Rukia held her breath as they went through security checks and claims at the airport. Her hands gripped the cosmetic case tightly as the overweight female inspector rifled through her lone suitcase and purse. She held up Rukia's fake driver's license and passport Ichigo had altered on the taxi drive over.
The inspector looked pointedly from Rukia to the identification, snapping her chewing gun noisily before nodding. She reached her thick hand to Rukia.
"The case, Miss Tanaka."
Rukia handed the cosmetic case to her, relieved Ichigo was at her side, even if she was quite certain he wouldn't be able to do anything about it if she didn't clear the inspection.
The inspector gave the containers a cursory look, opened a few and took a whiff, and then repacked the case.
"Next."
Rukia breathed a sigh of relief. Ichigo chuckled as they walked to the terminal.
"I told you not to worry," he said in a low tone, as their suitcases made the trek separately to the plane. "You're fine."
"Why do I have to use a different driver's license?" She waited until they had passed the last security clerk, who waved and nodded to each passenger. "You're not using your real name at all." A thought suddenly occurred to her. "I don't even know your last name. Ichigo."
"It's one of those generic ones. Like Smith, or Jones. Let's say it's Smith."
She gave him an annoyed look as he grinned.
On the plane Rukia's nerves stopped rattling a bit, content that she'd made it to the window seat without any real difficulty, was belted in, the case at her side near the side of the plane, Ichigo in the seat to her other side. Her thoughts drifted to Michael and the explanations that were yet to come about the money from the gemstones.
If she indeed benefited from her sneaking around.
She shook her head and closed her eyes as the preliminary announcements were made before take-off, her mind shunning all but her busy conscience that was scratching at her morals.
"What do you feel like for dinner?"
She looked up at Ichigo as the plane taxied down the runway, momentum pushing her steadily into the seat. "I've never flown," she murmured, fingers pressing into the seat armrests.
He nodded slightly. "You're doing fine."
Her eyes squeezed shut as the plane lifted, lips pursing as she held her breath. When the announcement came over the speakers that the passengers could remove their seatbelts, she sat frozen, still immobile until Ichigo unfastened her restraint. She looked down.
"Is it over?"
"We're in the air," he told her.
She sighed deeply and moved the seatbelt out of her way, repositioning the case and shifting more comfortably in the seat.
He watched her movements, suppressing a laugh. "Dinner?"
Rukia's scruples spiked. "Is this business or pleasure?"
"A little of both. We'll make it what you want."
She shook her head, looking out the window at the green, white, and strips of gray in the landscape below fade smaller.
"Come on, Rukia. You can't go to Paris without living a little," he said.
She shook her head. "I don't know how I'll ever tell Michael about this."
He sat back in the seat, leaning toward her. "The money will help." He'd never been in this particular spot before, never escorted this type of client on a direct exchange of stones. "You've got to be careful with it, Rukia. Michael will have to keep some sort of job. For appearances. Watch when they change to new bank notes, and replace it a little at a time. There's a man in Chicago who can help you there."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "How much is this trip costing me?"
"This comes out of my commission."
"Your fifteen percent."
"Stop worrying, Rukia. You'll be a rich woman in three days." He chuckled, watching her suspicions ease a notch. "So, what's the L for in R.L. Parker?"
She smiled timidly. "Louise."
"Rukia Louise York." He nodded, stretching his legs in the confined space. "Pretty."
"No, he was Mom's father. Dad's name was Kuchiki."
He frowned at her. "Rukia Louise Kuchiki?"
"I know, kind of a tongue-twister. Makes a choppy monogram, too."
He nodded slowly, mind trying to grasp a thought verging on the edge of his memory. "When were you born?"
She looked at him, shifting a few inches in the seat.
He noticed the movement. "I mean, every month has a birthstone."
The slight smile came back to her lips, nearly reaching her eyes. "May. Emerald, right?"
"Yeah, right." He looked to the backs of the other passengers' heads in front of him, thoughts milling. "You grew up in Wisconsin?"
This time her tone was sharper. "Why?"
He ran a hand through his hair, resisting a grimace when his fingers touched the scrape on his scalp. "Just asking." He tried to ignore the spot behind his ear that itched, attributing it to his earlier mugging in the alley. "Just a simple Midwest girl?"
She turned in the seat to see him better, eyes studying him more intently. "What about you, Ichigo Smith?"
"That's about it," he said with short shrug. "Uh, your folks, do --"
"They passed away. Car accident outside Akron." She looked back out the window.
"Sorry."
She didn't turn back to him, her posture suddenly slackening into the seat back, a soft sigh escaping her. Ichigo didn't press the conversation, instead content to watch her eyes as they took in the view below.
