Warning: Mentions of suicide and other types of deaths.

Specs had been waiting by the tree for days.

Prior to when things had started getting serious, as in dangerous, he'd only gone out for a few minutes each day, gripping their red coloured laces in his hand. Their tree, the one they'd officially met again under, stood tall and proud next to him, still clinging to its dying leaves.

He pitied it.

Gradually, his time there expanded. Minutes turned to hours, and hours led to unthinkable thoughts. What if she were dead? What if she wasn't coming back?

They had coaxed him into going inside. Not only was it a risk with The Unknowns, they'd insisted, but it was also unhealthy. He would catch a cold if he stayed out for any longer. He didn't care.

He'd been outside for most of the day when the news came, watching for her. Somehow, he felt like this was it. She would soon be back. And she would have her mother with her, the reason why she was still gone in the first place.

He looked up as Finch came to stand beside him. "Any sign 'a dem?"

"No," replied Specs, who had also been tasked with watching for Lane. She'd supposedly gotten stabbed while fighting a former friend, and fled before either Finch or Morris could get her help. He knew first hand that she'd run — Finch had practically dragged him over to the Refuge so he could help her, only for both of them to be greeted with the two bodies and a missing girl. Specs would be lying if he said he wasn't worried for her. He'd been anxious ever since he'd seen her gone, wondering why she had left.

Finch sighed. "I hope she's bein' smart."

"She's been stabbed," reasoned Specs. "Either she's gettin' herself help, she left ta do somethin' thought was serious enough ta risk her life, or tha pain 'n blood loss has driven her mad 'n she's out ransackin' tha streets 'a Brooklyn."

Finch paled.

"She'll be fine," Specs promised, seeing he'd only worried the poor boy.

As if he'd triggered something, they suddenly spotted a figure moving slowly towards them. Very slowly. She was stumbling, clutching her stomach. He'd noted that she looked sick, like she'd seen something she would never, ever forget. He figured it had something to do with her brother and Frisks.

He'd been so blissfully oblivious then.

It was only when the girl tripped and fell into the powdery snow that Finch snapped out of his trance, running up to her and helping her over. Once she was close enough, Specs could see that her hands were turning blue, wet with both snow and blood.

He swallowed hard and averted his gaze, looking up to her eyes that held a deep sadness. He was about to say something about her brother, about how sorry he was for the loss — assuming that that was why she seemed so dejected — but she spoke first.

"Specs."

That was all she said. Just one word, his name, but it held a hundred and one emotions in it and suddenly he felt that something was not right. That something was very, very wrong, indeed.

"What?" Specs questioned, newly on edge. "Lane, what's wrong?"

Finch looked just as confused, and even more so when Lane suddenly fell into him, wrapping weak arms around his shoulders and whispering agonizing apologies over and over again, causing his stomach to turn uneasily.

"She must be in shock," Finch tried, prying her from Specs. "It's cold, Lane. Let's go inside, okay?"

But, to both their surprises, she ripped her arms from his grasp and turned slowly back to Specs. "I was too late."

No. Specs suddenly felt he knew where this was going, but couldn't believe it. "What are you talkin' 'bout?"

She sniffled. "I tried ta save her, but I was too late. I'm sorry, Specs. I'm sorry. I came too late. I was jus too late..."

He stumbled back, not thinking it possible, when Lane reached into her coat and pulled out an old, beat up frying pan.

It was covered in blood.

"What is dat?" he stammered. "No, don't answer dat. Finch, take her inside. She's clearly confused."

Finch, too, was staring at the frying pan. "Specs... I don't think she's confused."

Specs didn't say anything else. He stared at Lane, hoping she would crack a grin and tell him he had it all wrong. Domino wasn't dead. She would be right behind her.

She was coming home.

But Lane only stared back, saying nothing, before turning away and making her way into the lodging house. He couldn't hear much of the conversation between Lane and Finch, but from what he could, it was clear the girl was damaged. She kept insisting he call her Brigid, not Lane, it's Brigid, Finch. And Specs knew that whatever had happened while she'd been gone had shaken her to the core.

Whatever had happened to Domino had shaken her to the core.

