I had a continuation of the last chapter depicting Buddy and Violet's reunion night planned, but this one got finished first. Enjoy!

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"You know that's creepy right?"

Buddy glanced over his shoulder at his wife. Though how he could see was a little beyond her. He was practically laying on the pool table to get his shot–more effort than it was worth. He was playing against himself.

"Hmm?" Violet returned to her papers, idly spinning her pen in a lazy infinity loop. "What is?"

"You starring. Not that I mind, per se." He made the shot, and the crack of pool balls echoed loudly over the hum of the jet and the soft tones of their record player. They had both agreed that they preferred the crackle of the vinyl over the hiss of cassettes. "There's plenty to see."

"Especially when you put it on such display," she pointed out as he bent again, one leg up on the table to lay his body flat, getting the right angle with his stick oh so carefully. "Bottoms up, honey." Buddy's shot dug into the felt at her comment, and Violet was glad she could at least rattle him just a little. He straightened adjusting the belt of his dress pants.

"I'll have you know it's at least seventy-five grand for that kinda display."

"It's gone up since the last time," she cried. It was a joke he often tossed at her, the first and only running gag left over from the laboratory. Her breath hitched–only a second, almost imperceptible now. It had been eight years since her kidnapping, just as long as Buddy had been held there, and despite the lingering sting of old wounds, they had managed to heal.

I will not think about it anymore.

But unlike the 'doctor', Buddy's joke lived on, the prices varying on mood. When he was high on his own ego, he demanded quite large sums, and when he was looking to butter up his beloved, he offered services for the 'bridal discount' of nothing at all save a few kisses and exciting places. He never seemed to give a thought to the origins of the humor, the circumstances around his favored nickname for her either.

And it was part of the reason she had been considering him. He was just so…unaffected.

They were traveling to Guam on business for Elysium, where Mirage was already in deep discussions for buying out Daytona with the CEO at his penthouse. Buddy wanted to corner the market on automobiles, especially with Buy 'n Large making moves to totally absorb Dino Co. He had a better idea for energy and wanted to get ahead of the curve so that when the market flipped from using fuel, Elysium would already be at hand with a smart and affordable option, undercutting all the rest who'd be selling models merely for prestige with price tags to match. They were leaning heavily on Mieko's former connections to the company before she had left to put all her focus on making her father the new power in Tokyo.

But he was almost always blasé about business. That never rattled him, and Violet knew that.

What she was surprised about was how he had just…bounced back from his recent mission in Taiwan.

Hearing through the grapevine about Buddy's motions to move into Japan via acquisition, Tanaka, hiding underground, had tried his best to sabotage it. It was only the fact that Violet had made friendly with Fire Tongue, a Chinese super who she had met as a student surgeon at one of her lectures, that they knew anything of the former crime lord. Fire Tongue had agreed with Violet's suspicions that Tanaka was organizing Beijing gangs but had no proof until Tanaka had sent out a hit on Mirage to prevent the talks. He had used the same lines of communication he had to give gang commands safely from his island hideout.

He probably knew the connection between Buddy Pine who had attended his final gala and Ultra. But the vigilante only showed up in the direst of circumstances (or for work that was so benign the payroll of the federal agents investigating was worth more than the damage), and thus the accusation would fall on deaf ears. The retroactive view on Ultra's bloody beginnings had been washed clean as the workings of the mad doctor and his federal daughter became more commonly known (aided with the not-so-subtle approval of NSA Director Elliot). No one would care, and it would be a scandal easily covered up.

But if Elysium, and by extension, Ultra, gained footholds in Japan, it sealed Tanaka's fate that he, or his family, could never return.

Buddy had acknowledged her concerns about the man, but neither had truly decided on action. He had his company, and Violet had her career as the world's top leading super researcher (and still apart of the only 'out' super family known). The threat had been low for the moment. Then they had been informed of the hit, the plan to murder Mirage with what remained of the yakuza Tanaka's son-in-law still controlled.

Her husband had argued that swift merciless action was needed–they could not afford for the underground and seedy actors on the world stage to make a habit of buying hits on them or their loved ones. And despite her absolute stance on bloodshed, only acceptable in the purely necessary, Violet had conceded that he was correct. She had a sneaking suspicion that Mirage had been chosen, rather than herself, due to the recent development of her pregnancy. A sick two for one which had enraged Violet more than she had expected.

So, they had gone to Taiwan, both as Ultra, to eliminate the threat. Violet had gotten into the mansion and opened the way for Buddy, and he had continued to neutralize the monster. The fight with his guards had been easy enough, but the man himself had been…surprising.

