The Old Friends and New Ones:

Her hearing is a closed one and relatively short, for which Elizaveta is thankful. Vash was right, though she hates to admit it. The judge was quite lenient to her, courtesy of her father. As she sits on the wooden bench waiting for the officer to finish her information, Elizaveta frowns at knowing that is the reason she got off so easily.

Daniel Hedevary Sr. came to this country from Hungary with his wife years before Elizaveta was even a thought. They weren't exactly wealthy then, being long distant cousins of a royal family that didn't exactly exist anymore. The Austro-Hungarian empire dissolved years ago in favor of democracy, but those families had wealth stored away that even Hitler couldn't get to. Her parents came from the same line, not directly, but close enough to take part in the spoils. They used those funds to move here. Funny how when some claim to be descendents of a lost empire, people are suddenly doing free 'favors'.

Elizaveta's father used this to his advantage to establish his own business, and the rest was self-explanatory. Now, the Hedevary family is one of the reasons this place is so famous, and one of the reasons Elizaveta keeps her head down when people pass.

Her bail is low, not even close to what Gilbert's was and someone paid it no less than an hour after seeing the judging. She rubs at her wrists. They were cuffed some twenty minutes earlier, and some of the feeling is still tingling back into them. An officer is still signing things on her behalf at his desk. Elizaveta watches him with tired eyes that want to close, but she wills them open for the sake of something to do. When he's done and stands, so does she. The officer walks down a hall, and Elizaveta assumes she is supposed to follow.

There will be cameras. She knows this for sure, and exhales away the nervousness bubbling in her chest. By her nature, Elizaveta is a proud person. She holds her head high regardless of the circumstances, but that didn't mean things didn't get to her. Attention is one thing she was never quite comfortable with. Well, if the attention is on her for the wrong reasons, anyway. She can handle it, of course, but she'd much rather stay in the background and receive praises for her hard work humbly. That is something she and Gilbert never had in common. He very much likes the spotlight and would draw attention to himself when none was willingly given.

"Hedevary," Elizaveta holds her head up. The office is looking at her, waiting by a thick window where another officer is standing. She squares her shoulders and walks up to the glass. The officer on the other side holds out his hand and she presents her own. He dips it in the black ink that Elizaveta did when they first booked her and takes her fingerprint before pushing the chair back and moving out of sight. He returns shortly after with a package.

"This is everything you had when you were booked. Keep in mind some things have been kept for the purpose of evidence. You've been placed under probation for the next year. While you are on probation, you are not allowed to be more than 300 feet outside of the city. You are not under house arrest, but will be monitored by an assigned probation office that you will have to check in with every month until your next hearing. Your next hearing will be mailed to you within the month. Should you not show up, it will constitute as a violation of your probation and you will be arrested. Should you leave the city, you will be arrested. Should you violate any other stipulations outlined in your probation, you will be arrested." His voice is bored, rattling off things that he will no doubt say one hundred times over in the course of the day.

The officer slides several documents to her. Elizaveta scans them quickly, signing her name at the end of each page before taking her things and handing him the papers back. The first officer directs her forward. She follows and stands where he points in front of a metal detector. He pats her down, does a scan with a handheld metal detector before pressing a button that opens the door to her freedom. She doesn't move at first, but clutches her nearly empty envelope and just looks. She isn't afraid of their faces and her hesitation isn't because of people. It's her own apprehension of what to do once she is back home. But Elizaveta takes that uncertain step through the door and another and another until the sunshine is peeking through double doors that lead outside.

The question now is, who exactly paid her bail? Mother? That makes the Hungarian woman snort while she started to put on her coat and scarf. Her father is more likely to do so than her mother. Certainly there'd be much more of an audience if he were here. So far, Elizaveta could make out just two camera crews, but it could have just been her vantage point. The floor on this side of the courtroom is pretty, made of some type of faux marble that makes her every step echo in the empty hall. Elizaveta ties her scarf as she walks to the end, and thinks. It's more crowded here and she's able to keep a low profile, hiding from the reporters. Someone grabs her shoulder, and she turns in a bit of resistance at the foreign touch.

She squints, bemusement clear on her face, at the person before her. "Roderich?" she asks. Hushed. Astonished.

He has that look, his normal face for those who didn't know him. His lips are thin, slightly downturned without even a hint of a smile. His eyes are distant but not cold. Combined with the very fancy suit his is wearing, with matching scarf and a grey peacoat, Roderich looks a bit untouchable and obviously well off. He pulls his hand back and adjusts his glasses, more out of habit than necessity, Elizaveta knows. They don't speak for a few seconds and their history fills in the silence.

"I heard what happened." He says. His voice is strong compared to others by virtue of his accent, but Elizaveta has heard better German. She wants to ask how he knows but the answer is as obvious as how they met in the first place. She looks away from him and crosses her arms.

"So how is my mother doing anyway?" Elizaveta glances at him to see if he would deny it was she who told him. Roderich doesn't. "And yours for that matter."

His lips twitch in what wants to be a frown but doesn't change from its previous form. "Both are fine, thank you. Your mother is worried for you."

That makes her roll her eyes and let out a disbelieving grunt. Elizaveta turns on her heels and starts toward the entrance. Roderich follows. "I wouldn't call what she is doing worrying."

"You shouldn't be so critical of her," Roderich ventures in that diplomatic, slightly superior tone he uses with everyone. "She wants you to be happy, you know."

"When has that woman ever cared about what makes me happy?" The question is rhetorical, but Elizaveta immediately regrets saying it. They fall silent again. Roderich steps ahead of her to open the door just as she reaches for it. It is the polite thing to do, but the Hungarian has to hold back from scowling at him. She can open her own door just fine. But the native Austrian is all manners and etiquette, a proper, modern aristocrat. She doesn't fault him for it, but it is a bit annoying.

