"Walk with me, Trite."

He watched Godot's retreating back for a moment -- lean angles, white mane swaying with the breeze -- before the words sank in. Maybe the command was gruff enough that Phoenix wanted to obey; maybe need to know drowned out his common sense. Phoenix looked to Maya, and she frowned, and shrugged. So he slipped away from the DeLites -- he followed.

The space between them itched. Phoenix had swallowed a stone, one that grew heavier with each glance to Godot's grim-set mouth. Every rustle of overgrown bush snagged in his senses, courthouse grounds gravel crunched too loud under his feet, and the nothing-sounds made him want to wince -- not that silence would be any better.

"Let's get one thing straight, boy."

Phoenix looked sharply to Godot; he studied the depths of his mug, mouth still hard.

"That verdict wasn't the end of anything," he said, slow and bitter, "I haven't come back to give up so easily, not to you."

Back to the riddle -- Phoenix rubbed his neck, and and saw no more clues in that glowing mask-gaze than usual.

"Give up ... ?"

Godot took a slow gulp of coffee, and said nothing.

And if Phoenix didn't ask, he may never know -- he scraped for a little more nerve.

"Godot ... how do you know me?"

"By looking down through the depths of time, amigo." More vitriol in that word than usual; Godot looked up, maybe considered the treetops. "And by remembering a beautiful lost treasure -- all the riches a man could ever need."

Clues only made this riddle more confusing. Phoenix sighed, and stuffed his hands into his suit pockets.

"Look, I don't know what I did, but ... I'd like to know if I should be sorry for it."

"If you're not sorry," Godot growled, "You're no man at all."

"There's something, I'd have to be blind not to--"

Trying to make sense of Godot brought vertigo -- but it fled when Phoenix's back hit tree trunk, the instant grip crushed his shoulders and that mask loomed.

"You're the blind one, Trite," Godot hissed, hate-jagged, "You have no idea what you were blessed with, what you lost, what you're spitting on every moment you spend in that office."

"Because you won't tell me!"

Potential writhed between them; Godot canted his head. It was a shadow, something familiar, or maybe Phoenix pressed too hard for memory and invented it -- the shadow was gone once he realized.

"Chicks aren't born knowing how to use their wings."

The odd words washed away, nothing compared to the easing grip, thumbs shifting on Phoenix's collarbone like thought.

"It's a long, hard road, learning to fly, and learning the pain ground can bring." Godot laughed, bullet-sharp. He stepped back, hands settling in his pockets. "I'll tell you someday, Trite. When it's time for you to hear it." And, turning, stalking away, he muttered, "You can cry once it's all over."

That had to be familiar -- it shot through Phoenix, stirred dizzy clouds of trust and mistrust and advice half-forgotten. Anyone but Godot would punch him and get it over with. Straightening, tugging the creases from his suit, Phoenix saw the forest again for the first time and watched the white mug's contents bleed away into the dirt. He promised to understand, on that someday.