A/N: First, let me say this was one of the most challenging and gratifying pieces I've ever written. I know I would never have been able to continue it without everyone's support. Neither have I been so encouraged by the responses nor have I felt so well received. I've had more reviews than this, but the adage of quality over quantity has been proven again. I don't think I'll ever be able to top the reviews I've gotten for this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now, I believe I've held off the inevitable as long as I can. Here's the final chapter. For obvious reasons, there will be no sequel.

Chapter Ten: August Loves Tash

It should have been raining. In all the movies he'd seen, it was always pouring buckets of rain, but in real life, it was a clear, cold night. Auggie wanted it to rain. Auggie needed it to rain. Without rain, there was no pretending this was just another bad movie.

He sat in his car, staring through the windshield at her. She was sitting at the table, barely visible through the restaurant's window. She was wearing a black dress, the kind that was only just acceptable in polite company. Her hair, her beautiful fiery locks, the ones that had first drawn his eyes, was cascading down her pale shoulders in perfect ringlets.

Perfect. She looked perfect.

He'd invited her there, called her from his desk, told her to meet him at Kincaid's at seven thirty. He had intended to go in, to tell her face-to-face, but he hadn't been able to get out of his car.

He'd planned his whole speech, but in the harshness of the streetlamps and perfect night, his words didn't seem right. His knuckles were white in the dark of his car as he gripped the steering wheel.

Auggie wished he could tell her that he'd been able to save her. He wished he could whisper in her ear that he was going to be her white knight in shining armor. He'd tried so hard. He'd gone to Joan, told her about her skills, tried to convince his boss that she would be a huge asset to the Agency, but Joan had seen right through him. She placed her hand on his shoulder and said they couldn't interfere.

"Perhaps before they identified her," she had said. "Maybe we could have hired her, but it's out of our hands now."

Auggie had tried to argue—he'd even gone as far as begging—but Joan had said there was nothing they could do.

Auggie sat in his car, his muscles locked as he watched her sip her wine and glance around to see if he'd arrived yet. He wanted to honk the horn, to punch, kick out his car door, but he couldn't.

"It's too late," Joan had said.

Too late. The words tasted as bad as they sounded. If only he'd known what she'd been doing. If only he'd had the courage to ask what she wrote those programs for. If only he'd told his college professor to screw himself when he'd first recruited him. If only…

For the first time in as long as he could remember, August Anderson felt tears on his cheeks. He didn't bother trying to stop his eyes from leaking; it was as pointless as trying to push back the onslaught of memories.

They'd spent the whole day in their compartment on the train back to Crystal City, and before that they'd spent the whole weekend in their hotel room. She'd given him the box set of Next Generation for Christmas. Somehow she'd known they were his favorite. When he'd given her the key to his apartment, she'd merely smiled.

They'd argue for hours until one of them pulled the other into a heavy kiss that always resulted in crumpled sheets and long afterglows. She'd taught him how to encrypt a computer to be better protected than Fort Knox. She'd leave messages in codes on his counter. She'd always carry a book of logic puzzles in her computer bag. She'd lean into his chest and smile. She'd fall asleep on his shoulder. She'd deign she snored. She'd never comment when he would jerk awake. She'd never questioned his need to keep a knife in his nightstand. She'd say his name and he'd feel a warm glow. She'd get him so angry, he'd be forced to remember that he loved her.

He loved her.

August Anderson loved Natasha Petrovna.

No, August Anderson loved Tash. Auggie loved Tash, not Natasha. Natasha was a black widow, a seductress with dubious morals.

"Me, the Agency—we're the only ones who have your back."

Have his back. Where were they when Auggie needed them? Where were they when the only woman he'd ever loved was about to be served up cold? After all he'd done for them, given them the best ten years of his life, where were they? It was all a joke.

Auggie cleared his throat. He reached around for his phone, and without pulling his eyes from the woman in the black dress, he dialed a number. "General, this is Lieutenant August Anderson. You know that invitation? Well, I'm accepting."

Natasha glanced out of the window, her brown eyes searching the blackness for his sturdy, confident stride. But she wouldn't find it, because Auggie had already pulled away.

~OOOOOO~

August Anderson walked through his apartment once more, assuring himself that everything was in its place or locked up in storage.

In less than forty-eight hours, he'd be reunited with his team. He hadn't asked where; it hadn't mattered then, and it didn't matter now.

His desk in the middle of the DPD bullpen was abandoned. Some rookie might take it, claim it as their own, and they could have it. The only thing of any significance left there—that letter that had destroyed all doubt in his mind—they could have. He certainly didn't want it. He didn't need yet another reminder that he couldn't have what could have been.

He swung his bag over his shoulder and walked to his door. He kept his eyes from narrowing and his eyebrows from curling inward, and forced his lower facial muscles to relax the hook-shaped fold alongside his mouth. Maybe he pulled it off, maybe he didn't; Auggie couldn't get himself to look in the mirror.