See Prologue for notes.

Well, this is the end! I hope you've enjoyed it, because I've had a good time writing this little experiment. Thanks so much to LoveyouHateyou (the best – find him in my Favorite Authors section) and Masamune Reforged for the wonderful support and feedback. It means so much to me! Also, many thanks to those who've added me to their Favorites lists. I truly appreciate it.

xXx

(December 20th, 191 – Day 0 + 3 years, 3 months)

Today Treize receives an email. From Dekim Barton. A blunt, insensitive pair of paragraphs. Attached are a few news clips, small things, purposefully vague to preempt unease. One obituary. Proof. Documentation. Everything's been taken care of. Treize's assistance and/or participation is not required nor requested. Everything is under control now. Dekim is most aggrieved. Condolences are offered.

Treize only reads it once before he mechanically deletes it. And he sits there, staring at his computer's default desktop, 'Classified Information Ready' printed unattractively in the middle of it in lieu of something nice. He sits there for a good few minutes before losing it. Quietly. Because he's at work. He gets it together enough to cancel his 1130 meeting. Then his 1300 meeting. And his 1500 one. Then he gives the division an unscheduled holiday the next day, a Friday. Because he wants the space, because he has work to do and wants to do it without interruption. Because today, after finding out, he can't even see straight, let alone do anything at all of substance.

So he lies down on his office couch. Stays there. Looks nowhere, throat tightening unbearably from time to time. His hand, shaking, sometimes rises to touch his brow, where the pressure is the worst. When he thinks of something she once did or said, his chin quivers then. Uncontrollably. He grits his teeth as he cries in absolute, cruelly restrained silence.

This goes on in hard, unpredictable cycles until Zechs knocks on his door at 1645. Treize knows it's Zechs, first from the knock, then from the card key override that lets him in uninvited. Treize is still on the couch when Zechs walks in, his eyes bloodshot but dry, open but inattentive.

"So suddenly I have tomorrow free," Zechs grouches without so much as a greeting. "It seems that the entire Second Division has been given a holiday."

"How unusual," Treize mutters dispassionately.

Zechs comes closer with the heavy steps of an athletic sixteen-year-old verging on 182 solid centimeters tall. "You canceled everything. You never cancel anything."

"I thought the soldiers would enjoy an extra day leading into Christmas block leave."

"Very benevolent of you."

"Is there something you need?" Treize thinks to add more, like 'besides to complain,' but the rest of the question dies unspoken behind his lips.

Zechs pulls off his sunglasses and flings them dramatically onto Treize's meticulously organized desk. "I need to understand why I'm standing here in your office and not staging the test Aries for tomorrow's scheduled, excuse me, formerly scheduled transporter free-fall."

"I gave you the day off," Treize returns shortly, closing his eyes in a slow blink. "Accept it, like everyone else undoubtedly has."

"No," Zechs balks stubbornly, his lip curling up in a sneer as he says it. "Something's wrong with you. I want to know what it is."

"Your attitude is unappealing." Treize's condescension is lacking in its usual infuriating bite, though it is not at all disingenuous. "I think you should leave, because I am not in the mood for it."

"No."

Zechs strides to the other side of the office and lowers himself with long-legged grace into the upholstered chair that sits like a therapist's to Treize's couch.

It's different from one of their typical showdowns in that Treize is completely disinterested in scoring or making points. He doesn't care if Zechs sits there all night. Because he can't recall his order, and nor would he choose to if he could. So deal with it, he thinks pitilessly.

"Talk to me," Zechs implores, subdued, grimly serious.

Treize is not at all ready for pleading solemnity. Not from Zechs, and not after all the blustering and fuming. The effect, Treize discovers, is disarming.

"Something's happened," Zechs repeats softly. "I wish you would tell me."

The confrontation, gentle as it is – perhaps because of its gentle nature – makes Treize's heart race, pushing anxiety into his blood. His teeth press lightly into the right side of his lower lip, gnawing for a second, and he takes a deep, shaking breath.

"I have a daughter, with Leia Barton, the woman I stayed with when I was in space. She just turned two, on November 29th. That is where I was, when I took leave. I went back to L3 that week. Leia and I threw her a party, a small one, just for the three of us. Leia made a cake, and I bought Mari – her name is Mariemaia – a couple of dolls. She is inseparable from them. She carries around one in particular, no matter where she goes. You've got to pry it away from her to wash it, because the thing has been everywhere, and it gets filthy. She named it Kimmy, and no matter how many new dolls we buy for her, she prefers the ragged, homely one with the hair all falling out. It was one I found in the attic at home. Can you believe I found a doll up there? It may have been my aunt's, perhaps my mother's. I brought it for her to have, to display in her room, because it's a bit old and stiff and it's wearing traditional Russian dress, but Mari decided she wanted to sleep with it. And then she wanted to drag it around the flat. And then she wouldn't even leave the building without it. It's... it was very cute.

