A/N: You're all just too kind. Truly. Between the lovely reviews, the pretty graphics and the hilarious tumblr tags... I love this bar. Cheers and proper chocolate and ice cream to she who betas – Eolivet.

The musical accompaniment for this... well, this is a quiet one without a song. Imagine rain and thunder. Imagine an engine. Imagine breathing. The songs pick up again in the next chapter. And I'm really taking liberties with the weather here...

Preferred Stock 10/?

Matthew awoke to a rumble of thunder, not a loud one, but enough to make him remember he'd left his phone on the chaise outside. He looked with some trepidation at the situation he'd found himself in, and wondered if there was any possible way to extricate himself without awakening her, and decided against even trying. "Mary," he whispered against her forehead, his hand squeezing hers.

"Mmm?"

"I left my phone outside." He began to pull away from her gently.

"I'll alert the press," she mumbled as she let go. "Mine's by the door."

"Do you want it?" He stood up, stretched, and looked at the clock. 2:21.

"Do I?" She was still mostly asleep.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Right back," he said. There were only a few raindrops, and he found the phone half under a towel, none the worse for wear, and he scrolled through the messages quickly. He picked up her phone, a plate from the table, and a pair of forks, and retreated to the bedroom, where she had co-opted most of the bed, her long limbs sprawling across the center. It made him start laughing out loud as he put down the plate and opened the bottle of water on the tray at the foot of the bed. "Mary," he said, not quietly.

"Mmm."

"Do you want dessert?"

She opened one dark eye and stared at him for a second before rolling and turning herself until her head was at his side. "Maybe." She peered at the plate. "What is it?"

"One of the chocolate things. I don't remember what it was called." He handed her a glass of water. "I hope it's still good."

"How could it not be? It's chocolate," she murmured as she took a drink and then picked off a bite. "Pa amb xocolata. Bread with chocolate. Maman..." She stopped, head tilting slightly forward, hair obscuring her face and there was the smallest sigh, a sound that he knew all too well hid the burial of some deep emotion. He tucked the dark locks of hair behind her ear, carefully, gently, his fingers light upon her skin, and he pretended to not see the tear that connected faint freckles across her right cheek.

"Tell me," he said.

"Maman made it sometimes. It's chocolate and bread, of course, but unlike pain au chocolat, this has olive oil and salt. Simple, but perfect. Like most simple things are." She took another bite, put down the fork and glass, and rolled to her back, her hand resting gently on his thigh. This isn't simple, she thought as she watched him taste it, grin, take a larger bite, and then a long drink of water. It won't be simple.

"They fixed the jet," he said quietly. "Compressor surge screwed up the fuel flow."

"Do you know what that means?"

"No," he admitted, and she laughed. "But it's purportedly all right. The maintenance team wants to fly it back early tomorrow. Without us, of course."

"Of course," she replied. He handed over her phone before turning his full attention to the dessert plate. It opened to an onslaught of emails, nearly all ignorable, save for one from Alastair. Trust you two to fly the company with ease, but destroy the new jet. Don't fly for at least a day. I had to crash-land a helicopter once and it was a year before lifts weren't terrifying. Go visit the Picassos or something. No one's going to care what we're doing this weekend since we're not responsible for Facebook. (well done) If something happens, my assistant is on call and knows where to find me. I'll see you Monday morning.

"I think I'll go back early Sunday," he said as she tossed her phone on the bench. "Catch a BA flight, have some time to prepare for Monday."

He wasn't looking at her, and that sensation from last night filled her again, that strange awareness, that moment of knowing the question being asked without the words being said. "Can't bear flying first thing," she said slowly. "I'll probably do a noon-ish flight Sunday."

"So a whole day in Barcelona with nothing to do," he murmured, and she wondered at how she had managed to sit through meetings hearing that voice.

"Alastair suggests Picasso." She tried to keep her voice light, but there was an unpredictable rasp to it, and she noted its effect with a smile. "Have you been to the Museu Picasso?"

"Once. You?"

"Once." The back of her hand began to drag along his leg, down, then up, her eyes focused on it. "A summer trip. Before my final year. We queued up for hours, and I thought it was all a waste until I saw..." She stopped. "Would you go?"

"I'd love to," he said as he slipped his fingers inside her hand, gripping it as he had on the plane. "We could go to breakfast."

"And lunch," she answered as she pulled their clasped hands to her mouth.

"Dinner, too." It was his voice's turn to break slightly at the contact. "There's a place near the Passeig de Gracia I love."