He walked over to the frying pan she'd left on the ground and wiped the blood off with the snow. Most of it cleaned off, the substance still fresh from Lane's knife wound, but there was a layer underneath that was already dried. Blood from at least an hour before.

He shook his head and tossed it as far as he could.

Domino was not dead.

She wasn't dead.

She couldn't be.

It was something he stood by. Every day, for the next week, he stood outside and waited, and waited, and waited. People had tried to pull him back inside, but after figuring out he wasn't going to respond to their pleas, they gave up and only came near him to bring him food, papes to pass the time, and outerwear so he wouldn't freeze. He hardly moved, not even when Amy and Dipper came out to force a second jacket and a hat onto him, which ended up taking a bit of team effort he took no part in. Sometimes, just sometimes, he caught Lane staring out at him from the window, looking for all the world like a broken doll. She never stayed long.

No matter how long he stood out there, Domino didn't come. But he knew she would, he just had to hang on a little longer. When food and spare papes weren't being pushed his way, and Lane wasn't there staring at him from the window, he passed the time by watching two swallows in his and Domino's tree. They were both black as the night, with undersides white as snow. A gentleman and his lady, seemingly building a nest together. He named them Pierre and Marie, like the two characters in their childhood play.

One day, inexplicably, she vanished. Only Pierre remained, looking as lost and sorrowful as he felt. And then he, too, left, early that Sunday morning.

Specs shuffled over to the frying pan, yanking it from the frozen ground. The cold burned his hands, but he held it still, running his fingers over the dried blood and grease stains from years before.

The girl frowned, turning to stare at the sky. Martin thought that maybe she just didn't want to talk to him. "What does dat look like ta ya?"

"Tha sky?" He turned small squinted eyes upwards. "It's... bright. Bright 'n pale blue. Tha sun's-"

"What?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "The sky's blue?"

She blinked at him, tilting her head. "... Blue?"

He hesitantly sat next to her. "Yeah, like... blue. What does it look like ta ya?"

"Blue, I guess." She shrugged. "Same as tha clouds."

Martin glanced at her. "Tha clouds is white, not blue."

Her face flushed red. "Whatev-ah. Ya look stupid wit yer spectacles, anyway."

He frowned, taking his glasses off his face. The insult stung, but he suspected she was deflecting. Making comments about him so he'd stop asking about her. "Do dese look blue ta ya?"

"Dey ain't blue," she told him grumpily. "Dey's dark."

Martin slowly slid the glasses back onto his face. "So everythin's jus light 'n dark fa ya?"

"I thought dat was normal," she said quietly. "I won't rememb-ah ya if ya come talk ta me again, y'know. I can't rememb-ah faces anymore. Or maybe I nev-ah could."

He suddenly pitied this poor girl. "What's yer name?"

"Dominic," she replied, finally sitting up next to him. "At least, dat's what dey told me."

"Ya can't rememb-ah anythin' either, huh?" He put his hand out for her to shake. "Call me Martin. Dat's what dey told me it was, too."

Dominic stared at the hand for a long while, before standing up and crossing her arms. She seemed suddenly wary of him. "Bye, Specs."

He sighed, but shot her a small smile. "Bye... Domino."

"Domino?"

"It sounds like Dominic," he explained. "Plus, ya can only see things in light 'n dark colours, like a domino."

"Dominoes can't see."

"Dat's not what I meant."

Domino rolled her eyes, and began to walk away. He didn't think she noticed how his gaze followed her until she was out of sight.

"She's dead," he murmured when he could recall nothing more from the memory. "She's dead."

With the words still hanging in the air, he leaned his head against the frying pan, and finally cried.

Slowly, painstakingly, the world righted itself.

While she hid herself away in the lodging house, Pulitzer took it upon himself to improve the state of the world. He had Roosevelt dealt with — money and power really could get you what you wanted — and had even printed more papers than usual about everything that had happened since the strike. Apparently, Katherine had written the article. According to Finch, Pulitzer had mentioned that it had been a form of therapy for the traumatized girl.

That was another thing. Pulitzer had requested her presence, what with her being Delancey's daughter and all, but she hadn't even left the lodging house since she'd returned, and so Finch had gone in her stead. She spent her days staring at the walls, staring at the ceiling, staring out the windows. Specs hadn't learned to accept it, either. For a full week, he'd stood outside and waited. Waited for the girl she knew was never coming back. Waited for the girl she'd seen die with her own eyes.

