A/N: Welcome to the finale. A huge thanks to those who have been here for the long-haul, and a thumbs up if you're binge-reading this in one go. I really hope you enjoy.

"...Ugh."

"What's wrong?"

"Airline tickets are expensive when your employer isn't paying for them..."

Lunch was an eat-in-the-office affair that day in October. Sasha held his sandwich in his left hand, his right currently occupied with scrolling through choices of travel websites. He had a lofty goal to fulfill, and had at first started with the 'no matter what' sort of mindset. But as the numbers fluctuated and remained in the high zone, he began to question if it was still a tangible idea.

It wasn't a 'good' idea, that was for sure. It had never been that, despite Milla's insistences to the contrary. But it didn't have to be a good idea – it just had to be one so he could get the baggage off his back.

"When was the last time you bought your own plane tickets, darling?"

"Approximately never."

"Oh dear." Milla shook her head, diving into her tupperware container for more of whatever her leftover dinner-turned-lunch was. "Then of course you'd be in for sticker shock."

"No wonder they make those five nimrods drive around in a bus..."

Sasha received a rap on the head from Milla's fork. He flinched, but continued his searches, just hoping he wouldn't be wiping a noodle out of his hair later.

"You know, if you had booked this a few months ago – like, say, before summer – then you'd probably be having an easier time."

Relinquishing his hand from the mouse, Sasha took an aggressive bite from his sandwich, chewing through it with more emotion than needed. He side-glared at Milla. "This wasn't a concern at that point in time."

She giggled, though it had an edge of darkness. "It could've been."

"Yes, I know, I'm aware." Sasha hunched his shoulders and took three more successive bites out of his sandwich, said food probably wondering what it had done to deserve such a cruel fate as to be eaten with passive-aggressive anger.

Milla smiled, though her gaze was centered on her food so it appeared an odd reaction. "Why do you call it a 'concern'? What are you concerned about?"

Sasha was mid-opening of his mouth to take another bite when she spoke. He paused, slammed his jaw shut, and slouched in his desk chair, also deciding to set the remainder of his sandwich down on the napkin folded out for it. "You're not the concern," he said quietly, knocking his head into his fist while glancing at the computer monitor before him. "I just now have cause for concern."

Plane tickets for Germany were expensive.

Long ago, back when he first made his way to America, Sasha had figured he would never go back home. After a few years, he had flaked a bit on that declaration, which started when he began writing the occasional letter to his father to maintain the status of 'alive'. The contents of those letters mainly consisted of random snippets of what was going on in his life; Sasha liked to think that he wasn't completely lying. He did work for a government agency, meaning he couldn't really go around sharing stories of his missions. It was just that there was very little else to say – not a whole lot happened outside of work, which, honestly, consumed a great deal of his life anyway.

Whenever he thought of going back, a little theatrical production sprang up in Sasha's imagination. He could just see it – returning home for the first time in ages, with an accent betraying his native tongue but a haircut that hadn't changed at all. He had a few things to say...first off would be "I'm a psychic", and explaining all that went into that...secondly would be "speaking of psychics, this is my something-something, Milla Vodello"...and then third...well...third would be a very simple one: "I'm sorry."

Apologizing for running away would be a good place to start, but in the grand scheme of things, Sasha had slowly realized over the years that he had a lot more to apologize to his father for. By leaving, he had abandoned him. The man no longer had a family; his wife was dead and his son had fled for seemingly no reason. How much grieving had he go through? How did he continue on with his life, doing nothing but cobbling shoes and lamenting his losses? What did he even look forward to before Sasha began sending him those letters? Did he even look forward to those? Did he...did he even want to see his estranged son again?

The next thing he knew he was breathing louder, the air sucked in between his teeth and a cold numbness sweeping up his arms. But soon, Milla's hand was on his shoulder, her other arm making its way around his collarbone while she nestled her head onto his other shoulder.

"Shhh..."

He wasn't sure what it was, and even though the technique seemed better suited for soothing a scared child, Sasha still felt comforted by her actions. He closed his eyes to shut out the visuals of numbers and names, instead repeating a mantra to himself: 'nothing has happened, nothing is set in set, nothing is unchangeable'.

After a prolonged spell of silence, he opened his eyes again, glancing down at the multi-colored fabric of Milla's sleeve, and sighed, sinking further into his chair. The chill was beginning to fade, but his heart still raced. It felt weak, and just a little pathetic, but it was all he could do to merely clutch onto her arm.

He completely accepted that having a psychic partner meant trusting them. That was fine. But that didn't change the fact that he, Sasha Nein, was not a person one would call 'touchy-feely'. The idea of contact in general didn't bother him, but the idea of a touch that went beyond a handshake or a pat on the shoulder was the type that made his stomach crawl. As time wore on, he had unfortunately gotten used to things like, say, the more emotional academy students wanting to hug him (that usually came with tears on their end; it was a facet he never quite understood), or the campers poking and prodding him because they just sort of felt like doing it that day. He could...deal with that. The hugs he gave back were stiff, the pats on the head to youngsters a bit awkward, but that was par the course.

