It never seemed right that I didn't give this story a proper ending, and the fact that people are still sending me these beautiful messages about it made me finally sit down and put something down.

I honestly can't say what it's meant to read through so many amazing comments, you are just so kind and generous with everything you've said. I had a lot of fun doing this, although I don't know where to go next. If anyone would like to see me write a new story, maybe about a new show or a character they love, I'd be happy to hear about it.

But for now, thanks for wading through seventeen chapters! :)

-Cas

~:~:~

For Tate, the days that followed were a blurred parade of dim light and abysmal darkness. How long he lay on the floor of the basement, letting the dust gather along the folds of his clothes and settle on his skin, he couldn't have said. Thaddeus had not returned, and in his state Tate shied away from the thought of the chaos he and Hayden had planned for the house.

GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY.

Violet's final scream resounded through his head like drumbeat. He replayed the scene over again to himself, driving the madness home. After all, here was the boy that would rape the mother of the girl he had fallen for. Thaddeus might have killed those children, but hadn't Tate himself been the one to construct the crime, setting the stage and all but acting it out himself? Thaddeus would never have done it on his own, without Tate's vivid fantasies of a school shooting to urge him on. Only Tate's own, damaged mind could ever conceive that level of depravity. He was broken. He was wrong.

The screams in his head raged louder.

Slowly, as though waking from a coma, he became aware that he wasn't alone. The screams weren't just in his head anymore - they were joined by someone with a higher, smaller voice, someone that wept and gurgled. When he thought he could stand again, Tate roused himself enough to investigate.

Nora looked exhausted. Somewhere, a little voice admonished him at how easily he'd forgotten her, how her existence had all but vanished from his mind. Her hand rocked an old cradle, and in it...

Tate stopped, staring down at the child. He was swaddled tightly in soft fabrics, sobbing inconsolably in the tremulant voice of a newborn.

"I don't recall asking for a headache, Tate, but it seems that's what your troubles have got me," Nora said coldly, giving the cradle a forceful push.

"Is he...is he mine?" Tate could barely manage a whisper.

"Who knows. There were two. Naturally I got this weak, sickly one that perished in half a second."

Tate traced a finger along the newborn's delicate skin, red from exertion. "He's so tiny."

"It's a baby, what did you expect? Now go away, go away, for goodness' sake. I need it to fall asleep, there's no good exciting it with someone new to look at. Leave, you've really done enough."

And there it was, his thanks for destroying his own life and those of the women he loved, captured in the tired wave of his surrogate mother's bejewelled hand. He stepped away from her, away from the little figure rolling helplessly in its crib.

Ben Harmon hung from the second floor balcony, eyes wide in death. Tate stared up at him in horror.

"Don't you just love what I've done with the place?"
Hayden sat on the stairs, cradling the second baby in her arms, a self-satisfied grin fixed on her face. "It's so perfect it's too perfect, you know. He laid out all these forms and documents, got his life insurance all in order. Made it so, stupidly easy. They'll think sad Ben Harmon killed himself, and Hayden gets a baby. Everyone's happy."

Tate took the stairs two at a time. "Why did you do that?" he roared into her face. The baby started from its sleep with a cry, and Hayden shielded his face indignantly.

"Jeez, wonderboy, do you mind? I'm taking care of a little person here."

"You killed Violet's dad! Her dad! Hasn't she lost enough already?" He wanted to smack the grin off her face. Hell, he wanted to throw her off the balcony and break her spine again and again for all of eternity, but the tiny, live creature in her arms stopped him.

"Shows how much you know about love. I did that little bitch a favor. She gets mommy and daddy all to herself forever. Do you know how many kids have to grow up without their parents? She should be thanking me."

"You're evil. You're pure fucking evil, you know that?"

Hayden hummed cheerfully at the infant, letting it suckle her finger. "You know, I think this one's yours. He's got those big eyes. That dopey, well-meaning serial killer look about him."

The door downstairs creaked open, and Tate whirled. Constance stood in the entrance, staring at the swinging corpse overhead with distaste.

"Goddamn. God damn it."

"Constance." he glanced back at Hayden, but she'd vanished, taking the baby with her.

"Tate. You didn't do this, of course?" Constance was shaking her head, hunting in her purse for a light.

"No. Hayden. I only just saw it now."

