Author's Note at the end.

"How many days has it been, Ms. Pauling?"

"Ma'am?"

"Monsieur 'Jaque.' "

"Oh… um… five."

"Good, freeze all of his aliases and put out a few hits—just in case our contract wasn't clear."

"… yes ma'am."

My plane touches down in France at around one in the morning and, though it is still early evening back in the States, I am exhausted. As soon as I reach the nearest hotel, I scratch down the number from the paper. I don't have a lot of time to complete my disappearing act, perhaps a week at most, but I can begin work when I can think logically.

I don't even bother unpacking my bag or fully undressing. I merely shed my soaked overcoat and damp trousers before slipping under the warm, heavy covers and falling into a jet-lag induced stupor. When I awake, it is to the trill of my room's phone, and I ignore it for some time before it cuts off. It begins ringing once again seconds later.

"Bonjour?" My voice, logged with sleep and rough from choked emotion, sounds foreign to my ears. I clear my throat as I sit up and loosen my tie. I place it on the bedside table as I listen to the uppity receptionist telling me that I asked for a wakeup call to be placed twelve hours after my arrival. A glance at the curtained window in my room shows a streak of grey light cutting through the heavy drapes. It is muted, likely still raining. "Merci beaucoup," I murmur before hanging up.

I don't feel like talking to anyone.

Unfortunately, that is all that I will be doing today. First, though… I turn my eyes to the pad of paper next to the phone.

First I must call Sean's friend. I don't remember her name, I was too busy searching for something useful. Useful for what… I'm not even sure anymore.

How did I not see this coming?

I put the thought out of my head as the phone begins to drone out a ringing tone.

"Yeah?"

Typical American rudeness... it shouldn't surprise me anymore. "Hello, mademoiselle, may I speak to the lady of the house?"

"… speakin'…" she sounds confused and guarded.

"Ah, hello, my name is Jaque, and I was wondering if you might be able to help, I'm looking for a young man named Sean."

There is silence, and only the absence of a blaring tone in my ear tells me that she is still on the line. "What d'you want?" She asks, clear suspicion lacing her voice. "You a debt collector or something?" If I do not hook her in soon, she will hang up on me, and will be unlikely to answer my call again.

"No, I'm not."

"Cop?"

"No."

"Y'know, it's illegal to lie about that, right?" Her interest is fading, and I allow a shred of irritation through into my tone.

"Madam, would a cop have a French accent and be calling you from an international phone number?" I ask, beginning to wish I had planned better for this call.

She sighs. "Sean hasn't written me in almost a year. I don't know anything about contacting him… he probably moved and forgot to tell me about it. Sorry I can't help."

No, I need something from this contact. "I would appreciate help locating his mother, then. We have met before, however, she does not know me by my name." I chuckle in a self-depreciating manner. "If Sean has told you anything about his work, then you understand we were not on a first-name basis with any—"

"The bitch and I don't get along."

I bristle at her disrespect, but force my tone to stay genial. "Alright, well, if you have her phone number, then I will stop wasting your time…"

"I ain't telling you shit, I may not like the witch, but—"

I alter my approach abruptly, clearing my throat indignantly and causing her pause. "I'm just trying to get in touch with an old friend. He's very dear to me… surely you must know the pain of a lost friendship."

She sighs and I hear shuffling on the line.

"A number, a name, and address—anything would be more than I have… we didn't part on a particularly friendly note." I wince at the remembrance of my parting comments. I would never want my last words to be something so… lewd and unloving.

"Alright, I'll give you her number. If she asks, you never spoke t'me."

"Thank you."

I run my hands through my hair as I sit on the edge of my hotel room bed. Had I ever told Sean how much I enjoyed the feel of his hands running through it? Or when he would tug at it in the middle of sex? Or when I had been snarky and he too tired to hit me, so he would just tug at it?

What had I ever really told Sean? All I had done was answer a myriad of questions, said a few "I love you"s, taught him how to behave. I hadn't told him enough. Perhaps it's because I didn't know that he had affected me this badly at the time, but I never thought that I might regret not revealing myself to a lover. I never should have gotten so attached.

I dream about him, wish he were here, ache for his voice; his grin; his hair pressed against my jaw; his hand against my own; him.

"Should I leave?" A hand touches my back—small, soft, feminine. Not the one I crave.

"I think it would be best." I agree, reaching back to rest my palm over the back of her hand. "I am sorry." I should be angry, ashamed, disappointed. All I feel, though, is emptiness.

"It's alright…" she collects her clothes from the floor, righting herself on her way to the door, following the trail. She pauses at the door and looks back at me as I retrieve a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table. "Was it… was it me, or…?"

I lie, shaking my head and giving her an awkward smile around my cigarette before lighting it. "No," I let out a breath of smoke and meet her eyes, "it has happened before—just another part of aging, I'm afraid. Thank you for your time, my dear."

As soon as she is gone, I smoke and stare out the window until I see her on the sidewalk. It's been a week since I left TF Industries. I have four new identities, all created by separate entrepreneurs to prevent more than one being compromised at a time. I successfully transferred the majority of my total earnings into several bank accounts around the world. The rest was utilized in the process of disappearing, but I will still live comfortably despite my sacrifice.