This, though...Sasha had never realized it, but Milla's habit of latching herself to his arm just never seemed to bother him. It was okay. It worked. It was never odd, or uncomfortable, or annoying. It just...was. The difference between then and now was that he could...hang on to her back.

And when he thought about it, he figured it was probably something he could've done all this time, but never felt it his place to do so. He could've played up the acts a bit more when they were undercover, rather than appearing like the cold stoic to his lovely female companion. Of course, his 'acting' never went much beyond being 'the neutral one'; occasionally he got to branch out and play up tropes commonly used with Germans in fictional tales (like being the mustache-twirling villain, or an uptight designer, or a mad scientist – wait...), but for the most part, Milla covered the spectrum of emotions. She was quite the talented actress, although only called on the ability when it came to work.

Even now, there were still some things he had a bit of trouble getting over. Like, uh, kissing. That was a good place to start: the kisses between two people. Their first one (well, first intentional one (let's not talk about it, those stories were embarrassing)) happened in a rush of emotions that completely shut off the rest of his brain. That's what emotions did when they were highly concentrated, and they were a double-edged sword that way. Yes, in that evening, Sasha had spit out his feelings in an obtuse way and Milla had reciprocated, putting several years of denial and half-angst to rest.

But once those emotions wore off, his scrutiny kicked in. 'Bakterein!' he shouted to himself. 'Aber Milla!' was the response. The problem with a kiss was that it went far beyond the personal boundaries he was so fond of. It was close; it was the exact definition of 'intimate' that others liked to snicker at when he used it to describe psychic partnerships. 'Aber...es ist Milla.'

And then, of course, to further compound and complicate the issue, there came the echo of a voice in the back of his mind: "You ever plan on becoming a father, Nein?" He flinched then, and flinched now; something his partner took notice of.

"Are you alright, darling?"

Sasha adjusted his neck to look at her properly, straining to keep his thinking straight. She was still in her 'caretaker' mode, although the effect of being in a relationship meant that she felt the need to kiss his cheek. Even with the argument of 'Es ist Milla',a single shiver ran through his body. For her sake, he tried to get the corners of his mouth to twitch upward, but it was rather far from being a smile.

He had a thought. But before he could verbalize that thought, he eyed the corner of his office and telepathically shut the door – he didn't need anyone else hearing what he was about to ask – before looking back at his partner. (Still hesitant on the word 'girlfriend'; it continued to feel too juvenile to him.) "Milla..."

"Yes?"

Suddenly becoming very interested in her wrist, Sasha stared at the strip of skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove. "Have you ever thought about...having...children..." His voice trailed off at the end, not even remembering to add an inquiring tone to the sentence.

Milla, though, giggled. She pulled her arms away from his shoulders, swinging around to sit on the side of the desk facing him as opposed to her previous perch of behind, and rested her head in her hand. "Having children? In general or with you?"

Sasha covered the lower half of his face with his hand, though knew she could see he was turning beet red regardless. She giggled again, though her grin was a bit too mischievous. "I know what you mean, sweetie – yes, I have; I don't see any reason not to." Her eyes became soft as a memory came back to her, but as soon as it came, it went, returning to its devious expression. "However..." She shook her head, tsking. "My parents would not be happy without at least a ring on my finger, and neither would this girl."

Sasha bit his tongue, hardly ready for such a remark. He glanced at her and scowled, though he knew it looked rather weak when coupled with his childish embarrassment. So instead he just frowned and tried his best to look insulted or – some sort of emotion that displayed he was not thinking of doing what she had implied he would.

"Milla," he said in his best attempt to calm himself, "I'd like to think of myself as a gentleman."

She, of course, laughed. "Sasha darling, I know what you'd like to see yourself as – a gentleman and a scholar, is the phrase? - and I do think you are, for the most part." Her laughter, at once teasing him, toned down into a kind smile. "I think you're a gentleman. Been a lovely one to me so far."

"A month isn't much to go on..." Sasha mumbled. He already had enough expectancies from other people about what he was to do when in an actual relationship ('actual' being a word lobbed at him a lot), and that was without even thinking of how the other half of said relationship was taking everything. He assumed she was happy? Nothing in her behavior seemed to suggest otherwise? And he was rather acutely aware of these types of things? Or...so he thought...

"A month? It's been much longer than that. Years." She paused. "Ten..?"

He squinted his eyes in thought. "That long?" They'd been partners for ten years? Had time really gone by like that? Ten years ago was an awfully long time to have spent with a person, and it seemed Milla was counting that in their 'dating' quota. So ten years unofficially, one month on record. The staggering differences between the two hit Sasha in the head a bit hard, and he once again had to grumble out a 'yes, I know' to the teasing voices.

"Why are you asking about children, darling?"

Suddenly he remembered the task at hand:

'Vati.'

Why was he thinking about becoming one when he was worried about being a disgrace to his own?

Looking back at his computer screen, Sasha let out a sigh, tapping his finger into his temple while he cradled his cheek in his palm. "Contemplation hits at certain moments."