"Maybe walk through some of Gaudi's houses? I love them." She closed her eyes as she nestled their hands against her breast.

"Perfect," he said softly as his other hand brushed her stomach, across flesh that jumped at the movement, and found its place, curving under her hip, the tips of his fingers light against that secret line at the top of her thigh, the touch alone making her dark eyes flicker open. Her own hand released his, moved up to bridge his legs, to trap what had already begun to move, what was already hers, and the wild rush of possessiveness made her lips part, and his own opened as he leaned down to kiss her. Her skin filled his hands as his head nudged between her thighs, breath and tongue together and she was not silent this time, not before she took him in her mouth, and he was not quiet when he turned her again so they were face to face, one arm cradling her, the other grasping her hand, hers on his face as they sought it again, only this time it was not shattering, but soothing, a wash of warmth that made them both smile as they twined together, dessert forgotten as light and sound collided outside.

He remembered his usual six a.m. breakfast at five when he awoke again, and managed not to wake her as he called to cancel it. It was bluish around the edges of the sky, the clouds still thinking about wrecking the weather, and the day that he did not expect to have began to stretch in front of him. He knew where he wanted to take her to breakfast, and an idea about how to get there began to play in his mind as he felt her shift against him and he smiled and drew her closer as his eyes closed again.

Her eyes blinked open, a momentary confusion at the blue-black sky through plate glass. Barcelona, she thought. Bed, jet, rain, chocolate.

Matthew.

He was curled around her, his face in her hair, one arm around her waist, the other a pillow under her neck, and as her limbs fluttered and stretched involuntarily, his arm tightened and she felt happy. She knew a hundred other things she should be feeling, all variations on worry and selfish and she just couldn't muster them, not yet.

"You wake up this early every day?" His chest rumbled against her back and she grinned at the words.

"Don't you?"

"Only to work out." His mouth rested on her shoulder. "And I'm not feeling the need to hit a treadmill this morning."

"Good," she murmured. "Because you're not getting me anywhere near one."

"So," he began, and his arm tightened again. "Maybe sleep some more?"

"Maybe," she whispered. "Or shower? Or there's that bathtub. Which for some reason is in the bedroom..." Her foot extended across the sheets and pointed at it, and his own leg came out and retrieved hers, winding it back against his own.

"I was thinking," he muttered against her ear. "A shower. And then breakfast, but not here. In the city. I have an idea about how to get there, if you're up for it."

"As long as it doesn't involve a jet." Her back arched slightly as his hand slipped lower.

"No jet," he replied. "Although I can't guarantee I won't go fast."

She gasped, her own hand sliding up to grip the back of his neck. "Fast is perfectly all right."

He was not fast at that moment, taking his time easing her forward, finding his way into her, his fingers light and insistent across her breasts and between her legs as he thrust gently, slowly, over and over again until she cried out and stilled, limp in his arms as he shuddered against her back, and she was not fast in the shower as she explored every inch of him, hands slipping soap over his skin, noting each reaction with a grin, allowing him to wash her hair, his strong fingers against her scalp enough to make her moan.

"I thought you promised it wouldn't involve a jet," she said wryly as he handed her a helmet.

"Do I need to remind you of the differences between a two-cylinder and a reaction engine?" He patted the BMW's seat. "It's a much more trustworthy engine. Unless you really don't want to?" Matthew took her hand. "Tempting fate?"

"No," she said with a grin and buckled on the helmet. "Does the difference involve thrust? I forget."

"And number of strokes," he whispered naughtily as she climbed on and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Happy, she thought.

It was in the middle of the city, and he wound through traffic confidently, up cobbled streets until he stopped in front of a tiny courtyard with a dark door beyond, where one could find coffee, tea, pastries and an absurdly wide array of newspapers accompanied by a jukebox that seemed to be locked in 1977. They curled into chairs outside, with newspapers and mugs and the sounds of a city coming to life around them, and began their morning together as they had always begun it separately. He read analysis from Negocio on Spanish banks, and she grinned at how Handelsblatt described her takedown of German officials in Lisbon. They fought briefly over the sole copy of the Financial Times, and she agreed to let him have it. "But only if you read out loud," she said. "I can't have you knowing something before I do."

And he did, and she nursed her tea, his voice thrumming through her, and if anyone had asked about that morning's op-eds, she wouldn't have remembered a word.

There was a queue at the museum, as there had always been, and they stood with the other tourists, her hand in his, head upon his shoulder, as the line of people inched toward the entrance. "I miss this," he said suddenly, quietly, his lips in her hair.

