Preston walked the few dozen yards back to his office. "Staggered" might have been a better description. He didn't even bother to glance at the waiting area. He threw himself in, shutting the door behind him, and collapsed into the chair that had once belonged to his former boss.

He sat there a moment, silence ringing in her ears.

Preston started reaching for his phone to page Antoine, then thought better of it. If he knew anything about Antoine, the man was probably hard at work somewhere. Antoine had his own job to do, and disliked being interrupted. And, Preston reasoned, he couldn't just keep leaning Antoine when things got overwhelming.

Where had this sudden clinginess on his part even started?

He used to be so good at handling things himself. It was probably all connected somehow. Something to discus with his therapist tomorrow, he reasoned. Preston leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He wondered what his new assistant would be like.

Lost in thought, he almost didn't hear the tapping on his door. A gentle, rapid, fluttery knock. Preston sat up. He shook himself off, and slapped his hands together briskly. Showtime, he thought, giving a sidelong glance as the paperwork he still hadn't even started in on.

"Enter," he bellowed.

The door swung open, and a familiar figure walked in. Preston rose to his feet, pushing his chair back. Dimas!

Well, Missus Dimas anyhow.

"Evita…" he said, the mantle of CEO falling from his shoulders.

Once again, he was just the then young man standing off to the side: the personal assistant who made a point to remember the birthday and anniversary of his wife's boss. He would write cards and send flowers when Dimas was too busy, too indifferent to care. That was always, it seemed. In fact, Preston thought distractedly as he came forward, if her husband had simply decided to stay for his anniversary and not go traveling, he might not have died at all. He took Evita's lightly tanned hand in his pale one, not sure whether to shake her hand or kiss it. Ultimately he decided to lower his head, respectfully.

"I beg your pardon. 'Missus Dimas,'" he corrected himself. "An unexpected surprise." He offered to take her coat, and she handed it to him. Preston hung it on the rack by the door, and gestured to the leather guest chairs by his desk. "Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water?"

Evita Dimas allowed herself to be led to the chairs. Preston held one for her as she sat down, setting her purse and the small wooden case she'd been carrying underneath. "No, I'm fine," she replied, waving him off.

Preston sat down in the guest chair across from her. "Well, if you change your mind…" he began, voice trailing off.

"You always were such a good man, Preston," Evita replied, smiling gently.

Preston noted she'd dyed her hair blond since the last time he saw her. He wasn't even sure what her natural hair color was. He'd never seen her wearing the same shade twice. She wasn't wearing contacts today though. Her eyes were their natural honey brown.

Evita had the sort of timeless beauty that would always age well. She had high cheekbones, and a tapered profile that reminded Preston of a movie star. At the same time, there was something motherly about her face. Perhaps it was the faint creases at her mouth and kind eyes that appeared when she smiled. She carried herself with class and style, always managing to balance her matronly figure with high fashion couture. Even now, in this early winter chill, she wore a flattering, slimming ensemble. From her long skirt to her turquoise scarf, Evita Ariadne Dimas was every inch a lady of high society.

It always confounded Preston how Thaddeus Dimas could cheat on a woman such as Evita. Class, grace, style, and not just in looks. She was kind, generous, and sympathetic. It wasn't fair, Preston thought distantly. She didn't deserve anything that had happened to her.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Evita asked, delicately crossing her legs at the ankle.

Preston shook his head. "Not at all, Missus Dimas. What can I do for you today?"

She smiled. "I feel like I know you better than I ought. Please, call me 'Evita.'" She gave him a soft, and knowing smile.

They both knew who had sent the flowers, the cards. Preston had tried to keep it a secret, make it seem like the gifts came from her husband. Apparently he and Dimas had different writing styles. She'd known all along. He wondered what else she knew. He noticed she no longer wore a wedding band.

"I've been sorting through the house," she began slowly, reaching for her purse. "Getting rid of things I don't want or need. I found a few things from the plant that I wanted to return."

Preston crossed his legs and leaned in curiously. He caught her faint scent, some perfume. Floral. It reminded him of lilacs. Preston had never been interested in a woman, and Evita was no exception, but he'd be lying if he said she wasn't a beautiful creature. Even her scent was elegant.

Evita pulled out a small assortment of small objects: a few key cards, a brass tumbler key, and finally an ID badge. She handed them, one by one, to Preston.

