ARGH okay. All I can say is that once again I am truly, profoundly sorry for keeping you guys waiting (whoever has bothered to actually stick around and wait for new chapters) and thank you for your endless patience. Take comfort in the fact that I've taken some time to actually plan out the final stages of this story, so I now have a much clearer idea of where I want things to go and how to get there.

Welcome to chapter 20! Not much action just yet, but there's a bit of Tidus/Yuna fluff and some unexpectedly cute banter between Rikku and Seymour. I promise that things will start to get interesting next chapter, which I plan to start working on as soon as March releases its chokehold on me (six papers, three exams, and two projects – somebody shoot me, please).

For now, enjoy!

000

Chapter 20

She watched him dress silently, still nestled on the bed with the sheets tangled around her. Her face was wet with tears, but she was no longer crying.

"Run it through for me again." His voice was quiet, but the air of command was unmistakable.

Yuna sat up on the mattress and wiped at her face. They had spent nearly all day in bed together, talking and planning – and other things – almost non-stop. Their lovemaking had taken on a frantic urgency that left them both shattered and trembling in the aftermath, only to resume it once more as the knowledge of their impending goodbyes returned to memory.

She was drained, physically and emotionally, and she wasn't sure how much more of this she could take.

"The flight leaves at nine pm. I must not to set foot outside this room until eight o'clock sharp, when the taxi arrives. I pay for the airplane ticket in cash. I'm not to talk to anyone in the airport or on the flight, and when I land in Fort-de-France, I am to check in immediately at La Ferrasie Hotel. Room 314."

Tidus nodded curtly. "Good. And then –"

"I wait for you to contact me to say that it's all over, and we can lie naked on the beach drinking margaritas for as long as we like," she supplied helpfully.

Despite himself, he smiled back briefly. Then, serious again because there is just no light way to ask this, "What do you do if they catch you?"

She sobered up as well, acutely aware of the ripple of fear flaring in her gut. He had assured her that she meant more to them alive than dead, since they would need her to get to him, but even so, she had to force her hands into fists to keep them steady. "I let them take me," she whispered, "and tell them that we made a copy of the file. I let them know that if anything happens to me, you will make the documents public. We have the copy stored on a computer, which will automatically e-mail it to every news station in the United States unless we punch in a manual code preventing it from doing so at a specific time. Also, any attempts to hack or decipher the code from an outside source will result in an immediate send off."

"And?" he prompted.

"And I tell them who I really am." If they don't know already by now. Braska had always been secretive about her, even before her mother's death, and had gone to almost absurd lengths to hide her very existence from public knowledge. Her birth certificate, social insurance number, driver's license – even her old report cards from boarding school – all sealed government information, securely locked away. Even Renata had been practically a ghost, rarely making public appearances and only emerging alongside her husband for particularly prestigious events.

Yuna had once asked him why, why all this secrecy; only to be met with the profoundly unsatisfying answer of "for your safety". Safety, she learned at an early age, came at a serious cost. No friends, no social life, no privacy, no real sense of identity. Until, that is, she turned eighteen and was suddenly free to do . . . anything.

And now she was on the run with a rogue agent of some shadowy US military faction, which was behind her mother's death, tried to kill her father, and was now attempting to kill her and the man she was falling for.

Tidus seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. "There's a chance," he said quietly, "that they might . . . torture you for information about me. I don't know that they will, but at this point we can't rule anything out. Just be prepared for it, as much as you can."

She nodded stiffly, unable to say anything in reply. There was little she would be able to give up, ultimately, if it came down to that. She could tell them how he likes his coffee, and that he paces when deep in thought, or nervous, and how his whole face transforms when he smiles. She could describe the way he talks and moans in his sleep, replaying past missions over and over again while she lies in the dark and listens, knowing he won't remember them in the morning. And that he has the gentlest hands in the entire world, even if they are equally capable of inflicting terrible damage.

He searched her face for a moment before crossing over to the bed and gracefully crawling on top of her. She lay back down compliantly, savouring the warm comfort of his weight. Their lips met softly, deliberately, before he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For everything."

Another wave of tears sprang up automatically as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She had not thought it was possible for her to cry any more, but she was so, so wrong. "À bientôt, cher."

His eyes poured such longing into hers. "You're all that matters to me, you know that? More than my memories, my past, everything. And when this is all over, for better or worse, I swear I'll come find you."

She could only nod wordlessly against him, and with one final kiss, he reluctantly slid away from her. Curling onto her side, she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch him go. It was too soon. It was too soon, too dangerous, and it wasn't fucking fair.

She heard him pause at the door, stumbling over his words like cracks in the sidewalk. "I know it's impossible – ridiculous even, probably, but I might never get another chance to say this. So . . . screw it. I love you."