Milla rolled her eyes, reminding him that lying to her, or at least, trying to brush things off, was a fairly useless maneuver. "You're worried about your father, sweetie. Why haven't you ever seen him?"

Sasha closed his eyes. "You, of all people, should know why."

"I know why you avoid him, but really, I don't understand why you haven't made amends." At the sigh she received, Milla gently chided, "He's your father, Sasha...do you really think he doesn't want to see you? That he doesn't love you?"

She knew. Of course she knew.

"You've heard them. You've seen them."

"I know they're there. But I don't believe them." Sliding off his desk to get closer, Milla took his free hand and held it in both of hers, squeezing it tightly. "You can't believe their words, darling. You do that...you do that, and who knows how long they'll have you."

At first, running away from home didn't bother him. All the work he had to do to merely survive was exhausting, but it kept his mind from wandering. It was only later, when he was in the custody of the Psychonauts, did he have time to think about the journey he had taken and what he had left behind. In those days, there were few people to interrupt his thoughts, and fewer who understood his words – though it wasn't like he could comprehend theirs either.

He sometimes wished he couldn't understand the voices that eventually crept into his head. 'Why did you leave? You left him all alone...Herr Nein der Schuster; his wife stolen from him, abandoned by his only son...Day in and day out, all he has left to do is make those shoes, but who is to say he won't one day take the hammer to his own head? Stop... 'What would drive a boy to leave his father like that? Why would he leave the single bit of family he had?' You don't understand... 'He grew old and alone with nothing for years, until finally letters came...but is that really good enough? Pieces of paper with false words scribbled on them?' It's not... 'That man must despise his son – to be cast aside by one's own flesh and blood, whom he raised single-handily...'

The Nightmares were shrewd with their words, that was for sure.

"...You've listened to them, haven't you?"

"Listened," Sasha emphasized, glancing at Milla, who still had his hand clenched in hers. "I've listened. I haven't believed."

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his expression. "Don't lie to me." Her gaze punched him in the lungs; something of a mix between cold anger and scolding. Part of that might've actually been psychic pressure, most of it was simply the effectiveness of her eyes.

He managed to keep his vision straight, but could feel his own eyes watering from not wanting to lose their staring contest. The Nightmares, they were just...voices in the back of his head, the kind everyone had. Of course. They were just the doubts and pressures of life that came about, there was no reason to feel they were actually true, to feel that they really were influencing his thoughts...

"Maybe...I did...once or twice..."

"Oh Sasha..." Milla released a sigh, her hands still grasping his tightly. Sasha lowered his brow before some instinct in his head kicked in, forcing his other hand off his face and on top of their collective pile. He wasn't exactly sure what to do in this situation, but he had enough grace to know that the gesture wouldn't hurt, as it would most likely provide comfort to his...girlfriend.

That word really was tacky.

"They're your dark thoughts, they're the worst of your soul, they're everything you fear and hate coming back to rob you of the good things." With every word, Milla lowered her head, until finally her forehead was resting on their hands. "Sasha," she murmured quietly, "I don't want to see you be afraid of your father because of the demons in your heart."

If he were something more of an emotional man, Sasha perhaps would've started crying. It, after all, suited the moment. But...it didn't suit him. Instead, he took a breath and analyzed the scene, his mind racing with hundreds of scenarios for each passing second. After a break of five, a surge of words sprouted from the cockles of his mentalscape, accompanied by a rush of feelings that he was sure were going to place him in another awkward-in-retrospect situation.

"Danke schön, meine Liebe," he managed to say, which caused Milla to raise her head until she was once again staring at him, though this time without a contest attached. Her gaze made his throat tighten – it was kind, sincere, somehow more loving than he'd seen before – and he barely managed to speak his other intent: "I'll be fine with you."

International travel was still awful.

Long flights that spanned various timezones led to awkward days of being ready to sleep at 2 in the afternoon and the body's unwillingness to eat dinner when it clearly yelled out for breakfast. Unfortunately, being 'international secret agents' meant they were rather used to this. By the time Sasha and Milla left the airport and were making their way through snow-lined roads, it was past 5am and time to make up for lost sleep – so coffee it was.

The journey to Flughafen Frankfurt am Main had begun first off by the need to request an extra day off. Zanotto had raised an eyebrow but then gave in to his urge to mercilessly tease Sasha, who muttered his thanks while being happy of having the next two weeks off work. (Well, for now. If a major mission popped up? Then back to the grind.) If being in a relationship had taught him one thing, it was that other people became more obnoxious. That might, however, just have been the special case for him.

Unlike his previous airport experience to Europe, this one went off without a hitch – and a bit more enjoyably to boot. True, a pre-dawn flight wasn't ideal, but it became less of an issue when there was a lovely lady at your side, and not just out of professional obligation. About twenty minutes after the fact, Sasha had registered that Milla wasn't latched to his arm, but holding his hand as they made their way through the airport with other travelers (a decent amount due to the time of year and ever-present business meetings). Although his brain initially pitched a fit, it was quickly punched into submission by drowsiness that drifted into pleasant euphoria.

