Closure Part 1 ("You're Mine" Epilogue Mini-series)
So @little-bit, remember how you asked me if I was going to make more chapters to this Fic-series? And how I was like, "I'll probably just do more prequel stuff that leads up to the kidnapping?"
Well...
You got me thinking. And I've been seeing some pretty cool L art pieces and comics, and it lit the fire for me again. So I'm making an epilogue mini-series here. It's not going to necessarily be warm and happy. L will never remember the reader, and what he did to her. He will never know he has a son. But, I am hoping that the reader (and Sycamore) find closure....? Idk, readers will either like it or dislike it.
Anyway, I hope ya'll enjoy.
Tagging: @vanillianbean @hakuaclovers @hotchipandlie @kuonhotachii @clawshots @hoenndreamer @reizamoon @potato-imouto @kociokwiksstuff
(That's all I could look up for those that followed this series).
For the "You're Mine: Click Here for a Prequel Scene Click Here for Part 1 Click Here for Part 2 Click Here for Part 3 Click Here for Part 4 Click Here for Part 5 Click Here for Part 6 Click Here for Part 7 Click Here for Part 8 Click Here for Part 9
The plaza in Mesagoza was loud in the way only afternoons could be—children darting between benches, vendors calling out in cheerful tones, the scent of sweet syrup and citrus carried on the breeze. Your youngest had blue staining her fingers.
“I told you to hold it with two hands,” your middle son insisted, dodging sideways as she swiped at him in retaliation.
Your eldest walked slightly apart from them, shaved ice untouched for the moment, eyes watchful. He’d grown into that habit early—observing first, stepping in when needed. Calm where the others were chaos. Similar to his father.
You smiled faintly at him, and was halfway through reminding them not to run near the steps when it happened.
A small gasp.
A stumble.
A bright splash of syrup across dark fabric.
“Oh, no!” your daughter cried, frozen in horror.
You didn’t panic, because your eldest was already moving. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said quickly, steadying his sister before she toppled again, her eyes wide and glossy. His tone was firm but respectful. “She didn’t mean to.”
You heard the man before you saw him.
“It’s alright,” came the reply. Low. Measured. Gentle in a way that didn’t match the worn state of the jacket now marked with melting color. “Accidents happen.”
Your daughter’s lip trembled as the man crouched slightly—not too close, not imposing. “See? No harm done.”
Your middle son snorted softly. “Say, you look kinda like this guy,” he said to your eldest, half-teasing. “Are you related to him or something?”
“Don’t be weird,” your eldest muttered, elbowing him.
You exhaled softly under your breath, shaking your head. Children. They latched onto the strangest details and ran with them.
“Alright,” you called lightly as you stepped closer. “Let’s not start inventing family trees in the middle of the plaza.”
Your daughter clung to your leg the moment you reached them, sniffling and holding back tears. You crouched slightly, smoothing a hand over her hair.
“Hey, it’s alright, kiddo. We can get you another one,” you murmured gently. “You’re not in trouble, but we do need to be more careful, okay?”
She sniffed and nodded.
You straightened, finally taking in the state of the jacket—dark fabric now streaked with melting color. “I’m very sorry, sir,” you said sincerely. “Please allow me to have that cleaned. It’s the least I can do.”
“It isn’t necessary,” the man replied evenly. “They’re children. Accidents happen.”
“Even so,” you pressed politely.
He paused then, just long enough to lift his face fully toward yours.
And that was when you saw him.
His hair was shorter now. White, not red. His beard threaded with faint orange beneath the sun. Only his right eye open, clear and sharp. The left remained closed, scarred faintly at the lid. He looked different. Changed. And yet—
The angle of his jaw. The shape of his mouth when he offered a polite half-smile. The posture held too carefully, as if discipline had become muscle memory.
Your breath caught. Not sharply, or visibly. Just enough that something inside you misaligned. It wasn’t fear or anger. It was the violent collision of past and present—of a man who had once held the fate of a region in his hands now standing in a sunlit plaza with syrup staining his sleeve.
He looked at you without recognition, but something flickered in his gaze. Not memory. Not knowledge. Just…pause. As if a word had nearly surfaced and dissolved before he could catch it.
And somehow that unsettled you more.
Your pulse quickened. A thin ringing filled your ears for half a second—
“Mom?”
Your eldest.
His son.
You blinked and focused on him, on his face—on his eyes. Your eyes.