He had tried to tussle with Buddy, but not with any hope of freedom. Violet had watched carefully, waiting for when she'd be needed, but the crime lord had taken control of Ultra's blade and sunk it deep into his own stomach. Shocked, Violet had blurted out "why" to the dying beast, who had only answered he would not be interrogated. No profound vows, no curses, not even begging for his still-living children. That, and the fact that he had spit on her helmet erased whatever generic Hippocratic guilt Violet might have had for the loss of life.

With a whimper, the last piece of that horrible odyssey that brought her and Buddy together left this world. The rest could be taken care of in time and less fatally–he had only had one daughter, and his son was still in university and had not yet attempted to take up any of his father's illegal mantel.

The monster that had brought them together was dead, as was his influence over the NSA. The stragglers of his buyers had been gleefully picked off and jailed for various crimes by either Mieko or her family. It had been a special project for Robbie (which Violet had hypothesis was due more to him needing an outlet what with Mary carrying both their second and third child at once, than just brotherly love for Violet, though she appreciated the effort nonetheless). And now Tanaka was dead.

It was well and truly over.

As they had returned to base, Violet had mentioned the closure. Leaning on the bow of one of Quinn's ships (happy to help the non-supervillains to his in law's delight), she had noted the symmetry of their position in conjunction with their mission. Buddy had agreed and looked out over the dark moonlit sea and stated he still wasn't sure if he felt free. "I know I am. And most of the time I feel like I am because I don't think about it much. But when I do think about it, I question it. Like I'll look over my shoulder and surprise! It's still there, he's still alive and it's not done yet."

Violet had linked their arms, and all night they had talked about endings and mortality, about the marks killing left on the soul and how rage never seemed to burn them away. About the past and the future and the harmony they always seemed to make when put up against each other. They were well-worn subjects, not repeated for the confirmation of particulars, but only to examine it in a slightly different slant of light for the hundredth time. Trauma was not a bacteria they could kill, but a chronic ailment; treated with words and kisses that tasted like tears for stability rather than elimination. The couple had not slept, electing to work through this flare-up in the moment and drop whatever tears they had into the ocean, catching rest in the car ride to the jet.

But when her husband woke up, he seemed to have shaken it off just fine, and Violet herself was left more somber than her usual reserve quiet. However, instead of resentful jealousy, she had watched her husband with admiration. He had bled himself of his emotions on the subject, gotten sleep, and decided promptly to no longer be bothered. It was damn near a si[erpower.

She had watched him while pretending to work, fliping through all their records with running commentary, do morning exercises to The Eagles, run through the merger papers, and finally settle on testing out his proto gravity disks on the jet's pool table.

No mention of Tanaka, no more regrets, not even quiet recuperation from such discussions had only hours before. Buddy, as ever, was only just himself. He was not built for melancholy.

Unfortunately, his love wore it well like a familiar old sweater. Violet knew that she still had to sort out her emotions for a few more days, picking them apart, examining them carefully before slotting them in their proper place in her heart's card catalogue. It was really a mystery that they worked so well, but Buddy never pushed her to bounce back as fast as he did, and she never really begrudged him his high emotional turn over.

"I raise my prices for inflation," he informed, chalking his cue stick.

"Any discounts?"

"No!"

Violet puffed her cheeks and mock indignation and when back to her papers, a hint of a smile still on her pouting lips.

"Playing pool however is free."

"You just want an easy win."

"You only get better with practice."

"Will I have to crawl on the table?"

"Depends on the shots you make."

"Then no."

Buddy gave a theatrical sigh and held up two fingers. "I Bartholomew Pine hereby promise that no matter what my wife does I will not slap her ass no matter how cute it looks." It didn't escape Violet that those fingers were crossed.

"Uh huh."

"C'mon, I want you to feel how the gravity disks work. They stabilized the whole table; I think I have a winner."

Violet closed her folder and picked up the rack, already beginning to collect the balls from the pockets. "Alright fine. Just to test out the stabilizer. But I want solids they're prettier."

"Anything for you, princess."

---

Hours later saw the exhausted couple finally entering their hotel. Whilst being a billionaire's wife had made Violet quite accustomed to the uglier side of lavish decor, the overuse of gold gilding still made her stomach churn–especially after what had been (she hoped) a rather disappointing salmon business dinner, slathered with so much gooey sauce the memory made her gag. This hotel was probably the worst offender, and she leaned heavily against the glossy wall of the elevator, closing her eyes against all the glitter.

Sitting silently on the sides was easy for her, but listening to the insipid back and forth was hard. She felt for Mirage, who had to actually participate. If it wasn't for the fact that this was the price she had to pay to stay with her husband, Violet would have been long gone, safe in the refugee of her research facility.

It was a blessing her work could technically be done on the move, that she had trusted partners who could actually do the lab work she ordered and send her the results to study; it allowed her to stay with Buddy as much as she could traveling around the world. When they weren't needed either as vigilantes or as Mr. Pine of Elysium, they had a rather impressive private home where they shared labs for their separate projects. But as soon as he was called, if she could, Violet was determined to go with him.