Then there was the actual flight. Oh, it was nice. Just a hair beneath 'comfortable' as far as the physical amenities went, but when he woke up from his first nap, he was greeted by a warm weight on his right side. It was Milla snoozing quietly, one arm hugging herself, the other resting under her cheek and against his chest.

Maybe he could get used to this sort of thing after all.

Sasha had sent his father two letters since booking the tickets: both rather succinct, with one stating when he was to visit (with a scribbled note of 'mit meiner Freundin, Frau Milla Vodello', a line added at Milla's request), and a second meant to serve merely as a reminder that yes, the two were, in fact, still coming. He had received one, and only one, reply, the first reply ever from his dad: 'Ich bereite das Gästezimmer'.

Which meant things were looking...positive.

"This is so beautiful, darling," his partner murmured, her head against the door window. "It's like a fairy tale. A village hidden away in the snow-capped lands..."

"Sure," was Sasha's grunt of a reply. He had never driven the roads around his hometown, and his grip on the steering wheel would've shown white knuckles if it weren't for his ever-present gloves, now particularly suited for the weather. The directions and the map were engrained in his mind, studied down to the bends in the road, though Milla served as back-up navigator with a printed-out sheet of the routes in hand. He had been planning this day in meticulous detail, rehearsing what he was to say, miming out what words and questions his father would have. When he exhausted himself of that, he would obsess over the airline itinerary, then a map of the area, and finally he would just crumple under his own stress and question why he had given up smoking.

Soon enough the quiet roads gave way to a town, hazily familiar buildings mixed in with a few of modern construction. In much the same way he had changed but remained relatively the same, his boyhood home had done some growing but not dramatically so. The streets were still laid out the same, and after a few turns and some careful maneuvering, Sasha was staring at the storefront he had fled from all those years ago.

The car was still running to keep the heat on, which was probably more noise than the block was used to at a little past 6 in the morning. Milla peered out the window curiously.

"You lived here?"

"The business is in the front space. The rest of the building...was our home." He paused, unsure if the tenses were correct or appropriate, but instead sipped the last of the coffee from his paper traveling cup.

"It's very charming," Milla continued, and he couldn't tell if she was desperate for words or simply tired. Seeing as how she could lie with more conviction than that, Sasha chose to interpret it as the latter. And indeed, 6am made him feel like a lead weight – lack of sleep before they left the US, coupled with periodic naps in-flight, didn't make for well-rested agents.

Propping his hands on top of the steering wheel and his head on top of them, Sasha stared at the building with a hollow, empty mind. This was it. This was the day he had been avoiding for...the longest time. Not even the dark voices of the Nightmares clawed at his thoughts. There was a stark feeling of nothing sitting on him, mixed with a sense of...nervousness? But not the kind mixed with dread, rather, the kind that came when one was to take a test, or meet an authority figure for the first time, or flunk an interview. It was the rational kind of nervous...or at least, that's what he was saying to rationalize it.

When a channel in the hollow empty space opened, Sasha quickly turned off the car, unbuckled his seatbelt, and flung open the driver's side door. He had just made it to the sidewalk when the thunk of closing the door brought him back to full awareness, leaving him left to stand and watch staggered breaths escape from his mouth in the form of steam. Milla was out and standing in front of him quickly thereafter, balancing on one foot and leaning forward towards him with her eyebrows raised.

"You're nearly there, sweetie, it would be a shame to stop now."

He didn't respond – couldn't, as a matter of fact – and instead began to shake. Short, shaky spouts of steam escaped his chattering jaw, and even with all the forces in the world pushing him forward, there was just that one wall of hollow nervousness blocking his path. There were so many words falling into place, but none could even make it to his throat, every attempt resulting in a quiet stutter that just produced more steam. He swallowed and jammed his eyes shut, feeling all the more like the overwhelmed and pathetic child he had been when he ran away all those years ago.

As he tremored in darkness, his young, frightened self coming back, he slowly began to feel something: dread. It was coming, rising from the pit of his stomach. This was – this was a disaster. He had made it so far, and was so close, but last-minute hesitation and the brutal reality of how real it suddenly was brought back the childish fears he thought he'd put to rest.

There he was. Sasha Nein, international secret agent for the Psychonauts. Described as many things in his lifetime, but usually one of three would be used: brilliant, rational, stoic. He was the man revered as an ideal agent; sometimes a headache to those around him, but always relied on to get the job done. Young and old psychics alike idolized him, were motivated by his story to pursue their own mental talents. There were therefore three things he wasn't allowed: to make a mistake, to have a bias, and to be afraid.

Of course he broke those three – he was human, despite some snickering beliefs. But such deviations were usually minor, and he typically held true to his perceived persona. He was rather proud of that fact, actually. He was consistent, and consistency meant stability meant control.

Except for right now.