“I’m fine,” you said softly. You drew in a breath and let it out slowly, forcing your attention to something concrete—the jacket. The dark fabric would stain if left too long.
“Our home isn’t far,” you heard yourself say. “If we’re quick, I can treat it before it sets.”
The man hesitated.
“It truly isn’t necessary.”
“It is,” you replied gently, meeting his gaze without flinching this time. “Please.”
There was something in his expression then—uncertainty, perhaps. Or the faintest sense of familiarity he couldn’t place. As though he felt the weight of the moment without understanding why.
“If you insist,” he said at last.
You nodded once. Behind you, your middle child leaned toward your eldest and whispered something you didn’t catch, while your daughter remained glued to your side. She was always a little shy around new people, at first. But give it a few moments, and she’d be talking a stranger’s ear off.
Your eldest, however, did not look away from the man. He was studying him. Not accusingly. Just…observing.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and typed to your husband quickly, knowing he would want to know. When you slipped the phone away, you felt the man’s gaze flick briefly toward your eldest again. A crease formed between his brows. Not recognition, but something close to instinct.
“Alright, let’s go home,” you announced, and then you turned, leading them toward the street.
The man followed a step behind. Unaware that he was walking beside the life that had once grown beneath his hand—and beyond it.
The kettle hummed softly as you stood at the stove, watching steam begin to curl toward the ceiling. Beside the sink, the man’s jacket lay draped over a towel. You dabbed carefully at the faint stain left by melted shaved ice, the scent of citrus cleaner rising between the sharper notes of black tea.
From the breakfast nook, the man sat at the small round table, posture straight despite the informal setting, hands folded loosely in his lap.
Your middle son had taken it upon himself to enthusiastically explain the difference between regional forms—gesturing animatedly as he described why Paldean Wooper was clearly superior in his professional opinion. Your daughter chimed in whenever she could, proudly announcing the name of her favorite Pokémon—mispronounced, but very confident.
The man listened with an attentiveness that felt startlingly sincere. And he asked questions.
“What type is it?” “And it evolves how?”
“Where can you find it?”
Your middle son nodded vigorously at each prompt, delighted to have an audience so invested. Your daughter beamed whenever the man addressed her directly, swinging her legs beneath the chair.
Your eldest sat across from him, quieter. Observing. He interjected only when necessary—clarifying a detail about Terastallization, correcting his brother gently on a move set, offering a small, measured explanation about battle strategy that sounded far older than nine.
The man turned toward him when he spoke, and listened just as closely. He looked different in the daylight of your home. Older. Thinner.
You pressed the cloth a little too firmly into the fabric.
Sycamore stood beside you, leaning lightly against the counter, arms folded. He had changed out of his lab coat before coming home. A small ritual—leaving work at the door.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, quietly, without looking at him, you asked, “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Sycamore inhaled through his nose. A thoughtful sound. A hum that lingered in his chest.
“…It appears so,” he said at last. Not rushed. Not shocked. Just measured acceptance. He glanced toward the nook, studying the man seated there.
“The posture, the way he speaks,” he murmured. “The way he listens as though every word matters.” A faint exhale followed. “And the eyes. Even…dulled as they are.”
You swallowed.
“He’s aged,” Sycamore added softly. “More than he should have.”
You nodded. “I thought that too.”
There was another small silence, and then your husband turned to face your.
“How are you doing?” The question was gentle.
You paused, cloth resting in your hand. “I…I’m not sure,” you admitted. The words came out steadier than you felt. “But I think I’m okay.”
Your pulse had settled. Your breathing was even. The world hadn’t tilted off its axis. It had just…shifted.
“He doesn’t recognize me,” you continued quietly. “There was no flicker. No hesitation. Nothing.” You hesitated. “But he remembers parts of himself, it seems. He spoke about Team Flare. About the Ultimate Weapon.”
Sycamore’s expression tightened—not in anger, but in contemplation. “Amnesia,” he said slowly. “It would make sense.” His gaze drifting toward the window. “He was inside the headquarters when it collapsed. The structural damage alone…” He trailed off. “It’s possible.”
Your eyes moved back to the man in the nook. Your middle son had now convinced him to hold a plastic spoon like a microphone in an attempt to mirror a singing jigglypuff, with your daughter clapping.