Her eyes flew open, but she stayed perfectly still. He had said it so quickly, almost like it was all one word. Iloveyou.

He hovered in the doorway for another half second before swiftly departing. Then she remembered herself and sat bolt upright on the bed, just in time to see the door closing behind him, and she listened, paralyzed, as his footsteps faded down the hall.

000

The team barely landed in Zurich and pulled up a block away from the Opernhaus before Seymour was barking orders, shouting instructions left and right. He was outfitted with a bullet proof vest, a wire, and a set of handguns – which he knew, they all knew, was a bad idea, but the idea of going in to meet with a highly-trained rogue operative without any kind of protection seemed like an even worse idea.

To anyone who didn't know him better, Seymour was his usual self. Irritable and impatient, but somehow radiating a seasoned calm about what could potentially be a colossal disaster. He had been doing this longer than most of the others, barring Lynwood perhaps, and though he had been relegated to the office in his later years, there was no one else who seemed qualified for this kind of drop.

Qualified, Rikku mused as she walked alongside her boss, seems like a very stingy word. It was amazing how mechanically she moved, navigating through the efficient swarm of activity with bodily awareness alone while her mind drifted elsewhere. People rushed to and fro to set up surveillance behind a conspicuous semicircle of boxy white vans parked at one end of the alley in which they'd chosen to set up shop. They would disperse eventually, but for now they served as a barricade against the curious eyes of pedestrians walking by the mouth of the alley. Plain-clothed agents had already been sent to take up their positions in the Opernhaus, having gone over the building's schematics on the jet. Nearby, a strike team was being briefed to stand by as a fallback, and elsewhere snipers had scattered to find various vantage points up and down the street.

Rikku had never been to Europe before, and never imagined her first trip would be under these circumstances. This wasn't the time for shopping or sightseeing, though from their position down the street she could faintly make out the stone angels atop of the arched roof of the Opernhaus. It was doubtful she was going to get much closer for a better look, though.

Rikku was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she did not realize he was speaking to her until her growled her name a second time.

"Welsh, pull your head out of the fucking clouds, will you? This is important, I need you to focus."

Shaking herself a little, she cleared her throat and stood up a little straighter. "Sorry sir. What do you need me to do?"

"Attend to Feltham," he instructed brusquely, buttoning up his shirt over the Kevlar vest. The jerk of his chin indicated Joshua, standing not ten yards away and apparently in deep conversation with another tech analyst. "Do whatever he says, unless it's something really stupid."

"And what do I do then, sir?"

"What?"

"If he tells me to do something really stupid."

He stared at her pointedly. "Ignore him."

"Ah."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he turned his head to give her a more sidelong look. "If these concepts are too novel for you, I'd be more than happy to ship your ass back States-side."

Forcing a benign smile, Rikku took the liberty of reaching out to straighten his tie, which he had apparently given up on some time ago. "Your faith in me is very flattering sir."

Grunting, he nevertheless spared her a response and merely tilted his head back to give her better access. After a moment of unusually companionable silence, he quietly said, "My wife use to do this for me. Ex-wife, I mean. The most recent one."

"Let me guess," Rikku replied knowingly. "Your dad left when you were a kid, you never knew your grandfather, you're not particularly close with any uncles or male relatives, and none of your mom's string of lousy, parasitic boyfriends ever showed you how to dress up properly for a special event."

He snorted a little. "Goddamn psychoanalysts. I hate getting profiled, just so you know."

Finishing, Rikku stepped back to survey her work. Being raised by a single father who owned an auto body repair shop and a brother that never mentally matured past the age of seventeen had equipped her with more than her fair share of glimpses into the cloistered world of men. Ties were nothing but child's play.

"How do I look?" Seymour asked, only somewhat sarcastically.

"Like you're wearing a bulky bullet-proof vest under your wrinkled dress shirt. The tie looks good though."

He leered at her, but not with any real spite. Then, shrugging into a blazer, he and stalked off to get fitted for a transmitter that would record any conversation he might have with Raines.

"Sir," Rikku called out impulsively.

He stopped and glanced back at her impatiently.

"When you're talking with him in there," she began, not needing to elaborate on who she talking about. "Just . . . keep your cool. Stay calm. If you snap, or yell, or do anything to put him on the offensive, you'll virtually eliminate any chance we have at detaining him." And increase the likelihood of having to kill him. "Agents like him are at their best when they're running scared. Remember that, okay?"

For a moment he just regarded her silently. Then, to her surprise, he nodded, turned around, and continued walking without a backwards glance.

Rikku watched him go, and didn't realize she was tightly hugging herself until her shoulders started to ache.