a few moments, saying nothing – but he doesn't even try to mute his heart as she knows he could do, and the mixture of sadness and happiness Athena can hear speaks loud enough. "I'll try to visit again when I get a chance," he finally says.

Athena knows it's all he can promise and it may not be much – but, as she leaves Simon's apartment some time later, feeling oddly lighter and with a smile on her face, she knows it is enough.

"... Simon?

LaRoche's voice causes Blackquill to open his eyes, gaze meeting nothing but the darkness in the room. Hearing his first name spoken with LaRoche's voice feels unfamiliar and somewhat alien, far more than the warm weight of his body. "What is it?" he asks, a hand reaching to tangle in LaRoche's hair.

"Do you remember," he speaks, his head still resting on Blackquill's chest as he listen to his heartbeat, "back when… when I was Fulbright and you first spoke to me about the phantom you were still chasing?"

He does, of course. He remembers the conversation well, the first time he spoke to anyone but the Chief Prosecutor about the specter that haunted his nights. He had believed Fulbright to be a fool, but a well intentioned one and one of the very people left to believe he was not a monster. The memory is bitter now that he knows how much of a lie that was.

Still, Blackquill's hand remains tangled in LaRoche's hair. "I do. What of it?"

LaRoche stays silent for a few moments, hesitating, before he speaks again. "… After that talk, I was satisfied. I believed it was because you were beginning to trust Fulbright enough, because I was one step closer to the psych profile."

Blackquill nods, his hand on LaRoche's head stiffening for a moment. That accursed profile, he thinks – the only tangible proof of the Phantom's existence, the only thing he had left of his mentor for seven long years, the reason why he lost her in the first place. He held onto it for all the years he had been in prison, drawing courage from its mere existence even as he cursed himself for asking Metis Cykes to write it, for involving her in something bigger than them both.

"… And what was the true reason?" Blackquill asks.

LaRoche doesn't lift his head from his chest, but his right hand – his real hand – reaches up for his face, cupping his cheek. His thumb brushes over Blackquill's cheekbone, as it did when LaRoche lay in his arms on the brink of death eight months ago. It seems almost impossible to think such a thing could have happened; the new bullet scars on his pale skin are the only visible proof, scars he made sure to kiss while LaRoche shivered beneath him. His fake limbs are entirely covered in synthetic skin and are as warm and any normal limb, hiding the mutilations he suffered.

For a moment Blackquill thinks Aura herself would be proud of such a miracle of technology, but he's quick to chase the thought away. Thinking of his sister, who's spending her last few months in prison right now, in LaRoche's presence... it seems unbearably disrespectful to her. He knows she'd want LaRoche's head if she knew he still lived, and Blackquill's own if she knew he was letting him go. Blackquill couldn't blame her, and somewhere in his guts there is a twinge of guilt.

Unaware of his thoughts, LaRoche replies to his question in a quiet tone. "I couldn't tell, then. But now I know. It was because of how you named me."

"Phantom?"

"Yes. It was… the closest thing to a name I could recall ever having. Few were even aware of my existence; that's… how it works, when you're in my line of work. But you knew I existed, and you named me. You can't name nothingness, can you? I was more real to your than I had ever been to anyone, as far as I could recall then," he says, and pauses. He gives a weak chuckle. "That must sound utterly pathetic."

"It does. But it's understandable."

"You have yet to hear the most pitiful part."

Blackquill scoffs. "Talk, then. I'm far too tired to bother forcing words out of you," he says, briefly stroking LaRoche's hair as he speaks. LaRoche tilts his head, leaning in the touch – and then he speaks again, and Blackquill goes still. The voice that's now leaving LaRoche is his own.

"Tch. Cease your sniveling, Fool Bright. I shall settle in Hell soon enough. All I ask of your precious justice, if there is any, is that I may take my phantom down with me in flames."

There are a few moments of silence, as Blackquill doesn't know what to say. He's rarely speechless, but this is one of those occasions. He remembers telling Fulbright as much, yes, but he did not remember the exact words as LaRoche apparently does. It's ludicrous to think he may have such a miraculous memory that he can remember precisely each word spoken years ago.