The man didn’t seem bothered. He even smiled faintly, but it wasn’t the smile of a visionary. It wasn’t the sharp, fervent curl of a man who believed he was saving the world. It was…smaller. Almost shy.
You found yourself exhaling through your nose—a quiet, disbelieving laugh. The sound caught the attention of your husband as he looked at you.
“It’s strange,” you began, “I thought I would be angry. Panic, even. I think any woman would if they went through what I did. But I…I feel at east, instead.”
And that, more than anything, unsettled you.
“He doesn’t feel dangerous anymore,” you continued. “He just…” Your eyes softened despite yourself. “He looks tired. Like the world wore him down instead of the other way around.”
You dabbed once more at the jacket, even though the stain was already gone. “And I realized something,” you added, that faint laugh returning. “I’m relieved to see him alive, and well—well, as well as he can be.” You sighed and looked up and out of the kitchen window.
“I want to catch up with him. See what he’s been up to after all…that.”
The admission felt absurd. You had no obligation. No tether. And yet…
“I don’t know why,” you said. “Maybe I just want to understand what happened to him. Or who he is now.”
Sycamore’s expression gentled. “Lysandre,” he said quietly, “was my dearest friend. And whatever he’s become…whatever he’s forgotten…that doesn’t erase what we were.” He reached for your free hand, fingers warm and steady around yours. “You don’t have to navigate this alone.”
You looked at him.
“I’m here,” he said softly. “For you. For all of this.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles—a grounding gesture.
“We can speak with him. Together.”
Together.
The kettle shrieked sharply.
Sycamore moved the moment it did, stepping forward to lift it from the burner just as you finished with the jacket. You gave the fabric one last inspection before hanging it carefully over the doorframe to dry, sleeves straightened, collar aligned.
Behind you, Sycamore prepared the tea with quiet precision—dried hibiscus steeped until the water bloomed crimson, a touch of honey stirred in, not enough to overpower the tartness. The scent was floral and bright, filling the kitchen with warmth. He poured the tea into three cups, and then placed them on a tray. He turned to you and waited.
You took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, before nodding your head. And together, you walked into the breakfast nook.
Your children were showing off their pokemon to the man.
Your eldest stood beside the table, one hand resting lightly against the side of his Charcadet. The little warrior’s posture was disciplined, ember-bright eyes steady and watchful, a faint heat radiating from his body like a banked forge. He did not fidget. He did not blink unnecessarily. He simply stood at attention beside his trainer, as if guarding him.
Across from them, your middle son had released his Gible, who was very much not at attention. The baby dragon had immediately latched onto the leg of the table with investigative enthusiasm, jaws clamped down with surprising strength for something so round and small. The wood made a dull thunk each time he adjusted his grip, determined as though the furniture had personally challenged him.
“Gible—no, no, not the table—” Your son lunged forward, prying gently at his partner’s wide mouth. After much effort, the Gible released the table leg and instantly turned, mouth still open, to enthusiastically test the nearest available object, which happened to be your son’s sleeve.
“Hey! Not me either!” He yelped, twisting sideways just in time to avoid being affectionately but firmly chomped. Gible blinked up at him, unbothered, before attempting once more to latch onto something—anything—with teeth. Your son caught him under the arms this time, lifting him slightly off the ground.
“We do not bite furniture, Gible,” he informed his pokemon sternly. “And we definitely do not bite people.”
Gible tilted his head, considering this information, before wriggling in his grip and snapping playfully at the air anyway.
Your youngest, meanwhile, cradled her fluffy Eevee against her chest. Eevee tolerated the embrace—for now—but her large ears flicked sharply at every sound, and her paws kneaded against your daughter’s sleeve as if calculating the fastest route to freedom and potential mischief.
And stationed between them all—like a silent guardian—was your family’s Mabosstiff. He stood slightly apart from the table, posture loose but alert. His yellow eyes never left the new man in the house. Aloof. Watchful. He tolerated Gible’s enthusiastic bumping and allowed Eevee to climb briefly over his back before gently stepping aside. But his attention always returned to the man seated at the table.
The man noticed, but did not comment on it.
Sycamore stepped forward first. “Good afternoon,” he said warmly, offering a hand. “I’m Professor Augustine Sycamore. I apologize for the trouble earlier—my children and shaved ice can be a dangerous combination.”
The man rose at once. Even now, even diminished, the instinctive courtesy remained. “No harm done,” he replied evenly, taking Sycamore’s hand. “You may call me L. And please—there’s no need to apologize.”