He set them on the desk, but when she placed Thaddeus Dimas' old ID badge in his hand, he stopped. The round face of Thaddeus Dimas beamed up at him, Grecian features and dark eyes twinkling with warm amusement. A smile Preston had seen so many times before, frozen for all eternity. Dimas smiling up from the palm of his hand.

Preston swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was too dry. He made an audible clicking sound, and tried again.

"Are you sure…" he stuttered. "You don't want to keep this as a reminder?"

Evita shook her head slowly. "No, no." She curled Preston's fingers around the badge. "Some things we don't want to look back on, you know?"

Preston nodded blankly. "I do indeed." He set the badge, face down, with the rest of the company items. They sat, side by side in front of the empty desk, lost in their own thoughts. Several minutes of silence ticked by before Evita finally spoke.

"I like what you've done with the place, decorating." She gestured to the various seascapes dotting the walls.

Preston smiled weakly. "Oh, thanks. Antoine did that for me."

"The pilot?"

Preston nodded. "Yeah, him." He blushed slightly.

"I see." Evita paused thoughtfully. "You know, I think I will take you up on an offer for a drink. Have you cleaned out the filing cabinets?" she asked as Preston rose to his feet.

"No, not yet. Why?"

Evita smiled. "Well, in the top of that tall one on the left, Tad used to keep a private stash. There should be a bottle of Laphroaig, and a pair of rock glasses behind the files." She winked at Preston.

Preston unexpectedly winked back. The action seemed involuntary. He went to the filing cabinet and rummaged around until his hand found a small stand tucked behind everything. Supported upright was a bottle of scotch, and, as Evita had said, a pair of rock glasses.

"I don't have any ice," he began apologetically as he brought the flask and glasses over.

Evita waved her hand dismissively. "I'm surprised you didn't know this was here," she remarked as Preston poured them each a small amount and recapped the bottle.

"I, eh, I haven't really been exploring," Preston remarked despondently as he flopped back down into the chair. He offered a glass to Evita who took it, and allowed herself a slow sip. She nodded approvingly. Preston followed suit. The amber liquid was strong, expanding like smoke in his mouth, and finishing with a hot peat at his throat. He exhaled slowly. "Well, that is pungent," he remarked.

"Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure."

They sat for another moment, looking across the desk to the empty executive chair.

"Does it feel strange sitting here, on this side?" Evita asked after a pause.

Preston shook his head. "It feels stranger sitting over there," he gestured to the empty executive chair.

Evita made a soft chuckling sound, but didn't say anything more.

Preston swirled the contents of his glass, watching the liquid slosh perilously close to the rim, then flow slowly back down the sides. "You said you're cleaning out your house," he began slowly. He wasn't sure if this was a road he should go down, but he found himself enjoying Evita's company. It beat sitting in the office of a dead man alone. He wanted to prolong their time together.

Evita nodded. "I'm not keeping it. It's too much house for one person, and there's no real reason for me to stay here. All my family's out west." She took another small sip of scotch. "I've been clearing out a lot of stuff. Things that I don't want to keep anymore, that I won't be taking with me."

Preston took a sip, and listened quietly.

"That brings me to this," Evita continued, reaching under her chair and lifting up the wooden box. She slid her chair forward, and set the box on the desk. It was about two feet long, by fourteen inches wide; and a good seven inches high. The corners had been tacked over with brass to prevent them from getting worn down. There was a leather-wrapped handle, at the top, and two heavy brass clasps. Between the clasps was a single keyhole.

Preston peered at the box, curious.

Evita reached over, and undid the clasps. "The key's been lost, but you could always have a new lock installed," she explained. She slid her fingers into the top, and slowly opened it.

Preston gasped and cupped a hand to his mouth.

Nestled one across from the other in deep velvet padding were two pistols the likes of which Preston had never seen before. At the top, they looked like standard, antique pistols, but below the short barrel a curved blade extended from the trigger guard to a good six inches past the muzzle.

Preston reached tentatively towards the box, then drew his hand back anxiously. He rested his knuckles against his lips, and worked his jaw. "What… what are they?"

"Elgin cutlass pistols. They were my father's, and his father's before him, going back to my great-something grandfather who served on the USS Peacock." She regarded the pistol thoughtfully. "Always passed down to the first-born son. My father had no sons, so they went to me. I was going to give them to our firstborn son… Then I was going to give them to Rhodes…" she muttered. There was a bitter undercurrent to her tone.

Preston thought now would be a good time for another swig of whiskey. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Evita was going to say. He was quite positive he didn't want anything to do with guns. He had a feeling neither of those were decisions he'd be able to make. At this point, he was along for the ride.