They had spent so much time apart and fighting, and only three years really together, she was selfish about her time with him. And if that meant being the fourth wheel to his talks, then she would do it, making herself useful with clerical organization to make Mirage's job easier. That, and she suspected the woman was happy to have another sane voice of reason to balance out the twin geniuses.

The room was at least a little better, less gold and more generic white with the new in-vogue chrome. Buddy un-shouldered their bags with a sigh as Violet immediately went to the bed. She knew how expensive these places were, but had been raised to always check for bed bugs no matter where she went.

"All clear?"

"Good to g–what on earth?" As Violet plopped on the edge of the bed, leaning back at her hands she glanced at the ceiling. Instead of the usual gaudy attempt as a Sistine-eques mural, there was nothing, but a wide clear mirror screwed into the ceiling. If the gaudy decor wasn't enough of an indicator, that cemented just what type of hotel Daytona had put them up in. "...Oh no! I don't think so!"

Buddy, as expected, dissolved into laughter. "Oh yes!"

"No! Buddy how am I gonna sleep tonight?! I can't with that thing starring down at me!"

"I don't think you're supposed to be sleeping babe."

"No way! I think not Bartholomew–"

"I know just what we're doing," he sing-songed over her protests. Then, punctuating his words with a pat to the bed, "we are getting bus-say!"

"In your dreams!"

"You can be on top, I'll watch." He leaned on the mattress to kiss her cheek and immediately got shoved to the floor.

"You're sleeping on the balcony tonight!"

Once his laughter died down, he assured her that he had brought his sleep mask, something he'd grown used to during his time with Jang. He couldn't disclose much about the surgeries, but he had told her he had slept in a fairly well-lit room at all times, Jang worried about internal failures and thus monitored him regularly at night.

She was the first to use the shower and found that even the curtain was practically sheer. Violet sighed, unhappy to be in such a lewd building, but pleased that inside was spacious, and the water was piping hot. She scrubbed the grim of traveling and vengeance from her skin and hair, happy to waste time simply standing under the spray and letting the hot water comb down her body, loosening her muscles.

"Your turn," she called, tying her robe around her as she stepped out of the shower. She began her nighttime routine, dabbing toner on her face as Buddy stripped and stepped into the shower, but not without lifting the fold of her robe to sneak a peek at her chest with an appreciative hum. A shield did nicely for shoving him into the shower stall. Despite her protests, she had to admit the blurred shape of her husband behind the barely frosted curtain was an enticing sight.

"I think they'll sell," Violet ventured over the sound of running water. "The map idea is very good." It was the one thing she loved about Baby, the electronic map she could read with barely glancing down next to the speedometer. She'd even asked him to install one in her little Corolla back in the US. She could only imagine the sales if one was installed in every car made.

"It is, isn't it? And to think, I only did it because I was sick of getting zapped when I got lost coming back to the lab," he called, dunking his head under the spray.

The comment froze Violet to the spot. They were all dead, but it wasn't really ever done.

Even with all their discussion, it seemed there would always be things Buddy didn't mention about his captivity. He was still so childlike in the way he spoke about it, never all at once, though he was able of working through in long intervals as last night had proved, but still only giving bits and pieces. Little drops here and there, as if testing the waters, making sure it was safe. It never failed to catch Violet off guard, the same sensation of missing a step, stomach light and heart stuttering. Carefully, trying for casual, she admitted, "I didn't know that…"

"Yeah–nothing incapacitating, but goddamn it stung." He stilled as he lathered his hair, fingers pausing in his bloody locks. Violet observed her husband, recognizing the dissociation even through the curtain, how he had gone totally still starring at nothing. How he must be reliving the memory. She was about to drop her robe and climb in with him, ready to soothe. Then, with a great shiver, he shrugged, and asked, "Hey, princess, can you turn on the radio? And keep an ear out-I ordered room service."

Music, their constant companion from the beginning. Wandering back to bed, Violet turned on their radio clock searching for a station that came in clearly. So that was how that man made Buddy return. She had assumed as much, that there was some time coded booby trap set to hurt him, but it had been so low on her list of concerns she never gave it much thought. Was that why he was so punctual? Always in such a hurry? Was it residual anxiety?

It's never really over.

Everyone may be dead, but what they did reached beyond time, following them like a macabre bridal train. There would always be some new horror Buddy would reveal in casual conversation, not understanding the evil of it until it was spoken. She would always have to question those who were too eager to help her or get close. Her fingers reached up touching her reconstructed ear tip. They would still bear the scars, they would never be the same, they would always–

She tapped a finger against her forehead.