Naturally, it hadn't been Specs who'd stitched her up. It had been Amy, with Dipper and Albert's help. They'd talked among themselves while the girl worked, discussing things she had no interest in hearing. Things about the objects, still missing, about Hotshot and Brooklyn, about Evangeline's departure, about Domino and Specs... she'd tuned them out after that. It was nothing she wanted to relive.

She hadn't spoken much since everything had ended. She didn't even respond to her name anymore. She'd known it back at the church — Lane was lost. Lane was the girl who'd spent years trying to cope with grief and hatred in the only way she knew how: shutting herself out of the world and making a home among the rats. Even more so, Lane was the ultimate product of her father's making, a worthless piece in his game. Whoever that girl had been, she was gone, and she never wanted to hear the name again.

She'd wondered before how it was that her father had never questioned her coming home late with blood staining her hands from the floors she'd scrubbed. How he hadn't ever mentioned the way she'd withdrawn when they were together. And then, after the Refuge, why he never asked about the many boys she brought home with her, even though she was sure he could hear them talking in her room well into the middle of the night, when Lane had just wanted to feel something.

She'd still been so young then, and her father hadn't cared. She knew that now. He hadn't cared at all for Lane. Unless she could get him what he wanted, Lane was nothing but a gamble to him.

But Brigid, he had cared about. Brigid hadn't gone through everything Lane had. Brigid could heal for them both.

It was the day that Specs finally returned inside that she went up to Finch. "Ise ready ta talk."

Finch's eyes widened. He stood slowly from the bunk he was sitting on, joining her. "Okay, Ise he-ah ta listen."

She nodded, looking down. "I've changed. And not in a good way."

"What?" His brow creased in concern, his hands caressing her waist. "Brigid, yer still tha love 'a my life. You haven't changed."

She laughed bitterly. "You can't even call me..." She swallowed harshly. "I can't..."

His features softened. "You think yer damaged, but yer not. Trust me when I say dat, love. Yer healin'. And dat takes time. Brigid, aft-ah everythin' you've been through, dat's gotta take time." He paused. "I've got thorns, too, remember? We've both got 'em. Dat's why wese so good togeth-ah, cause we know how ta handle each oth-ah. Dis way, we can both heal."

She looked at him closely, and noticed the tiniest bit of doubt clouded in his eyes. She flattened her lips. "Dere's somethin' you ain't sayin'."

He cracked a grin. "Jus dat I love you, Brigid. All 'a you."

She leaned in close and kissed him, even while knowing that there was something he was hiding from her. "You sure know how ta charm a girl."

He made a face. "No 'I love you, too'?"

She rolled her eyes. "I love you, too, big baby."

He hummed and caught her lips again, leading her backwards towards the wall behind her. She laughed and leaned towards him, savouring the embrace. They spent a few moments that way, before Brigid pulled away, gasping for breath. "We ain't married, dummy."

"Not yet," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said lot set," Finch said hastily, before kissing her again.

She pulled away, sighing. "As much as I wanna think about marryin' 'n kissin' you more, I was actually thinkin' 'bout visitin' some people."

"Like who?"

"Pulitzer 'n Snyder."

"Blegh," said Finch distastefully. "Want some company?"

She shook her head. "Ise good. You stay he-ah 'n... make sure Specs is doin' alright."

Finch glanced towards the boy, still outside. "I wanna know if yer gonna be alright foist."

She smiled sadly. "I ain't alright, not now, but it'll come. Jus let me do dis. I'll be fine."

"Okay," said Finch. "I'll be he-ah waitin'."

"You'll be he-ah lookin' aft-ah Specs," she corrected as she walked towards the door. Her hands shook as she reached for the door knob, remembering the last time she'd stepped foot outside the lodge. Four deaths had occurred in front of her eyes, and both Elmer and Jack had also died that same day. Hysteria rose but she shoved it down, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing slowly.

"Brigid?"

She turned back to see Albert. Finch was still watching her from away, clearly wanting to step in, but knowing she didn't want him to. Swallowing, she stepped back and faced Albert. "Tha handle's stuck. You try."