* * *
At the same moment, Aizen was hovering over the computer screen at D5 headquarters where a small red dot was blinking rapidly, the coordinates in the location box below registering longitude, latitude, and altitude. His attention snapped to where Shoren was hurrying through the maze of desks in the crowded room of Field offices and agents.
"He's moving!" she told him needlessly.
"I can see that!" He grabbed a laptop from beneath his desk and felt along his shoulder holster before opening the desk drawer to find another clip for the nine-millimeter. "We're going. Find his flight and have him held when he lands." He shuffled through the drawer and found a wallet containing passport and several other identifications. "Where the hell is Esparo?"
"The flight is for Paris," she said as several of the other agents looked their way. "Aizen, Paris authorities won't detain him or pick him up without a crime on their soil, and if that happens, he's theirs."
"Dammit. Get us four flights to Paris." He turned on her, making her take a step back. "Where's Esparo?"
"He went to get Grimmjow, like you told him."
He tucked a second smaller handgun in the holster at his ankle as she watched. "Ichimaru said to follow. That's what we're doing."
A wary look crossed her face. "I don't think he meant for us to leave the country, sir."
He took a step toward her, seeing her hesitate to hold her ground. "Four tickets, Thomason. We're full personal on this now."
She nodded numbly. "I'll get the tickets."
He stormed through the desks as several clerks hurried to get out his way. "Get Esparo and Grimmjow, too!"
Shortly after midnight, Rukia stood awestruck in the hotel room, pulse racing as she looked around at the cream colored baroque wainscoting and gilt trim of the ceiling appliqué, holding her breath at the very air that seemed flavored with luxury. She'd stood there for a full five minutes, her suitcase and bags on the ruffled bedspread, the dim light of the lamp on the bombe chest spreading over the room, Ichigo's voice drifting to her as he waited in the doorway.
"Rukia," he said again, tentatively stepping farther into the room when she didn't move. "It isn't that grand, not for Paris."
She blinked at him several times before her eyes went to the open balcony doors. The faint outline of a steep triangle lit the skyline. "You can see the Eiffel Tower, Ichigo."
He nodded, grinning at her fascination. "We could go see it in person, but I know you're on a tight schedule."
She nodded, eyes staying on the landmark. "It's beautiful."
"Are you hungry?"
She looked around, finding the ornate French style phone by the bed. "I should call Michael."
"You've got time. Let's eat first."
Her eyes dropped to her skirt and blouse, smoothing the plum material sheepishly. "I'm not dressed for dinner out."
"You look fine to me." He shrugged, watching her awkwardness. "We could order in."
"Oh, no, that sounds so ..." She shook her head. "Is there anything casual open now?"
He nodded. "Sure. One of those taverns down the street. How about that?"
* * *
Ichigo and Rukia found a bistro serving hearty fare, the rustic atmosphere of the small establishment inviting relaxed dining and dancing to a live band that was nearing the end of their set for the late hour. The waitress showed them to a corner table that was heavily decorated with potted plants and water color paintings of Alsatian pastorals, a cozy nook that was out of the way of the few dancers on the small tile dance floor.
It took a round of wine and a breadbasket for Rukia to settle her guilty nerves at the table, Ichigo watching her fingers toy with the pewter handled flatware as they awaited their entrees.
"Stop faulting yourself," he finally told her.
She looked up quickly from buttering her role. "I'm not."
"Yes, you are. You're going to bring home more money than your husband will ever see in his life, Rukia." He grinned at her blush and poured her wine glass full again of the house's special merlot. "I've never seen anyone look so guilty for so long."
"Do you treat all your clients this well?" She sipped the wine sparingly, thankful her stomach was fully padded with bread.
He shook his head, but not in answer to the question. "Most of my clients are men in their seventies. They're willing to wait a few weeks."
She decided against her next question. "Who do we meet tomorrow?"
"A gentleman who greatly admires traditional gemstones. He's never turned down a well-cut, good quality stone."
"Do you cut stones, too, Ichigo?"
He nodded, drinking from his glass.
"Why don't you just recut store-bought stones and sell them?" She leaned her crossed arms on the table and studied him as the band played a slower tune. "They'd be clean."
He shook his head, holding her stare. "Rukia, that's not ethical. I only recut stones for good clients. Like York. But he never asked me to." His eyes fell over her face for a moment that took on a vulnerable look in the softer light. "Dance with me."
The rigidity came back to her features. "Oh, no, I couldn't..."
He leaned closer. "Why not?"
A flicker of debate caught her eyes and she shook her head.
"I know you're married, Rukia," he said in a lower tone. "Just a dance, nothing more."
She looked to the dance floor where several couples were swaying to the slow tune as the band leader sang mournful ballad in French. Her eyes went back to Ichigo, her answer wavering for a fleeting moment. "Not this time."
He nodded, and then sat back as their orders came.