I will not think about it anymore tonight. I will not think about it anymore tonight. No dark thoughts. Think about Buddy, think about work. Think about the food coming. She forced herself to shift her thoughts, to think about trying to sleep tonight, planning on burying her face in Buddy's neck and avoiding the mirror, thinking about the continuing talks tomorrow, the food that was coming, hoping he remembered deserts. Clunky at first, taking real effort to focus on benign silly things instead of the serious pain. But the more she did it, the more she settled into the pattern, filing the darkness away–not shoving, not trapping, but compartmentalizing it for its proper time.

By the time she dressed for bed and received the food service cart, she was in quite a better headspace. As she lifted the silver covers, considering the finger food he ordered (and chocolate covered strawberries!), Violet debated the wisdom of broaching the subject with him. It had been a year since Ultra was needed, perhaps one night of talking hadn't been enough to settle all the emotions the role unearthed. It certainly didn't for Violet–

"Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?" Through the doorway, Violet saw that her husband had finished his shower and was currently rubbing a towel over his head, the other wrapped around his hips that swayed in seductive circles as he bumped to the beat of the current song. "We danced and sang, and the music played in de boomtown."

Maybe not.

Taking a mini quiche, she seated herself on the mattress corner, crossing her legs and enjoying the sight of Buddy dressing, singing, and dancing all by himself, gladly adjusting the volume at his called request when More Than A Woman began.

Guileless.

Buddy was utterly guileless, despite his past. It was not that he was untouched by the darkness he was surrounded by, both created with his own hand and not. But he was so utterly himself, utterly known to himself that he was able to break through despite the opaque pain. He burned so brightly and so true, he gave light even in the dimmest of circumstances. Able to enjoy a good song in a dungeon, flirt with his chest ripped open, and joke when he was sure he was dying.

Despite the masks he had tried to don, Syndrome, Ultra, the suicidal pessimist, Buddy always ripped straight through them, unable to be confined by titles and roles. That was his defining feature, and now that he was free, it flowed strong and pure like a river cutting a new path in the earth. Little by little, a trickle then a stream, until it was safe to run; and he carried her along with his current, submitting to her direction but raging on none the less.

She was so susceptible to the darkness and the thoughts, but seeing him refusing to give in, to continue to fight in a million small ways to keep to the present and the past in its proper place gave her so much hope that it made her heart hurt. The hope is killing me, princess.

And Violet adored it. Violet adored him.

Oh God help me, I'm so in love with this man, she thought, watching him as he moved to his bag, hips still swaying tantalizingly, singing under his breath.

"Oh good, dinner and a show," she called.

"I told you my price," Buddy threw over his shoulder.

"I snuck in." She uncorked the wine he had ordered, letting it breathe. "I wanted to see if it was really worth it."

"A good girl like you? Sneaking in? Breaking the rules." He dropped his fetched pajamas, grinning at their little game. "I love it. Alright, you asked for it." Pretending to draw himself closer to her by an invisible rope, he swayed to the beat and hooked his thumbs inside the towel that was hanging on by a prayer and starting to slide the cloth.

Violet shrieked with laughter, clapping her hands over her eyes with the instinct she had yet to break. At least she was peeking through her fingers.

"Violet!" His hands grabbed her hands, hauling her up to her feet and pulling her along.

"I didn't know this was a hands-on performance," she gasped through giggles, as they moved together, stumbling and laughing through the entire song and into the next.

Violet turned and swayed with no finesse and endless enthusiasm, hands in her hair, lifting the long locks and letting them flow from her fingers, enjoying how the silk of her nightgown began to rise on her rocking hips–and how her husband's fingers greedily followed. She shimmied back against his front, loving the way his warm chest felt against the cool exposed flesh of her shoulders.

For she didn't know how long, they danced and moved, enjoying the ridiculousness of it all; the good music this late-night DJ was indulging in, the way their modified and clumsy dancing seemed to effortlessly fall into sync, the pure fun of it all, and the slowly dawning realization that they were well and truly free.

This time, when she stopped cold, her heart didn't flutter from the sense of falling. Hope, guileless fun, and laughter. They had sewn their own seeds, and fed by the endless stream of love, were just now beginning to see the blossoms bud, like the grin that crawled over Buddy's face when she turned to face him with desire in her eyes.

Violet found the rhythm of the music again, and swayed backward towards the bed, beaconing him with a finger.

"What about…" He glanced towards the ceiling.

"I guess you're just gonna have to make me forget out it," Violet challenged, grabbing his towel and using it to rip him down on top of her. Holding his head, Violet quite forgot the dinner on the other side of the bed, instead devouring his grinning mouth. She would kiss his tear-stained lips a thousand times, every day, for forever, so long as she could, in the end, feast on his guileless smiles.

In the end, she rather liked the looking glass above them. Without it, she would never have known how much she smiled when her husband was on top of her, leading her in an altogether different dance along the sheets.