Albert grinned wryly, stepping forward and opening the door for her. She nodded at him gratefully, knowing all too well that he hadn't fallen for her little act, hurrying outside.

Specs was still outside. She spotted him on the ground, crying, with his head pressed against the frying pan. It was the first emotion she'd seen from
him in days.

She stopped next to him and cleared her throat.

He looked up, startled. "Lane."

Her lips quivered for a moment, heart caving in her chest. "Jus call me Brigid. It's my birth name. My real name."

He nodded, his features tight from crying. "Sorry."

She gestured to the lodge. "Yer not gonna go in?"

He looked back. "I will. Soon." He faced her again. "I saw you watchin'."

She pursed her lips. "I probably looked insane."

He offered a small smile. "So did I, Ise sure."

"You did," she confirmed.

He stood, staring at her for a long moment, like he knew what he wanted to ask but wasn't quite sure how to word it. "How... Brigid, how did it happen?"

Her mouth dried. She hated, absolutely hated to talk about any of it, but Specs, above anyone, deserved to know. She owed him that much, at least. "Two bullet wounds and a knife to the chest. Her nails looked... almost broken. It was clear she fought hard ta get away."

"A fight-ah 'til tha end," he murmured. "Did she say anythin'?"

Brigid paused. "No. I think she was already dead when I got dere." She looked down. "Ise sorry."

Specs looked away, shaking his head, but didn't say anything else. Maybe he just couldn't.

She patted his shoulder. "Get inside. It's cold."

"Yeah," he said softly. "And, La- Brigid?"

She turned back towards him.

"Thank you fa tryin' ta save her."

Brigid smiled sadly. "I've only got three best friends in tha world, 'n she was one 'a dem. You really don't gotta thank me fa anythin'."

He nodded and she turned away, but her heart made a funny little skip in her chest when she heard the door open, the dead silence that followed, and it closing afterwards.

Specs had gone inside.

"Miss Delancey, how good it is to see you."

Brigid walked in slowly, taking in everything around her. Not much had changed. "Can't believe Ise sayin' it, but it's good ta see you, too."

Pulitzer chuckled. "A surprise, indeed. Come, take a seat."

She looked over to the side where one of his plush seats were, dragging it over to his desk. "You asked ta see me."

"Yes, it would appear I have." Pulitzer waited a long moment before speaking again. "I wanted to offer my condolences, as well as apologize."

She blinked. "Apologize?" Why would he be apologizing to her, and not the other newsies?

"Snyder and I were well aquainted," he elaborated. "After the strike, it was I who bailed him out. And he went after you."

"That was ages ago," said Brigid. "I've gone through much worse since then, so I assure you, it hardly makes a difference now. But I accept your apology."

He nodded. "Very well. Now, the other reason I brought you here. My daughter."

Brigid blinked at him. "Katherine?"

"Yes."

"What about her?"

At that moment, the door opened and in walked the journalist herself. She'd seen better days, clearly, but Brigid probably didn't look any better. Katherine paused, startled at the sight of her. "Lane?"

"It's..." Brigid sighed deeply, closing her eyes. Katherine already had enough to think about without adding name changes to the list. "It's good ta see ya."

Katherine looked from Brigid to her father. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Brigid shrugged. "Dat's yet ta be determined. Joseph?"

Pulitzer frowned. "With Miss Delancey having more knowledge about everything that happened than anyone else, it seemed wise to seek her help with writing an article that goes more in depth about the events as of late than the ones you've written already, although it's true that those were very lovely. Katherine, it seemed to me that you could also use a friend, and..." He hesitated. "I think Brigid here could use one, too."

Brigid rolled her eyes. "I hope dat ain't yer way 'a sayin' dat you'd think we could bond ov-ah everythin' we went through. Usually tha people in question would rather not discuss their tragedies." She waved an hand. "But I guess it's fine. For me, at least."

Katherine looked at her for a long moment. "Is your father really gone?"

Brigid lowered her eyes. "Yeah. He is."

She almost couldn't stand the look of relief on Katherine's face, mostly because she understood that relief all too well, but then Katherine approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. No matter how cruel he was, he was still your father." Her gaze flickered up to Pulitzer. "I couldn't imagine losing mine."

Pulitzer said nothing, but something akin to a smile twitched on his lips.

