A/N: The second of our five chapters. I'm posting it earlier than I planned. That won't happen again.

If you know Barcelona — I've visited a couple of times, and taught there one summer — you may notice that I am taking a few liberties with details. The basics are correct, however.

Maintenance

Chapter Two

The Beauty of Your Ruins

"What?"

Rita focused more closely on the woman, who was walking almost directly across their path.

"It's her. I think it's her. My God, Rita. My mom."

She still had her arm around him, she realized, and her hand on her gun. She let go of the latter, then, more slowly, of the former. "Are you sure?" It seemed so random.

He stared at the woman, the woman's back now in view.

Rita had glimpsed the woman's face. She was attractive, probably in her early sixties, so of the right age. Her clothes, at least her coat and boots, were cheap but durable — the coat was olive drab, military surplus, Rita was sure, not US military (Austrian?) although it was patterned on a US M65. The woman's boots were dark leather, well-worn, also military surplus. She was pulling a small, two-wheeled grocery cart, groceries inside it.

The woman moved smoothly, coordinately for her age. She was not hurrying, but she did not scuff her feet as she walked, did not show any sign of unsteadiness — rather, she wheeled the cart along without any apparent effort. Her slowness seemed to be the result of her present thoughtfulness — her head was down — not of any physical infirmity.

"Do you want to talk to her, Chuck? She's getting away." The woman had crossed the La Rambla and was continuing on Fontanella.

Chuck could see that — he was staring after the woman — but he remained frozen. Rita grabbed his hand. "Chuck?"

He refocused himself on her with obvious effort. "Could we follow her? I can't lose her — but I'm, I'm not ready to talk to her, face her."

Rita searched Chuck's face. He was an amateur, of that she was sure. He was no spy, no part of her world. This was just the randomness it seemed, although, perhaps, since he had been talking about his mother, drinking, perhaps he was mistaken.

I can tail an old woman.

"Okay," Rita said, turning and tugging Chuck into motion, "keep her in view."

She felt Chuck stumble into motion then catch up with her. She dropped his hand and glanced at him a second later. He was looking at her, not the woman. Rita turned and peered ahead. The woman had quickened her pace and had created more distance between them.

"We need to walk faster, Chuck," Rita commanded, thinking about the tail, not her tone.

"Okay," Chuck said, sounding slightly defensive.

She glanced at him. He was staring at her but shifted his gaze ahead to the woman.

When Rita did the same, she saw the woman looking back over her shoulder. Their eyes met for the barest moment, and then the woman turned. She was now walking much faster. Damn, had she already seen us? She has now. Did she see Chuck too?

The woman crossed the street ahead. She seemed to be heading to the Placa Urquinaona. The night was at last beginning to darken. The crowds were growing; the celebratory air thickening. Generally, the crowd seemed to be moving toward the Placa de Catalunya, and so the woman, and Chuck and Rita, were salmoning against the stream of celebrators. But the woman knew where she was going and she was alone; she was moving more easily than Chuck and Rita, who had to keep track of her and keep in contact with each other.

"Did she see you, Chuck?" Rita asked after they parted then came back together to allow a knotted group of Japanese tourists to pass between them.

Chuck shook his head. "I don't think so. But I did get a better look at her face. I really do believe it's her, although it is getting darker. I still haven't gotten a good look at her."

Rita nodded. She took Chuck's hand so that she could keep track of him, even though it made the tailing trickier.

When they reached the Placa Urquinaona, they lost her for a moment. There were more people, moving in more directions, not funneled by the sidewalk. They paused for a second, both searching wordlessly, then Rita saw her. The woman was hurrying down the Ronda de Sant Pere. Rita tugged Chuck into motion again. "This way!"

The Ronda led to the Arc de Triomf. The festivities would be in a full riot there, the crowds dense. "If we're going to catch her Chuck, we need to do it now. We need to run."

Chuck looked at her, looked ahead, then nodded. Rita began to run and let go of Chuck's hand. He ran beside her. The woman entered a large group of people emerging from a bus, waiting for someone to come and lead them. When Rita and Chuck forced their way through the group, they found the woman's grocery cart standing in the middle of the sidewalk, unattended.

Rita stopped and turned in a circle. She could see the woman nowhere. Nowhere. She had vanished.

That was well done.

Chuck was searching too. Rita faced him. "We lost her, Chuck."

He kept searching for a moment more, on his tiptoes, then he sank to the sidewalk. "Yeah, she's gone. But she left her cart." Chuck pointed to it.

"We can stay here with it. She might retrace her steps, hope to reclaim it, and show herself."

Chuck walked to the cart and pulled it behind him over near one of the buildings, away from the street. Rita kept searching the crowd. She noticed Chuck bend over and begin examining the cart, the groceries. As she searched, without shifting her attention to him, Rita asked, "What are you doing?"

