1.

It's 8:23 pm, and CC is late. She's been late before, but as this is the first time he will have seen her since she left nearly a week ago, he feels his irritation is justified. He's had this day planned since the day she left, right down to making her favorite pizza recipe and serving it to her for her first dinner back. The recipe had finally been perfected to his satisfaction, and though he still wasn't that fond of pizza – even when he was making it – he knew she would be happy. He had been looking forward to seeing her taste it for days, to seeing her look up at him and smile at him in the way she generally only did when pizza was involved.

But she isn't here yet.

Even out in the great hall he can smell the pizza, and he's starting to think he can detect the crust getting burned. All that work, he thinks, stalking over to the window and looking out. Nothing. "Where is she?" he asks the room in general, but gets no response. Not that he had expected one, of course. No one has talked to him since CC left.

He turns away from the window. The pizza smell is stronger the farther away he gets, and he can just picture the crust turning brown and dry every moment she doesn't appear. "If she has the gall to complain about the pizza being too dry," he says to the dog, who is lying in the sitting room doorway watching him with big brown eyes, "then I am no longer responsible for my actions." Vincent merely flicks an ear in response, and he takes a few precious moments out of his pacing to kneel down and stroke the dog's head. He's rewarded with a lick.

It's 8:28 now. "Eight o'clock," he mutters to himself, getting back to his feet and returning to pacing. "She said eight o'clock." He considers checking the Book again to confirm it, but he knows he's right.

The pizza is definitely burning, he decides. He whirls and dashes to the kitchen to check on it. "It looks fine," he says to Vincent, who has followed him and is now wagging his tail expectantly. "And no, you can't have any." He resists the urge to slam the oven shut and turns to make the long trek back to the great hall.

Then he hears her voice.

"Alexander? Vincent?" A thump, and then, "Where are you two?"

He breaks into a run, and both he and Vincent race to see who will get back to the great hall first. Vincent wins.

CC is standing by the door, suitcases scattered around her, her black hair spilling around her shoulders in a disarray she never had before except during those few weeks she wasn't herself. She's petting Vincent and trying to take off her coat at the same time, and it's not working. She's chuckling, and Vincent is nearly wagging his tail off he's so excited, and then she looks up and sees him.

"Alexander," she says.

"Sofie," he returns.

He's torn between wanting to hug her and wanting to yell at her, but she takes the decision from him when she steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist, letting her head fall to his shoulder. "You're late," he can't resist saying to her as he hugs her back. She's warm, and her hair tickles his hands as he holds her. He can feel her fingers pressing into his back, and he closes his eyes. It's always better when she's home.

"I know," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I can't really explain why."

"Do you ever?"

She laughs a little and squeezes him. He squeezes back. "I missed you," she says. "Even if I did have Cheese-kun with me. And I am sorry I'm late."

"I know. I'll make you pay for it later," he says, resisting the urge to check the time again and then drag her to the dining room. It can wait another minute when it's already been thirty-six. She's so warm. "Or I will once I get over just being happy you're back."

She sighs. "Speaking of that, you're not going to like what I have to tell you."

He pulls back to look at her face, eyebrows raised. "Has someone—"

"It's not that," she says, cutting him off. "Don't worry. You're safe, Alexander." She smiles a little at this, then continues, "I have to leave tomorrow."

He lets go of her entirely. "What?"

"I have to leave tomorrow," she repeats, looking up at him with that solemn expression she uses when she knows she's going to piss him off. Seeing it pisses him off. "I know I told you I'd be back for at least a few weeks, but something's come up."

He turns his back to her and starts toward the kitchen. "What could possibly be that important, Sofie? If we're not in danger of being discovered—"

"I can't tell you what it's about," she says, as he had known she would. He has no idea what she does with the time she's away, but he can't fathom why it requires her to be gone so much, and so erratically. "But we're both safe," she says. "It doesn't have to do with that. I might be able to tell you more, later."

"Forget it," he says over his shoulder. "It's almost 8:40. We need to eat. The food's been ready for awhile." Vincent hears the magic word and lets out a happy whine, prancing ahead of him and wagging his tail happily. Behind him, he hears CC sigh. But she follows him.

*****

The crust is dry. CC doesn't seem to mind, as she's devouring the pizza with as much enthusiasm as she ever shows. Even he has to admit that the only problem is with the very edges of the crust, which Vincent is more than happy to help with the disposal of. Currently the dog is sitting next to him with his head in his lap, looking mournfully at him as if trying to convince him that he is starving to death, despite the generous amount of pizza crust he's already consumed. "I'm not buying it," he says to Vincent, who whines a little and licks his arm.