"We'll do it soon," said Brigid to Katherine. "We'll meet up 'n talk 'n you can write yer article. I promise. But I've gotta go see Synder." She, too, looked to Pulitzer. "What about Roosevelt? Finch said you handled him, but..."

"He's imprisoned for having a part in The Unknowns," said Pulitzer. "You don't have to worry about him anymore."

"And you?"

"The Unknowns were after The World," declared Pulitzer coldly, letting no affection for anyone or anything show, as was the norm for a man of his standing. "I'm safeguarding my life's work, that's all it is."

"Right," said Brigid, rolling her eyes and making her way towards the exit. Just as she was about to place her hand on the handle, the door slammed open. She jumped back with a strangled gasp, heart racing in her chest.

Soot was standing right there in front of her.

Brigid gawked at her. "Soot? What-?"

"I've come wit Pulitzer's globe," announced Soot. As she walked in, Brigid noticed a guard behind her. One of Pulitzer's, no doubt. Soot reached into the bag she'd slung over her shoulder, surely enough pulling out the globe that had once caused Brigid so much trouble.

Brigid stared down at it. "Why did you take it from us?"

Soot grimaced. "It wasn't anythin' personal, Lane. Really. But these objects is dangerous. They've come from all ov-ah tha woild, 'n some people would do anythin' ta get 'em back. It was best ta keep it all away from you, 'n I knew Jack would nev-ah let us take anythin' from tha lodge."

"So you waited 'til he was dead," she commented dryly.

"Try ta understand," was all she said. "At least now you've got somethin' less ta worry 'bout."

"And how grateful I am," she grumbled. "Dis has been nice, really, but if you'll excuse me..." Her gaze settled on the globe that now stood on Pulitzer's desk. "I've got somewhere ta be."

"Ain't I glad ta see you again."

Brigid stood in front of Snyder's prison cell, still as stone. "I haven't come ta gloat, if dat's what yer wonderin'."

Snyder studied her. "You really are more like yer muddah, aren't ya?"

"Maybe now," she confessed. "Brigid ain't dead, like I claimed she was when we met again aft-ah tha strike. She was dead, killed by grief when her muddah died 'n faddah began carin' less 'n less about her family, but den it was grief dat brought her back." She reflected on this. "I'll always cherish Lane, dat part 'a myself, but it's too painful right now. Lane belonged ta my faddah, 'n ta you. She was nev-ah mine."

He seemed bored. "Why tell me dis?"

She looked to him. "Because you helped create her."

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

"I'm sorry," Brigid whispered finally. "I didn't steal Pulitzer's globe, I nev-ah did, but I'm sorry dat you believed I had fa so long. Ise sorry dat my family had anythin' ta do wit it at all." She approached the bars separating them. "But dat don't change tha fact dat you chose ta become a monster. Fa a lot 'a those newsies, you'll be tha worst thing dat has ev-ah happened ta dem. Even ov-ah everythin' my faddah did." She smiled wryly. "I guess dat's one thing you bet him in."

Snyder reached for the bars, his grip tight. "You little-"

"Kyle Delancey is dead," she said then, tone flat.

Snyder froze, leaning forward. He studied her, then leaned back. "How?"

"He shot himself in tha mouth," she whispered, "not long aft-ah I told him dat Oscar was killed."

He released the bars, arms going slack, face pale and sickly. "Oscar?"

"Killed by Frisks, who was den killed by Morris." Lane observed the way he seemed truly shaken by this news. "You rememb-ah her, don't you? Brigid Colon?"

He cursed. "Yer both named Brigid?"

"We sure are," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "Lovely ta know you rememb-ah her now. When I tried ta explain dat it was her who opened tha window in tha Refuge, you told me ya didn't know who dat was 'n soaked me in tha basement."

He stared at her, his gaze level. Of course he knew who she'd meant that day. "I hated dat girl almost as much as I hated you. But her faddah wasn't Delancey."

"Oscar 'n Morris were his kids, too," she argued. "Why'd they get special treatment from you?"

"Ain't it obvious?" he sneered. "Delancey abandoned those boys, jus like he abandoned me."

"He abandoned me, too," she whispered.