"Tad, he took it so hard when Alastair died," Evita remarked, tracing a manicured finger around the rim of her glass pensively. "He expected Rhodes to fill Alastair's place." She raised her eyes to Preston. "Then, when it became apparent Rhodes was not like our first son, I think he expected you to take that role."

Preston's hand went to his chest. He would've been less surprised if Evita announced she was his fairy godmother, then sprouted wings. "Me?" Preston gasped, shaking his head. "Evita, I don't know what you heard, but Mister Dimas… he… I'm fairly certain he hated me towards the end of things."

Preston's mind slipped his control, and took him back to that dark time. He saw Dimas screaming at him in the freight elevator as they descended. He heard Dimas' voice sneering at him, malice barely contained: Some days I wonder if I shouldn't have let you go…

What? Why?

You know what, Preston, sometimes I just get tired of your face.

Preston saw everything so clearly, all of it unraveling. He twitched suddenly. A cool hand slid over his, drawing him back to the present.

Evita was sitting there, in the chair beside his, expression oddly understanding.

"I'm sorry," Preston muttered. "I didn't mean to…"

Evita covered his hand with his a second longer, the reassuring way a mother, or a favorite aunt might. "It's okay, Preston. I didn't mean to bother you." Her eyes grew distant, remembering. "Thaddeus and I, we had our first child shortly after we were married. His name was Alastair. There was an accident. One of those tragic things you read about in the news. Alastair was waiting for the school bus. A clear, sunny day. A drunk driver, drunk at seven in the morning… Tad had said Alastair was old enough to wait for the bus by himself, so I didn't walk out with him..."

("Evita, I'm so sorry…" whispered Preston.)

Evita drew a hand across her cheek and looked down. "I blamed myself; Tad blamed himself more. Some things, you never forget them. You just learn to move on." She lapsed quiet for a moment, before shaking her head as if to clear it. "That was then, and this is now. Tad always spoke highly of you. He saw your ambition, and honestly, he saw you as someone he could pass the plant along to. An apprentice that Rhodes would never be." Evita patted the back of Preston's hand gently. "He never hated you. He had high expectations for you; perhaps moreso than was fair. Tad: he took great pride in his work. He wanted to create a legacy. He saw you as the heir Rhodes didn't want to be, that Alastair would never be.

"I don't understand what went through Rhodes' head. That whole plot to kidnap Monty Burns and hold him for ransom. I don't know how he got tangled up in it. I tried asking him about it, but he said he 'did the right thing' for me."

Preston remembered the news reports. The public story had been an article of an attempted kidnapping gone wrong, with collateral damage in the form of innocent bystanders who tried to stop them: Antoine, Dimas, and himself.

Though he'd never read the reports personally, he knew the gist: Monty Burns had been abducted at gunpoint, and taken out into the Springfield desert. The media listed the three of them as selflessly trying to stop the attack. Dimas had gotten hit just right with a stray, but fatal shot. He'd given the ultimate sacrifice. Everything was a spin he was sure Waylon Smithers had a heavy hand in directing. It was nothing like the truth.

The media wrapped the tale by announcing Franklin M. Burns had been tried as an adult, and was serving time for kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon.

Rhodes T. Dimas, legally an adult at the time of the incident, was serving twenty-five years for second degree murder and kidnapping. His attorney had tried to get the charges reduced to manslaughter, but it was Rhodes himself who simply stood resolute and said announced: I did what a good son does. He had offered no further explanation. It hadn't helped his case.

The media version of the incident was a pretty version, but a lie.

Preston knew he wasn't a hero.

"Life's complicated," he muttered, half to himself.

"Isn't it though?" agreed Evita.

Preston and Evita sighed deeply, in unison, and with matching tones.

They looked at each other, and despite the mood, Preston found a faint smile on his lips. Evita smiled back. "I've learned how to take care of myself," she admitted. "I wouldn't usually feel comfortable speaking about this; forgive me, but you're easy to talk to."

Preston blushed slightly. "So I've been told," he admitted quietly.

Evita regarded him, expression kind. "You're a good man, Preston Tucci. You'll make some young woman very happy someday."

Preston's face reddened further, and he looked away shyly. He was glad Evita couldn't read his mind.

"I want you to have these." Evita gestured to the pistols. "They're a legacy. But my time as their guardian has come to its end." She reached into the box, and lifted up one of the pistols, handing it over to Preston.