Right now, he was frozen, and not from the temperature, or even from the Nightmares. It was just his own self. Everything was on lockdown, the communication between his mind and body severed. And just when he began to grind his teeth and shake his fists, a sudden warm little sprite appeared in the bleakness of his terrified mind – small in comparison to everything else, but still comforting, warm, inviting.

The visitor was soon coupled with a physical pressure on his shoulder blade, and then another on the middle of his spine. Then came a voice from somewhere...it might've been real, or maybe it was just inside his mind...but it was a voice nonetheless, speaking words he couldn't comprehend but somehow understood: "Você vai ficar bem comigo."

Five words. Five words in a language he didn't know turned everything still. The quiet sounds of early morning village life made themselves known, but for once, there was nothing going on in his mind. Just...peace. Sasha raised his arms, his body re-synced with his brain, and returned the hug to Milla. It was light at first, his usual approach to the physical exchange, but then his muscles tightened and he squeezed her closer.

It was like a movie, one of those really terrible ones Milla had always enjoyed long before the two started having those things known as 'date nights'. Usually the couple would've been kissing in the rain (which sounded rather uncomfortable), or the man would spin the woman around as they laughed against a sunset. Those scenes made his stomach crawl.

He might've felt slightly hypocritical at the present moment, but he...really didn't care. Milla was rather close to his height, so even if he wanted to progress the 'movie' scenario, it would've been hard to do so. There would be no spinning, or lifting in the air in general, and thankfully no rain. Sasha instead settled on something he was not quite sure he could pull off but damn well felt like doing, and lightly kissed her forehead.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, his nose pressed against her hairline. A moment passed before she giggled into his shoulder.

"That's what friends are for, darling."

Being calm was one of his strengths, despite his previous terror, and it came in handy in this current situation. He wasn't worried about his relationship with Milla. He wasn't afraid of anything...happening, really. It was a secure partnership that had naturally led into something else. Some might've been worried when their significant other said 'friends'. What was the harm in that, though? And right now, he needed the wonderful hybrid that was his...Liebe.

(It really was the best phrase to use.)

Milla released herself from their hug first, turning on her heel while grabbing his wrists and thumping into him so as to settle her back into his chest while crossing his arms over her torso. The action was so smooth that Sasha had blinked slower than she had moved. "We should get this show on the road, don't you think?"

For a brief second, there was a blip of a thought – 'this is really comfortable, I don't particularly want to move' – but priorities sorted themselves out. Sasha slipped one of his hands into one of hers, using the other to encourage her to spin and unravel from their standing cocoon set-up. With a few more steps – two to the side, one at a diagonal, and a final one forward - he was leading the way past the sidewalk, up the alley next to the Nein establishment, and coming to a halt at the back door, one he hadn't seen since he was a bit shorter. Things were still somehow the same, although he was deliberately avoiding the bit of green in the backyard with the sprawling willow tree.

Sasha inhaled, then sighed, lowering his gaze to the concrete as he lifted his fist to the door. There was no turning back at this point, but moving forward was a difficult thing to start. As the seconds ticked by and his arm remained still, Milla picked up the slack and gently squeezed his hand.

"You can do it, and you know it."

Exhaling and lowering his arm at the same time, he managed to produce a muffled pound on the door, but needed another hand-squeeze of encouragement before repeating the action in a quicker successive series, his pulse increasing with every knock. After what felt like a sufficient number, he brought his arm back down to his side and listened.

At first there was silence. But then - a chair creaked, its legs scraping against the floor. A slow set of feet lumbered their way closer to the door, and Sasha thought he was going to take Milla's fingers off with how tightly he was squeezing her hand. Yet, as terrified as he was, he couldn't peel his eyes away from peeling white paint in front of him. Now there was absolutely no turning back.

"Wer ist da?" a low voice rumbled from the opposite side. It wasn't fair to describe the tone as a 'rumble' so much as a 'glide'; twenty-ish years later and Sasha could still recognize the unmistakable voice of his father. It was more like a double bass than a...what, an avalanche?

"Sasha. Dein Sohn."

A moment's hesitation followed the response, but soon enough, the lock slid in its tumblers and the door slowly creaked open. Standing a few inches above Sasha was a bespectacled pair of eyes, which were distant and perhaps a bit sleepy. The crack soon opened up wider, and standing right there, possibly a bit bewildered and stunned while still somehow absolutely unreadable, was the man himself, the actual Herr Nein - Herr Nein der Schuster.

"Sasha..."

He swallowed, his mouth dry, the lump choking in his throat. On a quivering breath, he managed to eek out, "Vati."

His father's chest swelled on a long drag of air while he pulled open the door to its full width, stepping back so as to clear a path. "Herein Sie fangen werde kalt draußen."

A cold. The first phrase his father had spoken to him since he was a boy was to express his concern about them catching a cold from standing outside. The words punched him straight through the chest, so much so that he sucked in a sharp breath of air between his teeth while a surge of warmth shot straight to his face. There was a sting in his eyes, and for once, he could actually feel the wet drops of tears that wanted to fall.