"Checking for something that might identify her, give her address. A tag or a receipt. Something. I can't find her like this, out of the blue, and then just lose her." He ended his comment through gritted teeth.

"Good thinking, Chuck. Keep at it. I'll keep watch. I can't believe she's just going to abandon this stuff." Yes, I can. She saw me. She must have seen Chuck. She did not want him to find her.

Chuck examined the cart, then rummaged through the groceries. By the time he finished, it had gotten full dark. He had his phone out, using the flashlight function as he finished.

"Nothing, except that she's vegetarian, or just didn't want any meat. A couple of jars of lentils. Olive oil. A baguette. Fresh fruit. A sweet potato. Wine."

Rita was still trying to keep watch but the darkness constricted the circle of the Ronda she could observe. There were more and more people in the dark, phones lighting up and going off, lighters flaming and going out. But no shown face, shown by phone light or firelight, was Chuck's mother's face.

Chuck stood up. He had a brown paper bag in his hand. "The baguette is in a bag with a logo, a bakery." He showed it to Rita in the phone light. Vinitus. "I'll check. There're two. One is back, on the other side of the Placa de Catalunya. That was roughly the direction she came from. The other's ahead of us."

Rita was listening but she was also wondering what she was doing. It had all happened so fast, so randomly. She had relaxed, let down her guard, at least let it down as much as ever on a mission, and she jumped to protect Chuck and then helped him trail his mother. Maybe his mother. What the hell am I doing? I'm on a mission, in deep cover. This is stupid.

Chuck looked at her. "Vinitus is still open. I'm going to walk back there. My hotel's in that direction." He looked at her, studying her face in the dark. "Look, I understand if you want to just go home. This was crazy, and I thank you. Without you, I don't know what I would have done, especially when Mom — the woman — sped up. But you, you — it was like you knew what you were doing, weaving us in and out of the crowd, keeping up but not catching up."

"Big city girl. Chased lots of taxis back in the day."

He stopped and looked at her doubtfully, then nodded. "Oh, well, I guess I will go." He turned but did not start.

"I'll come too. My apartment's in that direction. I'm curious how this ends — if you can find her. Leave the cart here. Maybe she'll at least be able to retrieve her groceries, although they'll likely be stolen. But she left them. — You know the bakery's unlikely to be able to help unless she's a regular?"

"I know, but it's worth a try. I get that this may be a goose chase, a snark hunt, in Lewis Carroll's terms, but I can't just let it go."

"I understand. Let's get going. —Lewis Carroll?"

They began to retrace their steps, leaving the cart against the wall.

Within a few steps, Rita was brushing against Chuck again. And then he took her hand. "I don't want to lose you too." He said with a smile, no hint of come-on in his voice, just a warmth that Rita felt all over.

She let him hold her hand and they walked along. "Oh, you asked. Lewis Carroll. The Hunting of the Snark. It's a long poem. The Bellman is hunting snarks, except he doesn't know what a snark is, and the map he's following is a perfect and absolute blank."

"How can you follow a blank map?" Rita asked, rubbing against Chuck to avoid a gaggle of giggling teenage Spanish girls, their trailing cloud of vape smoke.

"Exactly. You can't. No more than you can hunt for what you can't identify."

Rita pondered that for a minute. "He's the Alice guy, right?"

"Yes, that's him. A hell of a logician too."

"Really?"

"Yes, he wrote a logic textbook, and a deep, influential paper on logic called What the Tortoise Said to the Achilles."

"He was good at titles," Rita remarked.

Chuck laughed out loud. "He was, that he was."

They soon reached the Placa de Catalunya and passed through it. They had to thread a crooked course. The Placa was now teeming with people. A band was playing, the music so loud it interfered with thought. They reached the other side and walked a little farther. Then they took a small side street. A moment later, they were at the bakery.

Chuck opened the door and held it for Rita. She nodded at the courtesy as she went inside. The female baker behind the counter spoke little English. Chuck's attempt to ask her about the woman provoked only incomprehension on the baker's part and confusion on his. Rita stepped in and asked in Spanish. The baker understood and remembered the woman.

A pretty older lady, quiet, intense. Comes in on Fridays and pays in cash. No name. No idea where she might live.

Rita faced Chuck and gave him the bad news. She felt it herself, not just disappointment that the chase had ended in failure, but grief and sympathy for Chuck, for what must have seemed a cruel brush with fate.

He nodded quietly and, shoulders sagging, he left the bakery. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited for Rita to come out; she had stayed behind to thank the baker.

He turned to her. "Rita, thanks so much for everything. I've worn out your patience by now, I'm sure. I just realized my hotel is actually quite close to here, like just a few minutes walk. The Hotel Pulitzer. I didn't realize how close it was. I've been sorta distracted by women." He gave her a small, sad smile. "You, and then that other woman, my Mom, if that's who it was."