"Not in tha way it mattered." Snyder shook his head. "You was still bein' used by him, no matt-ah how much you tried ta separate yourself from him. I couldn't have you in my good graces even if I'd wanted. Don't ya know? Delancey tossed you ta me so he could bide his time, do all he needed ta do for The Unknowns. You was supposed ta hate me."

"I woulda hated you either way," she spat.

"As would I."

She clenched her jaw. "Why did you tell me he was still alive?"

"Why do you think?" Snyder demanded. "It was all a part 'a his plan, Brigid Delancey."

Snyder had offered no elaboration. With an irritated huff, Brigid had left the prison and had been pulled into a conversation with some of her friends who'd had some sort of plan they'd wanted to share with her. That had been the day before. She was now standing with the three other girls by her side, the lake where they'd told each other to meet at in front of them.

It had been Dipper's idea. Writing letters to themselves, and then letting them drift off gently down a stream. Amy had pitched in with the idea to not only write the letters to themselves, but more specifically, to their younger selves.

As much as it'd hurt to even consider, Brigid decided it was necessary. She had much she needed to say.

Katherine had joined them. She was there in Evangeline's place, who'd left earlier that week. Apparently Dipper and Amy had also roped the girl into the project before she left, and so they now had her letter with them as well. Brigid saw it as a final goodbye. She hadn't gotten to see her off — not with the state she'd been in at the time.

"Ready?" she asked.

They all nodded. Brigid took her paper boat first — she'd taught them all how to fold them that way — letting it glide down the lake with all her deeper, darkest thoughts. It reassured her that by the time anyone thought to pick it up, it would already be soaked through and, therefore, unintelligible.

Amy went next. Crouching, she let her little boat slip out of her grasp and into the water, watching as it floated away with heavy eyes. Then, after a meaningful pause, Dipper put hers in. Brigid knew what the pause had meant. It would've been Domino's letter next, had she been there.

Katherine put both hers and Evangeline's in at the same time, sighing as she watched them both drift off. Brigid approached, placing a hand on her shoulder. When Katherine turned back, she shot her a small, reassuring nod.

The four of them stood back and gazed into the far distance where the sun shone bright, making up for its last hours of sunlight before dusk.

Brigid smiled.

"Are you ready?"

"I dunno," said Brigid. "Are you?"

Finch brushed a lock of red hair from her face. "Wit you, Ise ready fa anythin'."

They were standing on the Brooklyn bridge. Well, Finch was practically stepping on Brooklyn ground. Brigid stood at the very end of it, not yet committing to the road that would seal their fate. The fight was over, repairs were being made, and it was finally time for Finch and Lane to make good on their promise to take over for Hotshot in Brooklyn.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "In what woild do we live in dat made me fortunate enough ta meet a guy like you?"

"Dunno," he said back, "but hopefully Ise jus as lucky in every oth-ah woild."

She hummed softly, still smiling, playing with the threads of his shirt. She found his heartbeat and paused for a moment, words of months before coming back to her. She let out a small laugh, realizing she finally understood what he'd meant.

"Brigid?" Finch frowned. "What is it?"

"Dere's dis... thing Crutchie told me 'bout once," Brigid began, pausing as the moment slowly came back to her. "I'd been visitin' tha Refuge some when he was thrown in, because I felt guilty fa what had happened. Me bruddahs was tha one who dragged him dere, 'n I felt like I was responsible. I needed ta be held accountable in some way."

"Brigid, dat wasn't yer fault," Finch protested, and it was clear that he remembered that day just as well as she did. "I told ya ta stay back. What happened was-"

"I know," she interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking up at him. "I know dat now. It took me some time, but I've finally gotten it through my hard head dat nothin' coulda been done, 'n dat it wasn't right fa me ta blame it on myself. But dere was somethin' dat Crutchie said durin' one 'a those times I went ta see him. At tha time, I thought it was kinda ridiculous, 'specially since it first came from Jack, but what he told me has always stayed wit me though everythin'."

"What was it?"

Brigid blew out another breath, and softly placed two fingers just below his throat. "He said; Dere's four locks on a goil's heart, 'n only a few people have tha key ta all of 'em. One lock hides her grief 'n sorrow-" she lowered her hand slightly, feeling the steady drumming of his heart- "one hides her dreams fa tomorrow-" lower, still, "tha next hides a fear she keeps near-" she traced the worn fabric of his shirt, stopping just above his ribs- 'n tha last hides tha one she holds dear." She looked up at him. "I think I always knew ya held 'em all."