"I knew when that man came to take my baby, I knew he was unstable. Had a wild look about him. I thought I'd just come check - lucky I did. Where has he left the child?"

"He didn't, she took the kid. I don't know where she went."

"The fool. I told him what this house would do. I told him."

Tate didn't care to stay and listen to her lamentations. He left her in the foyer with her cigarette.

~:~:~

The Murder House had never known such excitement. with the Harmons crossing over at last, clear battle lines had been drawn. Thaddeus, led by Hayden, had appealed to those spirits particularly drawn to retribution and malice, and they were gathering a sizeable following. Moira and the Harmons, along with the gentler creatures of the house, had likewise assembled. Between the dark walls and shadowy recesses of the mansion, the tension was brewing like a storm. Hayden was in ecstacy.

Tate couldn't have cared less. Immortals, locked in a battle over property rights. It was too ludicrous to contemplate. He'd taken to stalking Violet from the corners of mirrors and the ends of hallways, much as he had done when she first moved , too, was changing, learning to cope with all that had happened. From what he could see, she and her parents were, for the first time, starting to connect. He couldn't understand it. How had a family that had been so torn apart by living find solace in death? This hell he'd existed in for so long, they seemed so at home with. It baffled him.

Without the interruptions of school or work or routine, time once again took on its endless succession. Tate marked the days with the number of times Violet brushed her hair, or gazed out the window, or played ancient board games with her parents.

The day that the new tenants arrived came as something of a shock. None of them had really expected that the house would be bought again, after the latest spate of deaths, yet here they were, a handsome Spanish couple with their classically good-looking son. From the moment he stepped in the door, carefully calculated nonchalance and skateboard in hand, Violet had watched him, and Tate watched Violet, red-hot jealousy coursing through his body. He watched her go through his drawers the way he'd gone through hers, studying his music, running her fingers over the boy's collection of hoodies and jeans. Of course she'd want him. An eternity here, and nobody to dull the loneliness but a murdering rapist and a mutant with claws. Tate was surprised she hadn't jumped his bones the instant the boy stepped through the door.

And when she spoke to him, she was so cool. So mysterious and interesting, all the allure that he'd once held for her, offered up on a platter to this curly-haired stranger. Tate tortured himself with the sight, standing just out of the way, each word she spoke a dagger in him.

He waited until she left under pretext of needing to get home for dinner, until the boy had drifed off to sleep, before he took up his old position in the chair. The parallels struck him again. Once he'd watched the girl he loved as she slept, imagining the twisted dreams her dark little mind would create, and now he watched the boy he intended to give her as a soulmate. The last thing he could do for her, his only option if he could not be by her side. The madness that he'd allowed himself to sink into in the months since they'd separated was at last consuming him, and he threw himself into the mire willingly.

He must have made a sound, for the boy roused. Before he could fall asleep again Tate spoke.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked.

The boy lurched upward. "Shit!"

"Bet I know," Tate continued softly. "I'd dream about her too, if I could dream. I don't think I do anymore." he was babbling, he knew, but he didn't stop. He needed to get his courage up. One last, mad act, and she'd be happy forever. That's all that mattered now.

The boy's anger was quickly overtaking his initial shock. "What the hell? What are you doing here? Who are you? What are you doing in my room?"

"This used to be my room. And then it was her's." He smiled at the memory of Violet unpacking her CDs; the first time he'd seen her brush the hair from her eyes; the strange old hats she used to wear. He clung to those memories like a life raft. "Violet. She was my girlfriend."

"The..uh, the freaky chick from before?"

That cut through his internal riot. "What'dya mean by 'freaky'?" he snarled.

"She..she seemed really cool," the boy backtracked. "Uh, nothing happened. She didn't say she had a boyfriend."

Tate shifted. "We kinda broke up." He felt the tears come, and brushed them away. Now wasn't the time.

"Right. Well, I know, I mean, it's totally hands off, dude. I get it." he was placating him, talking to him the way people spoke to idiots. No, the way they spoke to people at the edge of a building. Like their words were all that was needed to stop the darkness.

"No. I don't think you do."

Tate pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the boy as he scrambled backward. He crossed to the door, slamming it shut. The last thing he needed was his parents to come barrelling in.

"I want her to be happy." He didn't know why it was so important that he explained, to this doomed creature, so unlike himself as to be the perfect match for Violet. "She liked you, I could tell. You're a good guy, right?"