He held his hands open, flat, and she laid the firearm across them. It was weighed more than he'd expected. He watched as she took another delicate sip of Dimas' scotch, then examined the weapon. He turned it carefully in his hands, hoping Evita didn't notice how they shook slightly. The words CB. Allen, Springfield, and below that Mass had been stamped into the left side of the pistol. They'd been made in Springfield, Massachusetts. The longer he held the pistol, the heavier it seemed, weighed down by implications.

"I'm not sure what to say," Preston confessed as he offered the pistol back to Evita. "These must be worth a fortune. I'm sure some collector would pay handsomely for these."

Evita chuckled and nodded. "Money can buy possessions, but it can't buy tradition. I've got no reason to keep them further, and no desire to have them around. I don't want them going to 'just anyone.'" She set the pistol back in its box beside its mate, and closed the lid. Evita finished the small amount of whiskey in her glass, and glanced at the dainty watch on her wrist. "I'm sure I've kept you way too long," she remarked, sliding the box over to Preston. "I know Tad would've never allowed me to monopolize this much of his time." She rose, and Preston stood with her; the formalities of his upbringing taking hold.

"Missus Dimas, Evita," he began as he gathered her glass and the bottle, "I'm honored to have had the pleasure of your company." He set the glass next to his coffee mug to be washed, then tucked the bottle back into its hiding spot in the cabinet.

Evita grabbed her purse, and headed towards the door. Preston met her there, lifted her coat from the rack and held for her. How funny, he noted as she slid her arms in. One never forgets the proper way to hold a woman's coat. It had been years since he'd been trained in such, and it still came naturally. He reached out and held her purse formally while she fastened the clasps of her jacket and put on her white gloves.

"Thank you, Preston," she said graciously, taking her purse back when she'd finished.

Preston started to open the door for her, but Evita put a hand on his arm, halting him.

"Preston, I know that look in your eyes," she began gently. "I don't know where it comes from for you, but it used to greet me every time I looked in the mirror after Alastair died." Her eyes grew misty. "There was a quote a dear friend once told me when I was struggling. It helped me, and I think it fits you exactly." She laid a hand against his cheek delicately. "'Promise me you'll always remember: you're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.'"

Preston cupped a hand over hers, and closed his eyes. He rested his head into her gloved hand. There was a simmering feeling in the back of his eyes, tears brewing that he refused to shed. "It's so hard," he whispered against her palm.

"It is," he heard Evita murmur back. "It will be for a long time. But it slowly gets easier. Give it time, and keep your friends close. They'll help you through the dark spots; if you remember to ask."

All too soon for Preston, she withdrew her hand.

He opened his eyes, and stood there, trying not to let emotions show on his face. He bit the inside of his lower lip and nodded. "Thank you, Evita."

"No, Preston," she replied. "Thank you." She reached for the door, and opened it, giving him a gentle nod. "Good luck, my son, and goodbye."

Without waiting for a reply, she slipped out, and shut the door silently behind her.

Preston stood for a moment, arms hanging limply, head still tilted slightly to one side. He opened his mouth, as if to say goodbye. With no one to hear, he swallowed his words, finished the last few drops from his glass, and set it to be washed. He took the box with the pistols and set them behind his desk, next to his messenger bag. He glanced at the time on his computer. It wasn't as late as it felt.

Preston called over to Human Resources, and asked them to send over the paperwork on his new assistant. At least he could get a bit of info on her before she arrived.

Preston checked the time again. He'd finish up more of his daily work, then take himself on a tour of the plant. Thaddeus Dimas used to walk the plant daily. He'd pause to chat with his employees, while casually checking to make sure everything handled according to procedure. Subtle spying with a friendly face.

Preston always felt self-conscious when he was touring the spaces. He felt like an intruder. Both Antoine, and his therapist, had told in so many words to get over it. His therapist had given him a long list of techniques to help him feel more confident. Antoine had summed it up more succinctly one night, his feet on Preston's lap while they watched TV: Hey, you're the boss! What've you got to be worried over doing your job? Just act all confident and stuff, and they're gonna believe it. We're more scared of you than you are of us!

Are you scared of me? Preston asked teasingly, slapping the soles of Antoine's feet and shoving them to the floor.

Hey, ow! Be nice. Antoine put his feet back on Preston's lap. Me? No. I'm not scared of you. But I'm special. The rest of 'em? Yeah, who isn't scared of the boss? Antoine grinned at Preston, then returned his attention to the TV.