Rita found her hand around Chuck's. "Does the Hotel Pulitzer have a bar?"

"A rooftop terrace, actually, although I've only been there during the day."

"Let's go. I'd like another drink. With you."

Rita knew the phrase 'crestfallen' and that's what Chuck had been. But she saw his crest rise; her comment pleased him, heartened him. "Thanks, Rita. Thanks a lot."

I'd like to hear him call me Sarah.

They walked to the hotel, Chuck leading this time. Neither spoke; each seemed content just to walk along with the other.

When they reached the hotel, they took the elevator up to the terrace. Lots of people were there, but it was not as crowded as Rita expected. Of course, now that it was dark, the temperature had fallen, and that had likely chased some into indoor bars. Rita unbuttoned her jacket a couple of buttons despite the cool air. They worked their way to the bar and Chuck ordered two gimlets.

They got the drinks and found a small space in the corner of the terrace. They stood for a moment, neither having yet taken a sip, and they looked out over the lights of Barcelona. The view was amazing and with a turn, Rita could see from the lights of boats on the Mediterranean all the way up to the lights of Park Guell, the Gaudi-designed gardens atop the city. She had not enjoyed this view before and it took her breath.

"Amazing, huh?" Chuck asked. "It was impressive in the daylight but this is, this is otherworldly. So beautiful."

It took Rita a minute to realize that he finished his praise looking at her, not Barcelona.

They stood and sipped their drinks.

He started humming. Surprised, she smiled at him, listening. She finally interrupted. "That's a lovely melody. What is it?"

"It's an Aztec Camera song, "Pianos and Clocks". It's off an album, Dreamland, recorded in Spain, I think." He started singing it, low, just to her.

Well, hello there, sweet to see you
Like your color, how you doin'?
I've been battered and bewildered
In the beauty of your ruins
Flash, flash, and I am blinded
By the fact that you've been born
Feels like fiction life goes on
Brown eyes are gone

He paused. She had turned from him to gaze at the city, listening again, and she leaned against him. "That's beautiful,"

"Yeah, he wrote the song so that it's simultaneously about the city, Barcelona, and a woman. The next verse is great."

Silence is a virtue
I was taught so I agreed
Conversation half-forgotten
Is the hole I hold in me
And all our language and expression
Is decimated by decree
The sound of song dies in the dawn
Brown eyes are gone

She let herself lean more heavily against him. He put his gimlet on the railing and his arms went around her and she did not object.

The lyrics touched her. Only a few lines, yet they seemed to capture the hard record of her life; she felt an unexpected kinship with the singer and the city. Again, she felt in Barcelona. Just as she felt in Chuck's arms.

She stayed against him and asked. "Gimlets? It's good but — "

"It's a drink mentioned in Chandler's The Long Goodbye. I guess I always wanted to order that drink while with a mysterious woman. Tonight seemed like the night." She could see a certain sadness lingering in his eyes, no doubt about his mother, but it seemed to be almost gone. Rita knew she was the reason for it leaving and that made her happy.

"Me, mysterious?" Rita asked, turning slowly, keeping her body in his arms, and in contact with his, ending by facing him, looking up innocently. He is tall. She was tall too, but he made her feel like she was not, and, for some reason, she liked that. He felt like a shelter, a place to weather storms. What's wrong with me?

He grinned. "Um, yes. I'm accosted by a short, chubby man in small, gold-rimmed glasses, a red tie beneath a black trench coat — who looks for all the world like a character actor in some Hitchcock spy film, not a real person, and whose breath is so awful that even I, a man, I'm sorry, who is polite to a fault, feel forced to mention it — and he sends me with a folded note to a woman the mere sight of which will make my service seem worthwhile, a blond, the man said, out of legend."

She blushed hotly. Henri. He did have horrid breath but he often said memorable things, at least they were memorable if you were far enough away when he said them.

Wait a minute. I blushed. I don't blush. I pretend to. I drop my eyes, smile a shy smile; I know how to pretend to blush. But it's always an optical illusion. Marks think I've reddened because the accompaniments are there. But my cheeks never change color, I don't flush. Fuck. What's happening?

She rotated again in his arms, pretending to look back out at the sea and the city, but actually buying herself time to cool, for the blush to fade, for her self-discipline to return, to regain her normal stone-like imperviousness. "You shouldn't listen to Henri." Damn it. I said his name. There was no reason to say that.

She felt Chuck shift behind her, move his hand up onto her shoulder. He exerted a gentle pressure and she turned to face him, still cursing herself internally. He was smiling. Her interior curses slowed and silenced.

"Henri was right. A woman out of legend. And I was right too." He pretended a smug look.