"Queues?" she asked with a grin.

"Acting my age, or rather the age I never acted," he replied, and she turned her head to kiss him gently.

"We've been adults forever," she reminded him.

"Too much and too long. Why did we do that?"

She nestled against his shoulder again. "Little sisters," she began. "And we never took a break after that. Not until.." She took a breath. "Now."

"You're right." He let go of her hand and pulled her close, her head tucking under his chin. "A break."

The line did not inch slowly enough for him to hold her there forever as he would have liked.

It was as she remembered, the coolness of stone as they entered, the first room a shock of paintings and sketches that came not from the hands of an old man, but from a mere child, a teenager who already showed terrifying promise. Hand in hand, Mary and Matthew silently stared at each one, eyes flicking to each other, words unnecessary as they passed into a darkened chamber, the sketches under glass too fragile for the sunlight blocked by sweeping cloth.

"This one," she suddenly whispered and stopped.

He looked down at the aged paper, the charcoal and pencil rough on the page. A farmer in a field, simple lines, smudges, imperfect, and yet Matthew could feel the heat of that field, the warmth of the stone wall, almost smell the summer air, and knew it was cool under those trees in the distance.

"He was seventeen," she whispered. "And all I have to do is look at it and I'm in France. I wanted Eddie to see it, but she never..." She stopped.

"Does Eddie like art?" he asked.

"Eddie paints," she said slowly.

"Therapy?"

"You could say that." There were people waiting, and she tugged at his hand. "Come on."

He bought a postcard of the sketch, insufficient at evoking the same feelings, but it gave him a link to her in a way that made him feel quite unlike himself, soft and sentimental, and he wanted that feeling to continue. They left the museum and wandered the streets, winding up into the Barri Gòtic, slipping into courtyards and sitting by fountains, marveling at the jungles inside, leaning against the high walls and watching the people go by. They did not take a single photograph, and they did not speak of work, only of food and what they wanted to eat next, and after some lengthy discussion which to an outsider might have sounded like an argument, they settled on seafood as close to the sea as possible. They ate clams again, this time the tiny, perfect ones she remembered from her childhood, and a whole fish, smoky from the grill. Matthew flicked a bone at her, and she retaliated with a slice of lemon, and they felt entirely childish as they polished off two bowls of sorbet and ice cream. He did not drink, waving the keys at her, and neither did she, so they were still feeling entirely too lively when he suggested Montjuic.

The hills did nothing to slow the motorbike down, the twisting roads leading to its top flying by until he came to a stop near the castle. They walked along a narrow path to a grassy garden, and he flung himself down in the sun, his face tilted to the sky and he let out a contented sigh as she decided to use his chest as a pillow. "Have you checked your email recently?" he asked as his hand began to tangle in her hair.

"God, no," she replied. "Today, we are not adults. Anyway, it rings if it's urgent or if it's someone I care about."

"So no one cares about us today."

"Thank God," she said and took hold of his hand.

Aurelie sighed miserably as she caught another glimpse of herself in the glass. Pink, she thought. With my hair. Her younger sister, the flawless Amelie, whose dark hair looked good with whatever she wore, flicked back her veil and stared meaningfully at Aurelie. "Yes," Aurelie said mechanically. "You do look beautiful."

They moved outside once they knew Mathieu was inside Les Invalides, at the front under the flags that lined the high interior. Aurelie fixed her sister's train again, silently wishing she could step on it at the perfect moment inside the church, and just as she was about to snap at her sister to stop moving, she looked up to see a tall, blond man in an impossibly perfect suit. Dior Homme... Hedi Slimane vintage she processed as she stood up.

"Bonjour," Greg murmured as he kissed her on both cheeks. "I'm glad I brought my camera for this."

"I will kill you," she said slowly. "But God, I'm glad you're here."

He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "It's good to see," and he slid into German. "That your sister is as vengeful as you. Only sisters put redheads in pink. But you should know that you, unlike every other redhead on earth, are pulling it off." He let go and gave her a little push. "Which side should I sit on? And where can I get the best angle for photographs?"

"Dead," she said with a smile. "And on the left."

"However did you manage?" The sun was tipping into setting, the light now golden, and they had barely moved on the grass, and had only just begun to talk after more than an hour of silence, of gentle kisses, of ignoring that which had been following them around all day, and even now, they did not want to think of it.

"I had to get a place of my own, so she'd have a place to call home," he said. "There were distant relatives, but after what happened... it really was just us, and it had to be me who took care of her. And I was already doing well in school, but just knowing I was all Alice had made me work even harder, and she did, too. Somehow, we both knew it was up to us to survive and succeed. And I think we did."