His gaze lingered a moment. “Augustine Sycamore,” he repeated thoughtfully. “The former Kalos research director, yes? Professor Mable has mentioned you.”
Sycamore’s smile did not falter. “Yes, I held that position for a time,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepishly.
There was no flicker of recognition in L’s eyes. No warmth of shared memory. Only polite acknowledgment. “I wasn’t aware you had relocated to Paldea,” L continued.
“We travel often,” Sycamore said lightly. “Research rarely stays in one region.” He gestured toward the children. “And family has a way of guiding one’s path.”
L inclined his head.
“Lumiose has changed considerably,” Sycamore added casually, taking the opportunity with careful grace. “I’ve heard bits and pieces. Rogue Mega Evolutions. Structural reform. Ange.”
At that, something faint shifted in L’s expression. A tightening around the mouth. “Yes,” he said slowly. “An unfortunate series of events.”
Unfortunate. As though discussing weather.
“I was…present,” he added, almost distantly. “For part of it.”
Sycamore hummed softly, as if absorbing nothing more dramatic than a research update. “I’ve maintained correspondence with Mable,” he said. “Though details have been…sparse.”
L nodded once.
Before the air could grow heavier, you stepped forward to remove the cups from the tray. The hibiscus tea glowed red in delicate cups.
“Why don’t you three take Mabosstiff outside for a bit?” you suggested to your children. “Fresh air. Stretch your legs. Exercise your pokemon. I’m sure they’re do for it after being cooped up for a while.”
Your eldest understood immediately. He rand his Charcadet went without complaint and moved toward the back door. Your middle son groaned but obeyed, scooping up Gible—who twisted to attempt one final exploratory bite at the table leg before being redirected. Your youngest tried to follow, but Eevee wriggled free from her arms with surprising speed.
Mabosstiff reacted instantly.
With dignified efficiency, he caught Eevee gently by the scruff mid-scuttle, lifting her just enough to halt her escape, and deposited her back into your daughter’s arms. Then, without breaking stride, he body-blocked Gible from lunging toward the doorway in an entirely different direction.
Order restored.
The back door opened and closed, and the house grew quieter. Then, you took a seat at the table, across from L, beside your husband.
At first, the conversation stayed careful. Measured. Updates about Kalos. About Lumiose’s reconstruction. About research initiatives and city reform.
Then, almost naturally, the focus shifted.
L held his cup in both hands, gaze lowered briefly to the deep red surface of the hibiscus tea before lifting again. “There were…complications,” he said quietly. “In Lumiose.”
Sycamore inclined his head, encouraging.
“Due to the firing of the Ultimate Weapon, it had awoken another weapon that lied beneath the Prism Tower. I assisted a group of young trainers,” L continued. “They were…determined. Idealistic.” A faint, almost fond breath left him. “Zygarde guided us.”
He paused.
“That pokemon saved me from my demise,” L added, voice steady.
Your fingers stilled against your teacup.
“I should have died,” he said simply. “Instead, Zygarde intervened. It…tasked me with collecting its scattered cells. Repairing what had been fractured. Preparing for the doom that was to come due to my…actions.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the window, toward the world beyond your home.
“What brought you to Paldea?” Sycamore asked gently.
L was quiet for a moment. Then, he exhaled.
“Remorse.”
The word landed softly. Not theatrical. Not self-pitying. Just truth.
“I believed,” he said slowly, “that destruction was the only path toward restoration. That humanity’s flaws were too deeply rooted to be corrected without force.” His fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
“I was wrong.”
The admission was calm and measured.
“I've abandoned those methods, now,” he continued. “The Violence. Coercion. Erasure. They do not cultivate beauty. They only replace one scar with another.”
You stared at him. He didn’t seem to remember what he had done to you. The isolation. Those nights of…intimacy. The forced marriage. The way he had looked at you when he believed you would stand beside him while he ended it.
“I regret it. All of it,” L said quietly. “The ideology. The arrogance. The harm.”
Your throat felt tight. There was no defensiveness in him. No justification. Only sorrow. You had expected many things, if you ever saw him again, but not this.
“And the Ultimate Weapon?” Sycamore asked softly.
L’s eyes darkened—not with fervor, but with something heavier. “It does not simply end life,” he said. “It binds it.”
A pause. You tapped your finger around your cup.