"What?" the boy backed away from him.

Tate gestured at the photos on the dresser. "I mean you've got all these friends, you play sports. You've got good grades, right?"

"Average," the other replied, totally bewildered.

"Average is good," Tate encouraged. "Normal is good. She deserves normal."

"Get out of my way!" the boy yelled, flinging himself at Tate, who shoved him back to the ground.

"I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU!" he yelled desperately. Taking a breath he pulled the knife he'd pilfered from the kitchen from his pocket. "Though I do have to kill you."

The boy stared up at him with honest brown eyes. He could probably never wrap his head around the sort of evil that had become so commonplace for Tate. He was perfect.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. Tate ignored him, shifting the knife in his hand, steeling his courage. "Please, I told you man. Nothing happened!"

Tate snatched his collar, pulling the other boy toward him, driving the knife at his face. It wouldn't work, he couldn't- he snarled with frustration and tried again. He was evil, right? Evil to the core? This should come easy!

"Could you maybe not look at me? Could you like, stand up, or...I dunno, turn around or something?" He wrenched himself off the boy, pacing around the room. Keep it together. Come on.

The boy remained on the floor, hands around his throat where Tate had grabbed him. "Please..don't kill me." he whispered.

"Oh, it's nothing personal," Tate admonished. He still didn't understand - why didn't he understand? He had to do this, for her! "It's just that she's all alone. And that's not right. STAND UP!"

The boy started saying something in Spanish - praying, Tate thought in frustration. He pulled him close to his own body, holding the knife near his throat. One little cut, and it would be over, and Violet would be happy. Just one cut.

The door behind him creaked slightly, and her presence filled the room in an instant. And then she said his name.

"Tate, no."

His breath left him. His soul reached for her through the madness. He froze, the knife quivering against the boy's throat.

"Put down the knife, Tate."

He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her he'd crack into peices, and the thing still needed to be done. Tate grit his teeth. "I can't," he said softly. "I'm doing this for you. I couldn't save you." The cracks were forming anyway. "It's my fault you're alone," he sobbed.

"But I'm not alone. My family's here now-"

"It's not enough. You need someone!"

"Not him."

"Then what do you want?" he yelled. His resolve was slipping fast.

"What I wanted was you."

Slowly he turned to her, their gaze meeting for the first time since she'd sent him away. Her wide eyes filled with tears.

"You told me to go away," he said uncertainly. The tiniest shaft of hope broke through the darkness. Could she still want him? She didn't want someone else, she'd said it herself.

"Yeah. But I never said goodbye. Come let me say goodbye."

He looked at her, and his hand dropped from the boy's throat, and Tate stumbled to Violet, his trembling hands around her once more, his skin alight with the feel of her fingertips against his cheeks, her lips against him, her delicate body pressed to his, with all of the desperate urgency as the first time they'd made love. He couldn't think, couldn't cope. All he knew was that she was in his arms, and that she was holding him back, and that he was safe again.

Vaguely, he heard the boy race from the room, and the soft brush of her fingers pull back from his cheek. For a breath more, she pressed her head against his own, tracing his lips with her thumb. "Goodbye, Tate," she whispered gently, and she was gone.

Tate felt his soul fracture, all but heard the splintered peices hit the floor as he shattered apart.

~:~:~

He should have finished, should have let himself fade into the darkness for good, but there was still one hope left, and foolishly he let that hope bloom and flourish. He hadn't been able to kill the boy, as hard as he'd tried. Didn't that mean something? Didn't that offer him some sort of redemption, that he still had some goodness inside?

And so he went to the one man who he'd ever entrusted with a secret, the one man who could ever have fixed him. He found Ben Harmon sweeping the floor, looking for all the world like he was making himself at home.

"Have you got a minute?"

Ben froze.

"I'm the last person you wanna see right now," Tate said preemptively, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"You're not a person. You're a monster." Ben turned back to his work.

Tate had expected this; he pressed forward. "I really miss our talks, Ben. They were really helping me."

Ben laughed. "Bullshit. You're a psychopath, Tate. It's a mental disorder. Therapy can't cure it."

Tate felt his insides churn. "So that's your diagnosis? I'm a psychopath?" Not the first time he'd heard it, of course, but somehow this time it hurt worse than it ever had.