I will live alone, sexually frustrated and emotionally unfulfilled. Nothing like I had hoped when I originally thought of my retirement. I never much cared about the first or third drawbacks, but the second… I have never had issues performing before, and now…

"Stupid boy," I growl, tapping out my cigarette. I wasn't even half way through, but the smoke leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I have to leave this place. I have to go walk, I have to interact, do something.

I might go insane if I sit still.

It has been a little over two months. I haven't been eating well, but I can occasionally force myself to have at least one full meal. For the past week, I have been living out of a hotel room in New York. Before I finally found a place I could stand sleeping in for more than a night, I travelled around Europe. Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom… I couldn't stay put. I felt too restless.

I don't dare travel to Boston yet. It's too close for comfort, and TF Industries might still be looking out for me there. Another month… another month and I will attempt contact. Using Ma's phone number made it easy to get an address. Now I just have to lay low a bit longer.

It feels natural to be restless in a city such as this. The hustle and bustle of the American metropolis sweeps me up instead of fighting against me. I feel at ease for now.

It's subtle, a brush against my side. Normal contact for a busy New York City street, but his hand catches in my pocket, and I hear a curse. My hand closes on thin air when I grab for the hand that infiltrated my pocket, and I see a lithe body darting through the crowd. He runs into people and gets stopped fairly easily. He doesn't seek the holes that already exist in the crowd and move through those instead—he just plows straight through.

I take the easier route; it's the only way to catch up to him. He turns down an alley, no doubt planning to scale the fence at the end and escape that way. I catch his arm as he turns, however, and slam him against the wall. My wallet falls to the ground and I scoop it up, ignoring the scrawny young man for the moment.

"Faggot can run, huh?" He sneers at me and I look up from brushing off my wallet to glance at him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and skinny with horse-like teeth. I see his eyes drop to take me all in, and feel something familiar course through me.

Seizing the feeling, I grab the front of his shirt and jerk him forward, pressing my lips to his. He goes lax before tensing, and I let go of his shirt, shoving him back with a sneer.

"What the flying fuck was that?" He makes a show of spitting and I chuckle.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" My voice is low, predatory—barely a hiss in the sanctuary of the alleyway. "You could feel my body against yours, my lips, taste my cigarettes." I smirk at him and he spits at me.

"You're crazy, man." He takes a step back and turns to begin running down the alley.

"And you are afraid!" I call after him, clenching my fist by my side. What am I doing? Why did I do that? Just because I felt… what was it? Longing? Need?

"What the fuck did you just say?" A blonde rocket comes hurtling at me and a fist hits my jaw.

I barely block his next strike and push him back against the wall, pinning him with my weight. Our faces are centimeters away and I smirk at his surprised expression. "You are afraid. You are afraid to enjoy this…" I press my body more firmly against his. "You are afraid of this…" I breathe warm breath against his ear and his struggling slackens. "You are also… afraid of this…" I kiss his lips, releasing him from the wall as soon as he starts kissing me back.

One of his hands twines through my hair, the other grasping my sleeve as my own arms wrap around his waist. It doesn't last long—I can't allow it to, we are in too public a place. He seems to realize this as I pull back, and he stumbles away, looking scared indeed.

"Accompany me to my hotel room." I tell him, running a hand through my hair and feeling a real smile for the first time in months.

He stares at me, his mouth hanging open in surprise. "I… just fucking punched you, and now you wanna…? The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm a glutton for punishment." I shrug and touch a hand to my aching jaw. "I've been hit harder for more petty reasons." I wink at him. "I might even buy you lunch first."

He smiles a little and touches his lips. Once he realizes what his hand is doing, he jerks his fingers away and glares at me. "Lunch first." He confirms, crossing his arms.

"Fine, but it will be in my room. I refuse to dine with you in such… desolate clothing." I tell him before turning back the way I had come. I hear his footsteps following me and smile a little to myself. "Think about stealing my wallet again and I shall cancel our date with a knife..."

"Yeah, yeah, no touchin' the wallet. Whatever."

We walk in silence to my room. A weight shifts in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it.

It gets me places, indeed.

When I wake up in the mornings, the curtains across the glass door to our balcony block out the sun and hide the blonde hair; I can convince myself that it's brown for a few minutes before I remember where I am and who I'm with. In the dimness, his eyes are light enough to reflect light, and I tell myself that they are grey and not blue; it works for a time, but I don't think I ever really believe that it's my Scout staring back at me. They use the same American vernacular, but the New Yorker accent has subtle differences from Bostonian in pronunciation. I have made it a point to let him know that I don't mind being insulted, either in erotic circumstances or just for familiarity; it reminds me of him even more...

He calls me Pierre—the alias that I am currently using— instead of Spy. I sometimes wish that he would call me by my former class name…

I had only intended a short fling in the beginning, something to tide me over until I could find a way back to Sean. I thought it would last a night, perhaps two, and then he would go back to his life—whatever it was—and I would continue to mope about my hotel room while occasionally going out for food or distraction.

