Castle Montanague. The camera glides through the main floor until it finds Buttfuck himself, easing open the secret panel to his family's potion closet. He switches on the light and sweatily eyes the various ingredients as the camera goes a-kilter by several degrees. He grins and closes the secret panel as bolts of lightning from a suddenly appearing storm flicker outside.
Manor. Up in the Bridal Boudoir, Piper places the Doltine Psycho in his product-placed playpen while the Dolt putters around with some of the kid's clothes in the once and future Patricia Campbell Hearst Commemorative Child-Care Nook. Hey, they've got to put the real Tiny Gay Chris somewhere once Piper finally pops him out. Why not the closet? Piper frets about her little sociopath's wicked future. The Dolt opines that, now that they've finally learned the truth about said future, they can take any such steps as are necessary to prevent it. "After all," he grins, "well aware is half there." Piper smirks, "Did Phoebe feed you that psychobabble?" Shout-out? You decide. "I just don't understand how someone so sweet could possibly turn out so bad," Piper sighs, gazing down at The Psycho. The Dolt promises her that won't be happening before wondering what his nitwit of an ex-sister-in-law is up to now.
Cut to The Only Hotel In San Francisco, Which Is Most Definitely Not In France, Which Is Where Chronic Would Have Been All Day Today If This Show Didn't Suck Like A Hoover. Chronic's limousine pulls up to the entrance, where the doorman obsequiously greets him with an open umbrella to protect his hideously coiffed head from the sudden downpour. Just as Chronic reaches the door, Phoebe bounds up to the entrance through the rain, calling his name. In sharp contrast to her earlier outfit, the damp evening finds her sporting a sleek, knee-length white raincoat over dark jeans, with a long, knit scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. "I want to talk to the press," she insists, virtually before he's had a chance to greet her. "I want to tell them everything." Chronic smirks something about the headlines they'll be seeing after Phoebe announces to the world that she's a witch. Phoebe nervously runs her fingers through her wet hair while admitting she hadn't actually considered what she would tell the assembled journalists -- she just knows she "can't let [Chronic] take the fall for this." "I'm so sorry," she breathes, tears again welling up in her eyes. "For everything -- the lies --" "Hey, don't," he tells her gently. "Remember, you saved me." "But that was after I tried to kill you," Phoebe whimpers. "Yeah, there was that," he shrugs affably enough in agreement. "If I could do it all over again," Phoebe swears, "I would tell you the truth." Chronic gallantly places most of the blame for the situation on himself, because that's what they do on this show whenever everyone knows it's really Phoebe who's at fault. He claims that he was so wrapped up in his career that he never gave Phoebe a chance to explain herself. "So what do we do now?" she warbles with moist eyes. "Maybe we should both just take some time," he whispers. After a pause laden with mutual regret, he nods towards the door and notes, "They're waiting for me." Phoebe ducks her head guiltily and pleads, "I wish you'd let me talk to them." Chronic's response is immediate and firm: "No. What you and your sisters do -- with what I saw you do -- it put some perspective on my work. I want to protect that." "You might lose the merger," she counters, real tears standing in her eyes. "I've lost worse," he admits. Chronic leans in to kiss her, and she allows herself to melt into it for a bit before opening her eyes and pulling away after a moment of thoughtful hesitation. She bows her head and leaves his side to cross back into the storm. When she reaches the curb, she turns one last time to find Chronic gazing ruefully after her. He allows a beat, then turns to enter the hotel. Phoebe watches until he's vanished inside the door, then turns again to walk home alone in the rain as we fade to black.