His grin seemed boyish. "All four? Dat's quite an accomplishment."

"Dat you earned," she said back.

His features softened, a small grin still on his face. "I love you, Brigid."

"And I love you, Mr. Cortes."

He kissed her and then was silent for a moment, something heavy on his mind. "I think it should be Colon. Y'know, fa Spot."

"You mean..." she let that sink in. "You mean yer gonna change yer name again?"

There was that worried look in his eyes again. "Only if you'd be okay wit changin' yers."

She blinked. She was sure he didn't for the ten seconds she stared at him. "Come again?"

And then he knelt.

Brigid stumbled back, taken over by surprise, but Finch understood and shot her a reassuring nod. "Brigid Delancey," he began gently, all the love in the world there in his voice. "I've only known you fa half a year, but if Ise honest, it feels like more. It feels like we've been wit each oth-ah entire lifetimes, even though dere's still stuff we don't know 'bout each oth-ah. Point is, I wanna know those little things 'bout you. Brigid, I wanna spend tha rest 'a my life wit you, so..." He sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wooden ring. "Would you do me tha honour 'a marryin' me?"

"Oh, Finch," she breathed. "Yes."

He beamed at her, shining brighter than all the gleaming snow on the ground combined. He cleared his throat. "Lovely." And then he slipped the ring onto her finger.

It was carved with small designs, beautiful and intricate in the way only Finch could be. In the middle, amidst the swirls, were the engraved words I promised I would, and she knew this referred to the previous ring he'd gifted her, the one that had promised he would love her always, even if he couldn't yet make it official. She touched that ring, below the new one, the one that read my striker and that had gone through so much.

She loved them both with everything she was.

Finch had stood while she'd admired the custom rings, and they laughed at the sight of the wet splotch on his knee from the damp ground.

"People are gonna think you tripped," she pointed out.

"Worth it." He kissed her before she could say anything else, and she melted into the gesture.

They suddenly heard a cough. Pulling away, they saw Bunker standing there with an uncomfortable expression. She'd forgotten he was there. "If yer finished already..."

Brigid made a face at him. "Bold attitude fa yer new leaders."

He grunted. "I hate dis job."

"We'll get along great," she teased, then turned back to Finch. "Can't believe Ise actually becomin' a newsie."

He hummed. "Well, word on tha street says some factory work-ahs is plannin' ta go on strike..."

She'd heard of this. It was Farnsworth's factory, where she'd worked once. "Clothin' factory, right?"

"As if you didn't already know."

She grinned. "You know, maybe I can be a strik-ah and a newsie."

"Brigid," said Finch, "dat strike wouldn't be complete if you wasn't dere."

She snorted, then turned back to where Brooklyn awaited. "So? You ready?"

"Ise ready," he confirmed. "You ready?"

"Yeah, Ise ready."

Hand in hand, Finch and Brigid stepped into Brooklyn together.

(5634 words)

Guys this genuinely feels like the last chapter... you'll know why tomorrow.

Also I know it's slightly strange to fangirl over your own writing but, THEY'RE ENGAGED!!!!! WHAT THE HECK, FINALLY!!

My poor baby Lane (or Brigid) is not living her absolute best life at the moment tho. If you didn't get why she decided to be called Brigid again, it's because she sees her father as the part of her that was Lane, and her mother as the part of her that was Brigid. Also don't forget, Lane was essentially the name Kyle picked out for her.

Basically he told her, "You can pick the meaning and why Lane fits you, but you have to go by Lane." He also started going by Path (Sentiero in Spanish) and also told Trek to change his name. This ended up leading Domino and Lane to where Kyle was doing his evil scheming.

I'm really not ready to let go of any of these characters yet, so like ask them questions and stuff haha. It's been a while since I last did it, but I want to answer questions about Lane and Finch's engagement, about Evangeline and what she plans to do with her life, about even Morris Delancey's biggest regret haha. Ask them all if you'd like, and they'll all answer.

I don't want to close off this chapter, but I must.

~ nutcracker645