"She was too young, I think, to appreciate Earth, when they came here. We went to France last spring, because Leia wanted to see Paris. I should have told you then, when you asked why I was not going home with you for leave. I should never have kept any of this from you...

"At first, I could not believe that it was Leia's first time on the planet. Could you imagine that? Never setting foot on Earth? Never once breathing fresh air? I believe she truly enjoyed it here. She said she did. She told me she wanted to come back. We were planning to go to China in April. I think that would have been a wonderful trip.

"...They both died. Yesterday, within a few hours of each other, I was told. I can only barely believe it, because I spoke with them only four days ago. And they were fine. Everything was – seemed – fine. Leia's father emailed me to tell me. Emailed. It was the crudest thing I have ever experienced. He said it was a pathogen accidentally released from the lab at Barton Industries. A few people fell ill, but only Leia and Mari died. I suppose because Mari was... just a baby, but Leia was healthy. I don't really understand it. The news clippings, these ridiculous, uninformative attachments the man sent me, didn't even say what it was. And all he said was that it was taken care of. Contained. Is that not the coldest way of putting something like that?

"I did not think I could ever feel this sort of... it's like being crushed. It's crushing me, and it's overwhelming me totally. I have been on this couch for seven hours, and I have not been able to move, because I have... of course I know why...

"But beyond this crushing sadness, there is something more there. I have seen pieces of it. Flashes. Something is deeply wrong, something beyond the tragic incorrectness of a very small child dying from some manufactured sickness. I keep thinking over it, and what I have found is a sort of disconnect. Why Leia? Why was her case so serious? She certainly had no reason to be in the lab, or even near it, because she worked in the tower, if not at home. And the more I think over it, I have begun to wonder the most terrible things. Unthinkable, appalling things.

"That is when I began to scratch the surface of whatever lies beyond this. There is so much to that colony, to her father and his company. Leia was attempting to figure it out. She was digging. I do not have any more information than what her father gave me, but the mere thought of what their deaths could mean has uncovered in me the most potent anger I have ever felt. And I think, in a way, I understand how things are for you. With your parents. I think I saw a glimpse of your mind within my own. I hope – I honestly do – that I am completely wrong.

"And I've thought... so many other things, but they are all things I should have thought of before. I should have stayed on the colony, volunteered for a posting there. Or better, I should have asked Leia to bring Mari here. I should have asked her to marry me, because then perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps she would have said yes. Because I loved Leia. Whatever we were, I loved her. And I love... loved Mari more than I have ever loved anyone in my life, something incomparable to anything I have ever felt. I did not think I could love anything as much as I loved that girl. When I think of all the time I did not spend with her, because of work, because I was concerned about my reputation or what my mother would say... I am completely disgusted with myself. Because now I have... I will never have another opportunity... to even see her.

"...Did you know that I felt like her father from the very first time I held her? Can you even imagine me as a father? I'm certain you cannot. I certainly could not, until I saw her. I did not think it would be like that. I did not think it was something that would ever come naturally to me. Once she learned how to talk, we spoke over the net on camera – which was so early, because she was extremely intelligent. Unfortunately it was not live, because of comms and security, so it was not much of a conversation, but I wanted her to see my face. Because I wanted her to recognize me when we visited.

"She would say the silliest things... She was such a bright girl, and wonderfully silly. Last month she asked me what my most not favorite food was, and I could barely answer her, because the question was so delightful. She called me 'daddy,' which at first sounded odd despite the logic of it. That's how Leia always referred to me. But she was already picking up Russian words and phrases, lightening fast. So smart. Leia told me she practiced with her, because she knew how important it was to me. And...

"I hate this...

"...Because I thought I would have more time. How could I know? How could I have even conceived of this? And the worst part is that I didn't do anything my instincts told me to do. Not a single thing. How perverse, that I abide by them without exception on the battlefield and yet treat them as a non-element in the most important aspect of my life.

"I thought they would be safe and that I could rescue them if they needed it. Like a hero. Like a good father. But how could I have expected something like this? How could I possibly have anticipated this...?"