She snorted. "Modest."

He kicked her feet, and she kicked back. "How did you manage?"

"I wish I'd been older. Sybil and I were at Rosey. Eddie was still at home. I ended up moving my roommate out and Sybil in because she.." Mary curled a little closer. "She had nightmares and would wake up crying for Maman. Eddie apparently screamed the house down. I wanted to come home, but Papa..." She shuddered. "He wouldn't allow it, told us Eddie would be all right, and Maman wouldn't want us to stop going to school. So Sybil and I stuck together, and I called Eddie nearly every night, and when I finally graduated, and Sybil and I could finally go home, we planned our summer at the farm like always and that was the beginning of the end."

"How?"

"He married Charlotte." She sat up. "No more. Not now." She squinted at the sky. "What's next?"

He was charming to all, his manners impeccable in any language, and Aurelie found herself entirely relieved at her impulsive decision to invite Greg to her sister's wedding. He had bewitched her mother, keeping her occupied as the wedding party made its way to the beautiful old officers' club on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and delighted her father with his encyclopedic knowledge of the kinds of wines Papa adored. She had left them to change, relieved her sister had been generous enough not to force her to wear that ridiculous color all night, and when she returned, strolling down the staircase, she was pleased to see the smile that erupted on his face when he saw her. "Well done," he murmured as she spun in front of him, the pale beige silk rippling around her ankles, and he took hold of her in an impromptu dance that sparked applause. "You won," he whispered wickedly, and her arms tightened around him as she thought sadly, and not for the first time, that this was a complete shame and waste.

Matthew took his time going down Montjuic, stopping to look at the Palau Nacional, and the fountains, and the sun was well on its way down by the time they reached the streets below. "La Pedrera, and then drinks at the hotel?" She nodded. "I'm going to take the long way through town," he said.

And they saw the city together, her hands stroking his sides at the stoplights, pointing out places they'd each been, and he parked near the wild, undulating facade of La Pedrera, and they walked through its attics and apartment, wandered its rooftop and he found himself wanting a souvenir again, one of the strange-faced chimney replicas, if only to forever remember the sight of Mary leaning against the real thing, her hand stretching toward his in the waning light. The final ride back to the hotel was entirely too short, too little time to feel her pressed against his back, her hands against his chest, and he left the bike with the concierge with some regret, wishing he could keep it and take it out tomorrow again with her, perhaps north, or..

"My room?" she asked softly as the elevator doors closed. "Come over for a cocktail before dinner?"

He laughed.

"What's so funny?"

Matthew leaned to her ear. "Cocktail or cock.. tail? Which is it?"

The doors opened and she backed away from him, eyes not leaving his. "Both, I should imagine."

This is absurd, Greg thought, as the music, initially decent dance music, morphed into dreadful, but apparently hugely popular 80s and 90s French pop. I've eaten my weight in macarons, never mind all the rest of the food and just danced for a solid hour. He looked at Aurelie, who was regarding her sister's mad hopping with no small degree of amusement. "More champagne?" he asked.

"I think it's time for Scotch. Or brandy. Or anything that isn't bubbling around like her." Aurelie grinned up at him and kicked off her heels. "I'd leave, only this is frankly too much fun. Thank you," she added suddenly. "For coming. You've been wonderful."

"You're welcome. When are we going to Noma?"

"Whenever I can get reservations, and whenever you're up for a weekend in Denmark. I'm glad you were right. It'll be fun to finally eat there."

"Yes, it will." He stood and went to the bar, and her eyes followed him as he selected two drinks and brought them back. She noticed three men checking him out, and noted absently that he did not seem to see them. "Cheers," he said as he handed her a snifter.

"Cheers."

And she drank it slowly, and he pulled her feet up into his lap as they watched everyone else dance.

Mary handed him a Negroni, and Matthew grinned at the memory. "Bitter," he said as they clinked rims.

"Not anymore," she answered and led him out to the terrace.

She was warm in his arms as they looked out across the water, swaying slightly to the music wafting from the pool deck several floors below, and he was suddenly, crushingly happy in a way he could not bear to think would be over, this permission to touch and hold put back in a box never to be opened again. His arms wrapped even more firmly around her and his mouth found her neck again. "Mary," he whispered. "What happens to us on Monday?"

She froze, pulling herself from his arms, backing into the railing. "Us," she said quietly.

And for the first time, as they looked at each other, they did not know what the other one meant.

TBC