"Yep, and the worst kind," Ben said cuttingly. "You're charismatic and compelling. A pathological liar. But don't listen to me. I'm a total fraud. And by the way? Therapy doesn't work."

"It doesn't work? Then why do people do it?"

"Because they don't want to take any responsibility for their crappy lives," Ben snarled. "So they pay a therapist to listen to their bullshit and make it all feel...special. So they can blame their crazy mothers for everything that went wrong." He smiled knowingly at Tate. "Sound familiar?"

Tate could barely hear through the roar in his ears. He felt himself laugh. "You son of a bitch."

"We're not so different, Tate," Ben said thoughtfully. "I'm a bad person too. I hurt the people I was supposed to...love the most."

"And they forgave you, right?" Tate jumped at the chance. "Maybe Violet will forgive me too."

"She can't. You can only forgive someone for what they've done to you directly. Those people you murdered? They're the only ones who can forgive you. And you took away their chance."

Tate could have stopped him, could have explained what really happened. But he knew there was no use. Not committing one evil did not absolve him of all the other things he was responsible for. He was still guilty, one way or another. He felt the last of that light inside dwindle and die.

"So that's it?" he said hopelessly, feeling the tears come again. "There's nothing I can...there's nothing I can do? There's no chance of mercy?"

Ben studied him for a second. He rested the broom handle on his chest and slowly brought his hands together in mocking applause. Tate bore it in silence. He deserved this, he knew.

"Terrific performance Tate," said Ben shrewdly, a cruel smile on his lips. "The whole 'misunderstood kid' act? Ohh. I fell for it. Violet did, too. But a psychopath by definition is incapable of remorse. So, come on. Let's try to do this again, for real this time." He placed the broom handle under Tate's chin, jerked it up painfully. "You destroyed everything that mattered most to me. What could you possibly want from me now?"

And there it was, the agony he hid with sarcasm, the terrible torment behind that cheerful father's face. He might have accepted his fate, might be learning to love his afterlife, but it had come at a heartbreaking cost. Tate pulled the handle from his throat.

"I don't know about definitions, but I really am sorry, Ben. To you, more than anyone."

"Sorry's are easy," Ben quipped. "It's about taking responsibility for the things you've done. Christ. You can't even say the words." He turned away in disgust.

It was his last shot, and it was a long one, but Tate took it. He knew what Ben wanted, and he would give anything to be let back in again. Even confess to atrocities that he hadn't done.

"In 1994," he paused, accepting the lie, "I set my mom's boyfriend on fire. Then I shot and killed 15 kids at Westfield High. I murdered the gay couple who lived here before you...and I raped your wife. There were other things, too, other people I hurt. I'll tell you everything."

It was no use. Ben met his gaze, tears filling his eyes. "I'm not your priest, Tate. I can't absolve you of any of this." He turned away again.

"Right. I get that. But can you just," Tate waved his hands hopelessly, "hang out with me sometimes?"

He thought Ben wasn't going to turn around, that he'd disappear in an instant to another part of the house. The man stood still, a muscle in his wrist working furiously for a long time. At last, he turned slowly, his eyes meeting Tate's in a guarded way.

"We're going to be stuck here for a long time, kid. We'll just see how things pan out." They looked at one another for another long moment before Ben turned back to sweeping, and Tate backed from the room.

~:~:~

Somehow, after everything, Tate felt he had some semblance of closure. The longing could never leave him, of course - he still watched her, still haunted her steps from time to time, but the madness had left him at last. A milennia might pass before she spoke to him again, but the thought filled him with purpose, now, where once he'd felt only cold terror.

He might have found his solace, but Hayden's resolve hadn't shifted. The Harmons had quietly claimed the bright parts of the house, the most sane; theirs was a world of sunlit rooms and fresh breezes through open windows while Hayden skulked in the shadows, biding her time. Oddly, he felt sorry for her. Her vengance, her endless struggle for power, was all she had left. He let her be, with the odd verbal battle here and there to keep things interesting.

And sometimes, when there had been a few bad months or the darkness crept in around the edges, he'd curl up on Violet's bed, imagining the phantom scent of her still clinging to the pillows, lost in the soft memory of their precious weeks, back before they'd destroyed one another. And whether it was just another part of the fantasy or not, sometimes he could swear he saw a slim little figure slip past the doorway, like someone had been watching him too.