Treize wants to say these things. These thoughts. And he almost does. He almost spills out everything he's been thinking since this morning to the one person he trusts with his life.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he sniffs and sits up straight for the first time in hours. Dizzy-headed, he turns to face Zechs, whose face appears vulnerable with concern, mouth open slightly as if to say something but somehow shocked and unable to. They sit in continuing silence, during which Treize looks at a spot on the carpet and wonders why he can't bring himself to tell his best friend about the worst thing that's ever happened to him. Shouldn't he be beyond this? What did secrecy matter anymore? It was all for nothing. All of it.

"Is it your mother?" Zechs finally asks, voice small, shrunken to a gritty whisper.

Treize scrubs his face with his hands, once, only enough to reset his expression, and then he smoothly rises to his feet.

"She is fine. But I am exhausted," Treize tells his friend honestly. "I am going to go home, and I am going to sleep."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Treize walks slowly, stiffly, to his desk, where he begins to shut down programs on his laptop. "To my quarters?" he asks after a dry beat.

"I'm worried about you," Zechs confesses with more of that unusually unselfconscious sincerity. He then pushes himself out of his chair and stands, arms hanging, awkwardly unoccupied, as he awaits Treize's response.

"I appreciate it, but no. I will be fine."

"Will you call me tomorrow?"

Treize supplies his answer quickly as fast fingers punch through the shutdown protocol. "I will be working tomorrow."

Zechs moves forward, right to the front of Treize's desk, where he typically stands to report or sits to discuss. The jut of his chin suggests a reclamation of poise, and as he begins rifling through the folders he finds on the top left corner of the desk, a familiar smirk reemerges.

"That's not surprising. But I'd like you to call anyway. Or I'll call you." Fingering quickly through the files he's found, he waves them once in the air to catch Treize's attention. "Maybe I can help you with some of these quarterly reports."

"It is your day off," Treize reminds him as he crouches to lock his computer in the safe concealed below his desk. "Do something enjoyable."

Zechs laughs low. "Like what? Go to the cinema?"

There is a set of four beeps and a clunk as the safe is closed. Treize stands and grabs his keys from the top drawer of his desk. He wears a small frown, one that could be easily mistaken for brooding distraction. He comes around to the front of his desk, hitting the lamp as he does, bringing the room into early winter's dusky darkness. They face each other in the fading light, Zechs expectant, Treize reluctant. The only sound is their breath, until –

"I think... you are taller now," Treize observes, cautiously appraising, words distant and hushed.

Zechs' expression, what can be seen of it, darkens. "If you're going to blatantly lie about what's bothering you, even though you know it pisses me off beyond articulation, you can at least let me help you with your quarterlies."

Treize's thoughts drift back to the place Zechs has pulled him from, and he realizes that the seven hours he just spent were the greatest luxury he would ever have. No time now. Only for a tomorrow that he thought would be profoundly different.

"If that is what you want," Treize concedes against the persistence. "Be here tomorrow at 0800."

"What are you doing tonight?"

The haze of numbness recedes enough for a thin beam of temper to shine its way through. Treize straightens his grief-sagged posture, the slightest of lapses, standing at his full and now slightly disadvantaged height.

"I'm certain that we already talked about this."

Zechs stares him down as if to shrink him with intimidation. "Let me sleep on your couch."

"Oh, for God's sake," Treize capitulates, indescribably drained, grasping Zechs' left wrist and pressing his car keys into his palm roughly. "Fine."

Watching Treize's back as he treads firmly towards the door, Zechs wraps his fingers around his prize, face slack with dissatisfaction. It should never, ever be this easy.

"Treize."

Treize doesn't turn, but his hand stops just shy of turning the door knob. The room falls into heavy quiet until Zechs swallows hard and lets himself speak.

"You have to tell me."

Treize's eyes track quickly from side to side in the dark, stupidly misguided self-preservation fighting back the aching desire to have nothing this enormous and devastating between them. It ends somewhat predictably.

"You are a good friend." He looks over his shoulder then, just enough to let Zechs knows he means it. Because he absolutely does. "My best. Please continue to be that for me now."

A thousand sharp retorts may have surged to the tip of Zechs' tongue, but he only sighs and clenches Treize's keys tight in hand. When Treize opens the door, Zechs is there with him, sunglasses back in place, countenance as unreadable as it typically is in public.

As they move through the hallway, a huddle of off-duty officers part like the sea for them. Their young leader, a model of calculated constitution, sucks in his sadness and anger like a flabby gut, leaving only exactly what his soldiers want and need from him: a future, solid and sure, smiling a little bit, bright and utterly impregnable.