They make eye contact as he holds the door. Elizaveta looks away and secures her scarf closer to her mouth to shield her face. The reporters are already coming up the stairs but luckily, Roderich intercepts them before they can get close. He steps in front of her and grabs Elizaveta's hand before she can refuse it. She sticks close to him as people yell questions at her. She practically has to bury her face in his shoulder, they are so close, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, for reassurance she supposes. Microphones are shoved on every side of her and Roderich a little less than politely moves people from his path as they descend to the pavement.

He doesn't let her go then, but keeps her hand even as they jog across the street. His grip is firm and oddly comforting in the winter air. Elizaveta tries not to get too caught up in its warmth. It's not his hand she's thinking of.

Roderich's car is waiting for them and he pulls out his keys mid-stride. And as soon as they reach it, he is opening the passenger door for her to get inside. People are calling out to them from everywhere direction but Elizaveta only looks up when she hears her pet name. A man is walking toward them, his head down so she can't see his face, but Roderich steps in before he can get any closer.

"She's not doing any interviews." He says as the man tries to side step. "Get is the car, Elizaveta." She knows he's trying to help, but a part of what's to see this man's face. He knows her, personally, that much was sure.

They are doing a dance, of Roderich trying to stop him and the man trying to get around him. Elizaveta stands between the opened door and the car, attempting to see around her friend.

"Just get in the car Elisa, don't worry about him." Roderich's voice is firmer now, with an authority that makes her brow furrow in slight defiance.

They move again and Elizaveta gets the tiniest glimpse of blond. "Liz."

"Wait, Roderich," Elizaveta moves from the door then. "I know him." She isn't one hundred percent sure as she steps between them. Her hand touches Roderich's chest and he looks down at her without removing the dignified scowl from his face. "I know him," she reassures, but the Austrian looks at her skeptically.

His eyes dart between the hooded man and her. He doesn't seem convinced, but Elizaveta urges him with her eyes and Roderich takes a half step back, not giving them much space.

It is enough for her, and Elizaveta turns to face the stranger. The man doesn't remove his hood, but closes the distance between them enough so that she can make out Francis' blue eyes. Her mouth twitches in a badly coordinated attempt to contain her smirk, but the Frenchman doesn't try to conceal his amusement. Just as she opens her mouth to question why he was there, Francis grabs her by the arm and pulls her into a rather intimate hug. His arms move slowly as they circle her waist, and Elizaveta presses her palms to his chest to push him away, but Francis tilts his head so that her ear was closer to his lips. The movement makes her pause.

"Your friend is very protective of you, non?" He says in a teasing whisper, and she rolls her eyes. "I don't think he likes me," the Frenchman continued.

"And is this your way of pissing him off? Or is there meaning in you acting so familiar?" she whispers just the same and he chuckles, once, before pulling back.

Francis grabs one of her hands and Elizaveta's eyes immediately shoot down at the unexpected feeling of a tiny piece of paper being transferred between them. He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it before dropping it and standing straighter. She curls her fingers into a fist and quickly puts it into her pocket.

"Elizaveta," Roderich interrupts. "We have to go."

She turns to look at him before Francis catches her attention again as he clears his throat. He bows formally, exaggeratedly, and makes eye contact with her. "Nice to see you are doing well, Liz. I hope I've helped you," Francis says.

Elizaveta mouths a quick thank you as Roderich beckons her again. Francis inclines his head before turning to leave. She watches him for a few moments and toys with the small piece of paper in her pocket before getting to the passenger door that the Austrian is holding open for her.

They are silent during the car ride. Elizaveta is too consumed with what's in her pocket to wonder where they are going. Roderich hasn't said anything since they left the courthouse. He faces forward, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift. When Elizaveta spares him a glance, she can tell he's frowning for real. The hum of the heater fills in the silence and she lets it do all of the talking for the next minute or two.

It's not that she isn't grateful; quite the opposite actually. Admittedly, Roderich was the last person Elizaveta expected to pick her up from the courthouse, although it wasn't altogether out of the question. They were friends of sorts, when she thinks about it. Despite how polite he is being, their history still hangs in their air, governing their every action. Elizaveta can feel it, and she is sure Roderich can as well, even if he's ignoring it. Rarely, if ever, does a person still keep in contact with their ex-fiancée. But here they were, driving silently on the highway, with him avoiding her gaze and her trying to think of something appropriate to say.

Roderich's eyes flick to her, and then away. Silence. Elizaveta rubs her hands on her on her pants for something to do and looks out of the window.

"So where are we going?" she asks but doesn't look his way.

"To my home," he answers, almost casually, but there is twinge in his voice that makes her turn to him with a curious expression. He doesn't meet her gaze but glances out the side mirror and changes lanes. "There will be reporters at your home. You're welcome to go there and deal with them."

Elizaveta doesn't like his tone, but accepts his explanation, leaves the conversation there, and stares out the window.

A/N: I liiiivvveeee! Yes, people, I am still alive and well, just a busy college student these days. Ppfff, I think these people are trying to kill me here! Anyways, I don't believe I've done my country thanks for this story in a while. So, here we go: US, Philippines, Indonesia and the UK! A very very special thank you to the fan base in the Philippines. I don't know if you guys have heard about Typhoon Haiyan that hit the city of Tacloban and other areas, but it was really devastating. I have a friend in Guam who has family that lives there so this situation is close to my heart. Also, being from New Orleans, I know how this devastation feels and what it feels like to be forgotten about. So please, help if you can and if not send them your thoughts and prayers but don't just forget because it's not your home. You could be them one day!

Much Love

-CeCe ^_^