Something about that phrase must have made it stick out… and Blackquill is rather sure he can tell what it is. "My phantom," he says quietly. LaRoche nods and finally raises his head to meet Blackquill's gaze. The dim light coming from the window is barely enough to let him see LaRoche's eyes looking down at him.

"Yes," he murmurs. "Your phantom. I couldn't tell how much that meant, then. I couldn't tell why I lay awake at night thinking back of your words. It only made sense later. I was no one – I was nothing – but then again you can't own nothingness. So I had to be someone. I was your phantom. Yours. I didn't just exist to you – I was someone you couldn't leave this world without."

There is a moment of stillness and silence as LaRoche's words fade, then Blackquill scoffs and lifts himself to press his mouth on LaRoche's. The other man's hands grasp his shoulders, and Blackquill reaches around his waist to pull him down with him.

"You are no phantom," he breathes, "but you are mine."

The sound that leaves LaRoche is unlike anything else Blackquill has ever heard. For a time they say nothing else and simply move together in the dark, cries muffled by the meeting of their lips.

This goodbye is, as far as Blackquill is concerned, far more awkward than the previous one.

Back then he had thought it would be a farewell, for LaRoche was headed for the gallows. It had been difficult and painful, but given the circumstances he had known it had to happen… and that it would be final.

But now it is different, of course. LaRoche is not headed to his death, or at least not to certain death, and there is a likelihood he'll be back – although not the certainty. When he may be back is something neither of them knows at the moment; the future is nothing but a question mark.

If LaRoche is killed on an assignment, how would Blackquill even know? He wouldn't. He would be left waiting uselessly for a sign, any sign, that LaRoche may still live – and for how long would he be able to hold on to the hope he has not succumbed to the grim reaper?

The thought is what finally prompts Blackquill to speak after several moments of awkward silence before his apartment's front door. "Don't you dare die out there."

LaRoche smiles wistfully. "I'm getting that a lot lately," he says. "I'll do everything I can to… be back, when I get a chance. If you get a blank postcard from time to time, well. You'll know I'm still around, right?"

Blackquill nods. That sounds like a reasonable compromise. "Hmph. I suppose it will be enough. It goes without saying that you're expected to make it alive to the day you're discharged from service. I won't clutter my apartment with your belongings one day more than necessary," he says.

LaRoche's eyes move for a moment on the crystal bird still sitting on the living room's table. It's the only thing he has left of Seymour Blaxton, and he has chosen to entrust it to him. Regardless what he may say about it, it's not something Blackquill takes lightly.

"Understood," LaRoche says, and tilts up his head to kiss him. Blackquill is more than willing to reciprocate.

When LaRoche pulls back he seems about to speak again, but in the end he says nothing: he only nods at Blackquill, who nods back, and turns to walk through the door, pulling the cap's visor down to conceal his face. That's it, Blackquill muses as he watches walk down the hallway and around the corner, that's their goodbye – a brief kiss and a wordless nod, with the promise of meeting again. But it's fine; it's how it's bound to work, apparently.

There are thousands of words hanging unspoken between them, thousands of words Blackquill doubts either of them will ever say aloud. But, as he shuts the door and turns to glance at the crystal object sitting on the table, LaRoche's taste lingering in his mouth, he knows that he doesn't need to hear them.

A/N: Aaaaand yeah. This is the end. Hard to believe it, huh? It is for me, at least. Anyway, it's been a lot of fun and I hope you enjoyed both this fic and TttP even half as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Time for thanks now, isn't it?

Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/liked/kudo-ed/reblogged this, on whatever site you've been reading it.
Thank you to everyone who actually to time to draw art for this series, too - it was always an amazing surprise and never failed to make my day. If you haven't seen the art, there's a link to it on my profile!
Thank you to Keyanna for proofreading the past several chapters of TO, to yrina918 for fixing ALL of TttP and about half of TO (I'll get uploading the fixed chapters soon, sorry it took me so long!) and to VampireNaomi for proofreading the epilogue - and generally for spurring me on with this.
Last but not least: Keysmash Anon, hope you don't mind me sorta-kinda dedicating the fic to you. I hope things will get better for you. Don't hesitate to drop me a line if you need anything. Hang in there, okay?

Generally, thank you to everyone who's been sticking around until now. As I said, it was an amazing ride. All the best, hope you have amazing holidays ahead!