"Well, what do you expect?" CC asks around a mouthful of cheese. "You keep feeding him all your crusts, of course he's going to act like that."

"What else am I supposed to do with them?" he counters, waving one at her. "It's inedible."

She snorts and deliberately takes a bite of her crust. "You could always feed them to the birds," she suggests thickly.

"I'm not encouraging them," he mutters, slipping the crust he had been using to gesture to Vincent, who gobbles it down in one gulp and happily starts thumping his tail against the floor. He scratches the dog's ears.

"At least tell me that you got him trained to come when he's called," CC says, watching them.

He's insulted at her lack of faith. "Of course," he says. "What else did I have to do? Vincent not only comes when you call now, but he can sit, stay, beg, speak—" at this Vincent lets out a happy bark, and he feeds him a bit of pepperoni— "roll over, fetch, play dead, shake hands, heel, and balance objects on his nose."

"I see the book on dog training was a good buy," she says dryly. "Did you spend all week on Vincent's training, or did you remember to do anything else?"

"I finished the dress you wanted, if that's what you're really asking," he says, feeding the last of his crusts to Vincent and gratefully serving himself some salad. CC loves pizza beyond all reason, but he can only take it for so long. At least she doesn't insist on it for every meal anymore, he reflects.

She gives him a smile at that. "I'd love to take it with me, if it fits. May I try it on after dinner?" She pauses, and he wonders if something is showing on his face. He used to be so good at hiding everything, but after so many years with no one but her (and, recently, Vincent), she seems to have no trouble reading him now. When she speaks again, her voice has taken on the guarded quality she uses when she knows he's angry. "Or does that interfere with something you have scheduled for tonight?"

"You tell me what's happening tonight," he says without looking at her.

She sighs. "I do have to leave early. I'll have to pack, and try to get some sleep before leaving. But I'll have time to try it on, especially if I want to take it with me. And you?"

He flips open the Book, which as always is within reach of his right hand, and finds today. "Let me see," he says, pretending to run his finger down the blocks of time. "I might have time at— Wait, no, everything I planned for the next three weeks is completely invalidated." He slams the Book shut.

"Alexander," she starts, but he shakes his head and rises to his feet. Vincent lets out a surprised bark and scrambles back from him. He gives the dog an absent pat on the head. It's not Vincent's fault, after all.

"Alex—" she starts.

"I need to clean up," he cuts her off. It's even true; it's 9:01 now. He picks up his plate, still heaped with salad, and starts around the table toward her. He doesn't care if she's finished or not.

"Alexander," she says again, and grabs his free hand. "Listen to me. Sit down." She tugs, gently but firmly, on his hand, and to her obvious surprise he complies, sitting in the chair next to her. He puts his plate down on the table and crosses his arms.

She looks solemn. "When I get back," she begins, picking up her fork and handing it to him, "I will tell you what the trip is about, I promise, and you'll understand why I didn't tell you now."

"Will I understand why you had to go now?" he asks, knowing he sounds bitter but not caring. Why bother anymore, anyway? The only person he ever sees longer than a moment is her. "Will I understand why you couldn't stay as long as you said you would and then go do whatever it is?"

She nods. "You'll understand why it has to be now." She gives the fork in his hand a pointed look, and grudgingly he spears some lettuce and raises it to his lips. "It's very—" she begins, then frowns at him. He forks up another mouthful. Not speaking, she watches the fork move back and forth between the plate and his mouth. She hates it when he won't finish meals, which may have had something to do with her finally allowing him to cook dishes other than pizza for her. He resists the urge to make a face at her and eats faster.

She waits until he's finished the whole plate, then says, "It's so important that I almost went directly there without coming home at all in between. But it turned out—" She cuts herself off with a shake of the head. "Would you have preferred that?" she asks him instead. "Would you rather I have just not told you at all?"

He doesn't bother answering.

"Do you trust me?" she asks then.

"Do I have a choice?" he asks.

She reaches out, touches his hair. "You always had a choice," she tells him, something in her voice that he can't identify. He closes his eyes, letting her run her fingers through his hair. Her other hand touches his cheek, then falls away. "I'll make it up to you," she says softly.

He opens his eyes. "It's 9:08," he tells her. "You can make it up to me by helping me clean up."

She smiles.

*****

It's just after two in the morning when CC knocks on his door. Vincent doesn't move from his place next to the bed, but his ears perk up. "Alexander?" she calls, and he can hear her putting her suitcase down. He considers pretending he's asleep, even though he knows she knows how little sleep he gets.