Milla's voice sprouted up in his mentalscape, picking up scraps of his translated thoughts. 'He still loves you.'

Of course...of course he did.

'What do I do?' he asked her as they stepped into the back room of the building – the kitchen, as memory still proved correct in recalling.

'Whatever you feel you need to do.'

Sasha shot his gaze back at her, his eyes wide and daring her to repeat the unhelpful words. She smiled at him instead, unwinding her fingers from his grip and twirling on her heel to face his father.

"Herr Nein?" she asked in a hybrid of polite question and greeting. With hands behind her back and feet crossed, she appeared somewhat more demure and charming – a trick she pulled whenever the two found themselves in pressing situations that involved a lot of quick thinking and talking.

"Frau Vodello, yes? It is nice to meet you."

Milla was visibly delighted. Sasha jerked his head towards his dad.

"Du sprichst Englisch?!"

The man glanced at his son, expression blank, what with the glasses and impressive mustache covering most of the obvious indicators. "Ja. Genug. It is needed these days." He might've smiled, since the next words were, "Du hast einen Akzent nun, weißt du das?"

All that build-up, and all those years of avoidance, just to be teased by his father for developing an accent to his native language. Sasha scowled, suddenly feeling like a child again, except on the front of being immature rather than his actual youth.

"I'm aware," he deadpanned. Milla giggled.

"Quite a difference, darling," she said, comparing how the two men spoke. Sasha directed his scowl at her, while his father's eyebrows raised.

"Darling..." he repeated, before eying his son. "Deine Freundin ist ganz hübsch."

If Sasha had lived a normal life – done normal things, been a normal person, meaning a different person – then he wouldn't be having the reactions he was having right then. As it stood, he had missed out on quite a lot, and nowhere was he feeling like he 'should've gone through this' more than when in a relationship. So even though his father's comment was innocent and true enough, that Milla was 'very pretty', the blood still rose to his face out of sheer embarrassment.

"Ja," was all he chose to reply with.

"Coffee?" his father asked, while gesturing towards the long kitchen table propped against the wall. A bench ran along one side, chairs on the other, with most of its surface covered in stacks of papers and what appeared to be magazines.

"That is so kind of you," Milla said first, unraveling her limbs and following his gesture to take a seat at the table. "Yes, please; thank you."

"Sasha?"

"Bitte," he answered, still in a slight daze. This was not playing out at all like he had expected, and it was throwing his entire consciousness out of line. He stood and stared at his father, who set about meticulously measuring out coffee grounds into the basket of a percolator.

"Filtrierapparat?" Sasha asked slowly, his wince transferring to his tone.

"Nur warten. Und – speak English for Frau Vodello. You are being impolite."

"Oh, I'm fine," Milla hurried out, looking up from one of the magazines she had in her hand. Sasha frowned.

"Are you sure?"

"I know enough. Do not worry."

Sighing, Sasha gave up on the debate, ungluing his feet from the floor and joining his partner at the table. He was just about ready to settle into the resigned thoughts circulating around in his mind – 'this is deviating completely from the script' – when he caught sight of the magazines on the table.

They weren't magazines.

'Echte Psychische Märchen' stared back at him from a few of the covers, 'True Psychic Tales' from others. There were dozens of collected anthologies, hundreds of the individual comics – some in pristine condition, others that had seen better days – and more than a handful contained his (and Milla's) likeness somewhere on the cover. Sasha stared at them for a moment before hastily rummaging through the stacks, not even sure what he was looking for. How long had – where did he – when did they -

"Do you read those?" Herr Nein asked as he set the percolator on the stove and turned on its corresponding burner. "Frau Wirth showed one to me. Her daughter enjoys them." He kept his back turned to the two at the table, pulling out a drawer and withdrawing an egg timer. "She said to me, 'this character is named Sasha Nein and looks like your son, have you heard of the series?'. And I said no, but went to the bookstore to see if they had any."

Various labels covered the issues, some with a store-specific sticker, others without, but as a whole they had been collected from a variety of places. Most of the German-language ones appeared to be from the local bookstore, while those in English came from all over. A few had sticky notes jutting out from between their pages, for whatever reason.

"I started to collect the ones they released here. I heard there were more in America, so I began to import them. They were helpful for learning English."

Sasha looked up, not even sure how to be handling the current situation. Even Milla was rendered starkly quiet, instead having taken to pulling out the issues with the sticky notes to figure out their pattern. And anyway, this wasn't her conversation to try and unravel. "Vati...did you learn English just to read these?"

Herr Nein cocked his head over his shoulder. "It is easy to be motivated to learn when there is something you like to help you."

He was probably lying, but there was still the larger, unanswered question still lingering in the air. At this point, there was really no reason in answering it except for formality's sake. In the meantime, everything was just song and dance; a distraction for the inevitable string of words that would make or break it all.

"Is the title correct?"

Sasha blinked. That wasn't really the way he had thought this would go. "Eh?"

"Are they 'true'?"