“I was cursed,” he continued evenly. “Three thousand years. Much like AZ. A…consequence of its activation.”
You could not reconcile the number with the man seated at your table, but then you remembered seeing AZ in the lower level of Lysandre Labs. The tall, large man who had provided aid to Sycamore and Looker when they came to rescue you.
“I will endure,” L said. “And I will spend that time differently.” His gaze lifted fully now. Not to you alone. To both of you. “I intend to wander,” he said.
“To build a beautiful world through restoration rather than ruin. Through patience rather than purification.”
Sycamore’s breath left him slowly. You saw it in his eyes, the recognition. Not of memory, but of spirit. This was the Lysandre he had once spoken about in quieter years. The visionary who had loved art. Innovation. Progress without blood. Before disappointment had curdled into extremism.
Your husband was quiet for a moment, studying L not as a researcher, nor as a former colleague, but as someone measuring the shape of a soul.
Then, he offered a small, genuine smile.
“I think that’s a noble way to spend such time,” he said softly. “Choosing restoration over ruin. Patience over force.” His fingers rested lightly against his teacup. “The world could use more of that.”
There was warmth in his tone.
“And,” he added gently, “it speaks well of your character.”
L regarded him with faint surprise, as if the compliment had caught him off guard. “I’m not certain I deserve that,” he admitted.
“Perhaps not yet,” Sycamore replied kindly. “But intent matters. Direction matters.”
He did not push further. He did not say more. But you heard it—the quiet echo beneath his words. The affection. The grief. The recognition of something familiar shining through a man who did not remember being known.
A pause settled naturally between the three of you.
Then, from outside, laughter rang clear through the open window.
You turned instinctively toward the sound.
Your two sons had established a makeshift battlefield in the yard. Charcadet stood poised and disciplined, embers flaring brighter with each command, while Gible bounced forward with reckless enthusiasm, launching himself into battle with more heart than strategy. Your eldest’s voice carried steady and focused; your middle son’s came out louder, half-command, half-cheer.
Your daughter stood a safe distance away, clutching Eevee against her chest as she shouted encouragement to both sides indiscriminately. Eevee wriggled free and darted in excited circles instead, tail high, barking little cheers.
“Charcadet—Ember!”
“Gible, dodge it! Use Tackle!"
Off to the side, Mabosstiff sat like a seasoned overseer. His broad frame remained relaxed, but his gaze tracked every movement. When Gible’s enthusiasm edged too close to the patio furniture, Mabosstiff rose with quiet authority and nudged the young dragon back toward open ground.
L watched through the window, something softening in his features. “They are remarkable,” he said quietly. “Confident. Kind.” His gaze flicked briefly toward you. “You have a beautiful family.”
The words were simple, but they struck deeper than they should have. All you could offer was a warm smile.
Sycamore’s hand shifted lightly against the table, close enough to brush yours without making a show of it.
“Thank you,” he replied warmly.
L studied the yard a moment longer before turning back.
“What brought you to Paldea?” he asked. “It’s quite a departure from Kalos.”
Sycamore smiled faintly, settling into the answer with ease.
“It was time,” he said. “A former student of mine extended an offer—research opportunities here have been expanding rapidly.” His eyes brightened slightly, the familiar spark of academic enthusiasm surfacing. “Terastal phenomena alone have opened entirely new avenues of study.”
He glanced toward the window again.
“I love Kalos. It will always be my home. But…” He paused thoughtfully. “Some chapters are meant to close. Not out of bitterness. Simply completion.” His voice carried no regret.
“Paldea felt like the right place for a new adventure.”
He gestured lightly with his hand, as though painting the landscape in the air.
“The biodiversity, the open expanses, the way communities integrate so seamlessly with Pokémon…There’s an organic harmony here that’s fascinating to observe.”
L listened with an attentive calm. A small smile touched his mouth. “I haven’t been here long,” he admitted. “But I see what you mean. There is…a different kind of beauty.”
You nodded softly. “Paldea feels warmer,” you added. “More…open. Carefree.” You hesitated. “Not that Kalos lacks warmth. It’s just—”
“Different,” L finished quietly.
“Yes.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting toward the window again. “There is something about it,” he murmured. “A gentleness beneath the ambition.”
His expression grew distant for a moment—not troubled, not heavy. Just reflective. And for the first time since he had stepped into your home, he seemed…at ease.