She hasn't tried to talk to him since he left to take Vincent out, two hours and seven minutes ago. He's heard her moving around in her room, presumably packing, and though he's wanted to talk to her he's stayed in here, working in the Book and waiting for her to approach him. This is her fault, after all.

She knocks again. "I can see the light, Alexander. I know you're awake. Let me say good-bye."

He gets up and opens the door. "I was supposed to go with you to town the day after tomorrow," he greets her, holding up the Book. "I have four commissions done, and if I don't mail them out soon they'll be late. When are you going to be back?"

She shakes her head. "I wish I knew. Probably about a week. Possibly two. It depends." She looks as if she would like to elaborate, but doesn't. Of course.

He turns away from her and stalks back over to his desk. "Do you remember that the Eintracht game is next week?" he asks without looking at her. "Are you going to miss that too?"

She doesn't answer.

"Weeks," he spits out, spinning around to face her again. "I've been planning to go that game for weeks. You encouraged me! You said that I should go out more now, that it's been long enough since—" He buries his face in his hands.

"Go," she says softly.

He lifts his head.

She's holding out a set of keys. "Go," she repeats. "Put those driving lessons I gave you to use. It's about time, isn't it?"

He stares at them. "But—" he starts, but she shakes them so they jangle.

"It's been three years," she says firmly, and he can tell already that he's going to lose this particular argument. Which he supposes means that, in a way, he wins. She steps forward, grabs his hand with her free one, and presses the keys into his palm. "You know what to do in public. You know where the post office is, and I'm sure you know exactly where the stadium is. You don't need me to come with you anymore." She turns his hand over and folds the fingers down. "You'll be fine. I know it."

He looks down at his hand. The keys seem to wink at him, and he holds up them to the light. His heart is thumping wildly, and not all of it is from nervousness. He wants to do this, he realizes, and the realization surprises him. He looks past the keys to her face, and she smiles at him.

He hugs her.

When he steps back, she's giving him her pizza smile, and he nearly laughs aloud. He should have known she would have an ulterior motive. "You just want me to give you the dress," he says.

"No," she says, very seriously, "what I want is for you to be happy." Her smile widens just a little. "But if you're offering to let me have it, I won't refuse."

"I still have to redo my schedule," he muses, as if he's considering it.

"But you won't have to miss nearly as much this way," she counters.

"I'll still miss you," he says, and her face softens.

"I know," she says, stepping forward and putting her hand on his shoulder. "But I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise. And you'll have Vincent to keep you company, at least." At the mention of his name, Vincent thumps his tail on the ground but otherwise doesn't move. He can't exactly blame him; before coming up to his room, he had taken Vincent on a walk of the grounds.

"And you'll explain when you get back?" he can't resist asking.

She nods and steps back. "I'll explain. You'll be careful, especially at that game?"

He imitates her nod. "I'll be careful."

"In that case," she says, holding out her hand, "hand it over."

Shaking his head to himself, he goes over to the closet, where he hangs all the finished products. Her dress is easy to find; it's in red, black, and white, colors he knows she loves, with a fitted bodice and flowing lines. With a flourish he pulls it off the hanger and holds it out to her. "Well? Does it meet with your approval?"

Her face lights up. It really is as if he's offering her pizza, he thinks, and he can't help but smile. She reaches out and takes it carefully from him, cradling it in her arms. "It's beautiful," she says, looking up at him, her eyes bright. "Thank you."

"Thank me by letting me know exactly when you'll be back as soon as you know," he says, tapping the cover of the Book. "I want a little more warning next time."

She shakes her head and presses her cheek to the fabric. "You really do need to get out more," she murmurs. She takes another moment to stroke the fabric, and then she's turning towards the door and the suitcase that sits in the hall. "I'm taking the BMW," she says to him as she steps out of his room. She kneels and carefully stows the dress in her bag.

"So these are the keys to the Mercedes?" he asks, holding them up.

She nods and stands up. "Promise me you'll be careful," she says.

He can't help but laugh at that. "I'm nothing but careful, Sofie."

Her eyes flicker at this, and she steps back into the room and holds out her hands. Blinking, he takes them. To his surprise she pulls him forward and kisses him on the cheek. "This is for you," she whispers to him, so quiet he doubts even Vincent can hear her.

"For me?" he repeats dumbly.

She nods and touches his cheek. "You'll see what I mean." For a moment her fingers linger, and then she turns away. He's still as he watches her lift the suitcase. Then she looks back at him, an inscrutable look in her eyes. For a moment they stare at each other. Then she touches her free fingers to her lips and says something he hasn't heard from her – from anyone – in three years.

"Good-bye—" she says, "—Lelouch."