This is the end of the third week. I am unwilling to ask him to leave, and he follows me around like an overprotective puppy. Perhaps it is the fact that I am an easy meal—we did meet when he pickpocketed me.

I smooth my hand through his hair contemplatively, watching the gold strands shine in the setting sun. We lie on my bed, clothed. His head is on my lap, and I'm pretending to read a book, but I haven't turned a page in the last half hour.

"Who's Sean?"

My stomach drops and I withdraw my hand from his hair to turn my page. "What?"

When I don't put my hand back on his hair, he grabs it and puts it back on his head. I feel the color drain from my face and withdraw my hand again to mark my place in my book. I put it away on the table next to the bed and look at him, crossing my arms.

"Where did you hear that name?" I thought I had put him behind me—filled the hole that he had left in my life.

"You talk in your sleep, you know." He sits up and leans his elbows on his knees. Unlike Sean, he doesn't stutter or pause when he speaks to me. He doesn't blush easily, or grin self-consciously when I complement him. "And sometimes when we fuck you let it slip."

We sit in silence while I digest this information. How had I not caught myself before? Certainly, I cannot control it when I'm asleep, but while we were having sex? I refuse to believe that I've been that lost in the moment before.

"Listen, Pierre, I don't give a shit if you're just using me to replace someone else. The last few weeks have been a fucking blast: my parents probably think I'm rotting in a cell or gutter or something, and the sex is the best I've ever had." He shrugs and sits up straight, crossing his arms. "You look like you're about to tell me to go home…" his expression is disappointed.

I open my mouth to tell him differently, but then close it again. Whenever he gets too personal, whenever he asks too much of me, I tell him to go home. Even I'm not sure if I want him to come back at the end of the day, but by the time the sun goes down, he's opening the door with a bottle of cheap wine and a second-hand paperback book.

"I just wanna know this one thing."

It is a metaphorical punch to the gut.

I finally scrape together a reply, and it is one that I never quite gave Sean. "Alright… come here, and I will tell you." I pat the space on the bed next to me. He crawls forward on his knees to flop into the space and I rest my hand in his hair once again. As I launch into my story of the Scout that made the haughty Spy fall, I wonder if Sean thinks of me anymore. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him.

Three months total have passed since I first entered this new relationship. I have been intending to call Sean's mother for two months, but I just haven't gotten…

I glance at the boy lying beside me, blonde hair sticks up in untidy clumps and an arm covers his eyes against the light filtering through the balcony doors. I smooth my hand through his hair, watching him squirm around to press his face into the pillow.

I haven't gotten the courage. There's always an, "I'll do it tomorrow," or, "I'll do it next week," but I can't put it off any longer. I can't even convince myself that TF Industries will still be watching her house, tapping her line. I have lost the urge to appear in person at all. Now, I will be satisfied with merely a phone call.

Slipping away, I pick up my cigarettes and lighter. On my way out to the balcony, I tuck the rotary phone under my arm and sit on one of the sun warmed chairs.

The phone sits on the table, and I stare at it while I smoke. They won't be watching Sean or Sean's mother anymore. After the end of my cigarette, I pick up the receiver and dial the number I'd memorized months ago.

It rings once before the other end picks up. Ma's voice is cheery, pleasant, kind. I feel my stomach twist horribly as my grief hits me once again. I now wish I had visited in person.

"Ma…" I clear my throat and take a deep breath. "It's me, Spy. We met—"

"I know who you are." Her tone is curious, guarded and a little angry. I wonder just how much Sean told her. Christmas was months ago… I wonder if he got up the courage without me there.

"May I have a moment of your time? How is Sean?"

"How dare you. You have a lot of nerve calling me about my boy!" Her anger is more pronounced now, and I wince at her tone.

I don't bother arguing with her, I don't have the energy or the spirit right now. "Please, I know what I did was horrible…" or she wouldn't be mad at me. "However, there is only one thing I want him to know…"

Silence.

"Can you tell him for me?"

"What is it?" She sounds tired, like I have forced myself into outstaying my welcome. There are so many things that I want to ask her, but I can sense that she doesn't have the patience for my prying. I was many things to Sean, but I can never be any of those things again. I am no longer a Spy—I am a human being. I have to let him know that I have realized that.

I still love you.

I'm so sorry.

"My name is Thierry."

This story was an amazing adventure for me. I never expected something so successful to bud from a single one-shot that I posted back in '09.

Thank you to everyone for your support, I hope that this three year long ride was as fun for y'all as it was for me! As this is the final chapter, I would like to request that you review or PM me your thoughts about the story. What you liked or didn't like about it and how you think I might be able to better improve my method for the writing of Sean's story. The jury is still out on what the title for it will be, but I can promise that it's going to be a mega cheese-fest like this story's title was, haha.

Thank you guys so much once again for encouraging me to continue this story, it never would have gotten finished or even half-way done without all your encouragement!

I love you all,

Scrunchy