...He should've known. Sasha inherited more from his father than the hair and facial structure; he also appeared to have been given some of the man's ticks and habits. This right here was the 'roundabout question' method, and again, it was one of the games that he was quite adept at playing. But up against his dad, there was really no point to it.

"They have small doses of truth."

"Well," his father began, turning around and fixing his masked gaze on him, "this is what I have found to be true: My son is Sasha Nein, and there is a character just like him in the comic. My son told me he works a secret job for the government and this character does as well. My son cannot say what he does and neither can this character. My son said he had a work partner named Milla Vodello, and she is also the partner of this character." He sighed, his brow lowering. "This character is a psychic...and foolish as it may be, I can only assume my son is as well."

The inevitable silence that filled the room only did more to convict the two. And it wasn't like Sasha had planned on hiding the truth – he was going to let it out eventually. But he had planned on it being on his own terms, when he was ready; clearly not in the early morning when he hadn't slept much in the past 36 hours.

'...Sasha...' Milla glanced up at him, an assortment of sticky noted comics spread under her hands. He exhaled, breaking the gaze he had been holding with his father, and looked over at her, confused and slightly concerned. She raised her eyebrows and twitched her head in the direction of the man whose question they were delaying. 'It's fine.'

'It – why do you say that?'

'Well, for one, he is your father, and he is making us coffee. I don't think he would be hospitable if he was going to throw us out. And two – you're giving him too little credit. He is a much smarter man than you think. You two are quite similar, dear.'

He frowned. 'Some aspects, yes, but – what does that have to do with all of this?'

"You don't read these, do you?" Milla asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Sasha panicked internally, though kept outwardly composed, as he was apt to do.

'Why are you -'

"Talk out loud Sasha, you're being rude."

'He doesn't need to hear this, Milla.'

"He has every right to hear this."

'This is ridiculous!'

"You're the one being ridiculous, darling, and now you're making me look silly because I'm talking to nothing."

Sasha dragged in a sharp, rather painful burst of air through his nose, his nostrils flaring. He glowered at his partner before mumbling a resigned, "No, I don't read those comics."

Milla's eyes remained narrow for a moment longer before she gave a slight smile, returning her attention to the table. "I do – they're quite wonderful sometimes, and in the very least, it gives me something to talk to the children about. And darling, if you did read them, you would learn what to say and not to say in your letters."

He furrowed his brow. There were a few questions to ask, but first and foremost: "How do you know what my letters say?"

She tapped her head. Of course she would use her privilege of sneaking around his mind to dig out secrets. Of course. Following that, she flicked her hand at a few of the comics, flipping them open with a short-term for of levitation. Sasha panicked for a moment, shooting his glance at his father, who also seemed visibly on-edge...but more from surprise rather than fear. Milla snapped her fingers to bring his attention back to her, and pointed down at the pages.

Sasha leaned over the table, squinting to read the notes clearly. On one – a copied line from a letter, mentioning the time he broke his collarbone in Chattanooga. And sure enough, on the page – Agent Nein reporting his broken collarbone suffered in Nashville. An additional scribble on the note indicated both cities being located in the state of Tennessee.

Another – the story that introduced Raz, the tale of the stolen brains at Whispering Rock. The connection was simple enough: both Sasha and the drawn Agent Nein were camp counselors in the summer. There was also a connection noted to the "protégé" mentioned in his letter and the spunky young psychic that was due to star in his own line of comics.

And a third, of the time in Budapest. This page had two sticky notes, one noticeably newer than the other. Sasha lifted up the second to read the first, which made note of Agent Vodello who had been clearly indicated in Sasha's letters as just his work partner, although his father's handwriting had a question mark after the statement. When he dropped the note to read the newer one, he felt his face turn red again. 'Seine Freundin' it read back to him.

At least a dozen more were open for him to read, and there were still others left untouched. Sasha looked up at Milla, who casually shrugged, before he returned his gaze to his father, who had turned back around to the stove and was turning off the burner with the percolator.

"You've...been busy," were the least competent words Sasha could think to say, and of course they were the ones that left his mouth. He winced at himself, which led to Milla snickering.

"I saw one. Then another. And then more." The egg timer rang out mid-sentence, which Herr Nein ignored and instead rummaged through an overhead cabinet. He pulled out two mis-matched mugs, whose handles fit rather neatly over his index finger. "I thought, 'is this true? is this really my son?'. I did not know. It seemed too strange at first, but the more I read, the more I noticed." He set the mugs on the counter, filling them with coffee from the percolator. "Then one day, my son's letter says he is coming to visit, and come with his Verlobte -"

"Freundin," Sasha corrected quickly, leaving Milla bewildered.

"Ich bin ein alter Mann, ist es schwierig, sich daran zu erinnern." He chuckled at the end of his sentence, which just about knocked his son to the ground. Apparently the men of the Nein clan developed perceived senses of humor to others when they had neglected contact for prolonged periods of time.

Herr Nein turned around, the two mugs he had just filled in his hands, and made his way to the table. His expression was still rather fixed and somewhat unreadable, although a hint of a smile was poking out from underneath his mustache. "My son wants to visit...he says he has much to tell me...I can only guess what there is to say, but I believe I know." He placed the mugs on the table before turning to his son.