Michael rinsed the plate in the kitchen sink, the humidity of the day lapsing into a muggy evening. He was on his last clean tank top and pair of jeans. Another day without Rukia and he'd have to breakdown and do a load of laundry.
The phone on the counter rang, and he reached for it as a female voice sounded from outside.
"Hello," he said into the earpiece.
"Hi, Michael," Rukia said, sounding far away.
He smiled and gave the phone his full concentration. "Hey, Rukia. How're you doing? I tried to call you earlier. I made foreman, honey."
"Michael, that's great," she said, the smile evident in her voice.
He nodded, pleased. "Goes into effect Monday. How's it going there?"
From outside the kitchen window Ambra's voice became discernible. "Here, kitty, kitty! Pharaoh!"
He glanced out the window to see the neighbor woman searching her yard, short skirt and sleeveless blouse appearing luminescent white in the dusk settling.
"Oh, all right," Rukia said. "Paperwork and assessments. Grandpa left more than we thought. Kind of...well, I'll find out how much in a few days."
Michael turned his head to look out the window as Ambra disappeared from his view. "Every little bit helps, Rukia," he said as a knock sounded at the back door. He stepped away from the counter to see Ambra looking through the screen. She waved and let herself in.
"Have you seen Pharaoh?" she asked quietly, smiling wider when she saw the phone at his ear.
Rukia's voice sharpened over the line. "What's Ambra doing there?"
Michael kept his attention on the call as Ambra closed the distance between them.
"Is that Rita?" she asked.
"Rukia, she's just looking for her cat," he said, watching Ambra's eyes rest on the phone, smile turning playful.
"And you're helping her?"
He shook his head, clearing his throat. "She just walked in, Rukia."
"Then have her just walk out."
Ambra stood closer, eyes rising from the phone to his.
"Honey, it's just a cat," he said, avoiding Ambra's gaze. "I miss you."
Ambra smiled, and said just above a whisper, "That's so sweet."
Michael turned away and focused on the call.
"Is she gone, Michael?"
He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes. When will you be back?"
Ambra leaned over his shoulder, chin grazing his skin. "What do you drink?" she whispered.
He shook his head, and she sighed, moving off to search through the cupboards by the sink.
"A few more days," Rukia said over the phone line. "Do you have enough to eat?"
"Hell, I could feed an army with all you made," he said, turning to watch Ambra stand on tiptoe to find vodka and vermouth in an upper cupboard, her skirt inching up her thighs. She took a couple of coffee mugs out of another cupboard and busied herself making two martinis.
"Michael, are you alone?" Rukia's voice had a bristle to it.
"Yes, yes, Rukia," he said as Ambra hitched herself onto the counter and held up the mugs. "Just tired, hon. Hours at work are getting long."
Ambra grabbed the phone line and pulled at it, stretching the loopy coils, tugging until the taut cord made him take the few steps near her.
Rukia's tone grew troubled. "Oh...I'll let you go. I just wanted to say goodnight, Michael."
He nodded as the phone line drew him to the Ambra's side on the counter. "Goodnight, honey."
The line clicked, and he hung up, watching the auburn-haired woman pull at her white eyelet lace blouse which was half buttoned. She smiled and handed him a mug of martini.
"Congrats on your job!" She tapped his cup with hers. She took a long drink, watching him over the rim of the mug as he remained unmoving. "Oh, come on, Michael. You can't toast by yourself."
He downed half the drink, watching her push her hair over one shoulder, smiling at him. "Can't find your cat?"
She giggled. "Help me look?"
He finished the drink and set the mug on the counter as she hooked a bare foot around the back of his leg, pulling until he stood directly before her.
"You know," she said lowly, face tilting to his, letting her fingers trail up along the front of his shirt until they rested on the detailing of the Nike slogan, "you don't have to watch through windows. Like what you saw?"
He watched her fingers trace the letters. "You should go home."
She lifted an eyebrow, voice low. "How about you come with me?"
He didn't answer for a long moment, his hand moving to her knee, sliding to where her skirt began. From outside came a long meow.
Michael leaned back and took her wrist, pulling her hand from his shirt. "There's your cat."
"He can wait."
He moved back as she slipped off the counter, pressing closer to him. "Go home, Ambra."
An exaggerated pout pulled at her lips as she looked up at him. "Alone?"
"Alone."
She smiled, shaking her head, and set the mug on the counter. He sighed as she went to the back door. She closed the main door, eyes still on him as she twisted the lock. She gave him a flirty look as she walked past and into the living room and up the stairs.
Michael stood alone in the darkening kitchen for several silent moments, willpower at odds with opportunity. Above him music from his bedroom radio floated down. He grabbed the coffee mugs and bottles of alcohol, and followed up the staircase.