Sasha wasn't a great deal shorter than his father, but he was a whole lot scrawnier. This was true in comparison to most men, but especially to this one. In his youth, he felt intimated by the man, even though the furthest he had scolded was raising his voice at the boy. There was no reason to be afraid. And by admitting that, there were no longer any excuses for him to hide behind.

"Es tut mir leid, Vati," he said, his voice quivering. "That...is what I want to say."

His father's eyes shook behind his glasses, and there – right there, just a glimpse, but there nonetheless – was the glint of tears. It was the last thing Sasha saw before his father threw his arms around his son and completely enveloped him in a tight, overbearing hug.

"Why are you sorry?" his voice strummed, hitting the sweet low notes as the man fought to keep his voice pitched. "Do not be sorry. Your mother would be so happy to see who you are." He kept his arms clasped tightly around his son for a moment longer before whispering, "Aber...bist du psychisch...?"

Sasha snorted. "Ja...ich bin...und so ist Frau Vodello..."

"That was clear," his father mumbled in reply while giving his son a hefty pat on the back. The two then turned to look at Milla, who was sitting on the side of the table with the bench, her chin resting on the backs of her hands, a smile arching into a pleasant mood clearly written to her face. Sasha cleared his throat nervously, which only made her grin.

"Now...sit, please." Herr Nein pushed his son towards his partner, making him stumble on his feet. "There is a lot to talk about."

"Err...is sleeping out of the question...?"

"Nonsense." His father returned to the stove, lifting the percolator in one hand before he made his next stop to the small refrigerator under a counter and taking out a small container of cream. "There is plenty of coffee."

The term 'mentally exhausted' meant two things to a psychic: one was the state of having been in a mentally taxing situation, such as a day of test-taking or having been in a meeting for several hours. Two was a mix between physical and mental fatigue, brought about by using one's psychic abilities extensively throughout the day. And between telling his father about his life of the past twenty years and giving demonstrations of what exactly it meant to be a 'Psychonaut', Sasha was ready to collapse that night and sleep for days.

Well, he had the 'collapsing' part down: face-first into a pillow (after removing his glasses) on the bed in the room his father had called the guestroom. Sasha could only recall that it had once served as a storage room, and it still appeared to serve that purpose given the boxes stacked along the wall with the window.

A knock on the door caused him to roll onto his side. "Hereinkommen," he groaned out, and after a pause, the latch jostled open and Milla slipped in the room. Told to pack for cold weather and a drafty house, she was donning flannel pajama pants and a loose sweatshirt, even having socks on her feet. She laughed upon seeing Sasha.

"Are you tired, darling?" she asked with a giggle, sitting down on her side of the bed and reaching out a hand to stroke his hair. He grunted.

"Understatement," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "I don't know how you can maintain this level of momentum..."

"Practice, sweetie. And personality. You are just a more low-key kind of guy, like your father."

"If you must label it that way..."

Milla smiled, setting her legs up onto the bed and leaning onto her side, shifting hands so as to continue petting him. "Sasha...I just have one more question."

"Mmm?"

"This morning, before having coffee – your father called me your Verlobte – what does that mean?"

Sasha opened one eye. "You can read my mind for the contents of the letters I wrote him, but not for that word?"

She tsked. "You of all people should know – a word in a language you don't understand won't be translated in the mind of whoever is thinking it. All I could tell...it left a warm feeling in you, darling. But you were embarrassed by it."

He sighed, opening both eyes but hunching his shoulders up. "Verlobte – it means fiancée. My father decided to be funny and call you my fiancée."

"I see." Milla lowered her head to her pillow while deciding to poke his nose. "If it makes you feel any better, my papa has been insisting you've been my noivo for the past three years."

He blinked. "Noivo?"

"Take a guess."

"...Three years?" Sasha was suddenly awake, shifting up onto his shoulders. "What have you been telling your family?"

"Nothing you would find incorrect, darling." She smiled before a yawn overtook her, and she covered her mouth with the hand not wedged under her face. "Ugh – excuse me, that was untimely."

The yawn was contagious – although he didn't do one himself, it echoed in his system and caused his eyelids to droop. "Perhaps it's best if we sleep."

"Yes, that is a marvelous idea."

Sasha rolled over onto his other side, hitching up the sheets and quilt that were surprisingly freshly laundered. As he was about to sink off into an overdue sleep, a warm presence pressed itself against his back. She was just mirroring his pose, nothing more than that, but still, it was pleasant and comfortable.

For once, everything seemed to be in its place. If he was lucky there would be more, but in the very least, nothing could make it less. He had earned this, and would gladly (well, perhaps not too happily) suffer all the 'Sasha Nein is a robot' jokes if it meant he could have three things: peace in his own mind, the care of his father, and the companionship of his Liebe.

Someday, he would gladly be Milla's noivo, if she would let him call her Verlobte. That discussion, however, was for later.

(The End)