"Oh, and what were you right about, Mr. Manners?"

His pretend smugness rearranged into a self-mocking grin. "Mr. Manners? Ouch. — What I was right about was the action hero bit. Chasing that woman with you, watching you watch her, navigate us, You must indeed be a big city girl. A World Champion Taxi Chaser." There was a note of doubtful irony in his words but Rita ignored it.

This is what enjoying yourself feels like. Flirtation. A slight tremble went through her, its dampening epicenter below her waist. She tried to focus higher, on his eyes. She had lost a battle with herself she did not realize she was fighting until now. She sipped her drink as she stared into his eyes, and leaned into him again.

He smiled at her — and the smile was warm but also very male. She trembled again.

"Cold?"

"Always, to tell the truth." That was true in general, absolutely false at the moment.

He pulled her closer and she felt solid proof of what his smile foretold. He looked at her, poised to be embarrassed, but she leaned against him, against him, harder.

I guess I'm not an appliance.

His arms still around her, he loosened one to pick up his drink from the railing. He brought it from behind her to his mouth and took a long drink. "Did they turn on heaters?"

She looked deep into his eyes, holding his gaze.

"No, Chuck, that's me," she confessed.

"But you said you were always cold."

"I thought I was. I usually am. Just now, not so much." She held his eyes again.

If she expected an immediate reaction, fumbling with her or for a room key, she got neither. Did I expect it? This handsome man is hard to read but in a good way. He's not on some stale script.

Chuck instead finished his drink. She took his empty glass and finished hers, then put both glasses on the railing. As she did, Chuck stepped to her side. They were both looking out at Barcelona. The city blinked and honked beneath them, its engines racing, its headlights jousting on the streets. Rita sidestepped and took Chuck's hand.

He had grown pensive. That was not what she expected at all. "Is something wrong, Chuck?" Was I too obvious? It's been so long since I've felt any of these things. I'm not sure how to feel them.

I want to sleep with him. I want it so much. She pressed her legs together.

"No, no, you are…" he paused, searching for a word, and she realized she liked that about him, the way he chose and valued words. She had been like that once, in love with words as a kid, until her father and her career as a liar emptied words of meaning, turned them into mere sounds or signals. But they did not seem empty tonight.

Chuck's words were not mere sounds.

"...You are sublime. I've never met anyone like you. Hell," he grinned at her, "I've never met anyone who even tended to be like you. You, Rita, are a singular woman."

"You overestimate me, Chuck. I'm a hot mess — or a cold one — or a hot-and-cold one." And I'm not Rita, I'm Sarah. As much as I am anyone.

He turned to her, away from the city. "I wish I'd met you earlier, even a few days ago. I go home Monday morning, and I would like to know you. I mean, know you better. See more of the city, more of you."

"We have the weekend," she found herself saying, "I don't have anything to do. Henri's note freed me up." She meant it, didn't she?

He nodded, pensive again. He took her hands after a moment and looked at her left hand. "Ever been married?"

She laughed, intending to scoff but instead sounding sad. "Me? Married? No, my life hasn't got substance enough for anything like that. Never married. Never close. I've never even said no."

He looked at her, surprised. She wasn't sure if he was surprised by what she said or by her saying it or both. "No one's asked?"

"No. I haven't had any serious relationships. A damning thing to say about a woman my age, isn't it? Like I said, a mess. I dated a co-worker for a while, years ago, and I thought that might amount to…something. But it didn't. He didn't. So, no, never asked. — What about you?"

"Yes, I was, once, for about a minute." He frowned and his eyes grew distant. "We married right after college. Long story short, I wasn't ambitious enough to satisfy her."

Rita shook her head. "You seem pretty successful to me. Software firm, world travel, nice hotel, cool Indiana Jones jacket."

He grinned suddenly at that. "Is it too obvious? I bought this years ago from the same British company that made his jackets for the movies. It's my favorite; I wear it too much."

"No," she laughed, "not too obvious. But don't add the hat unless you want to be heckled as Indy."

He chuckled. "No worries. And after all, in this partnership, you're the action hero.."

She stopped laughing and looked toward the city. Partnership? The word divided her from herself for a moment.

"Hey, Rita, sorry. I didn't mean anything by that word. Sorry. See, Mr. Manners?" He laughed again, and she could feel him studying her profile.

She reverted to the earlier subject. "Not ambitious enough?"

Chuck nodded. "Maybe that's not the right way to put it, not the best way. I was, I am, ambitious. I'm what people call successful. Let's say that she wanted me to realize my ambitions faster. To do whatever it took, cut corners. I'm not built that way. I like corners," he looked around them, their corner of the terrace, "and I'm not so invested in my success that I'm willing to cheat or hurt others to have it. Frankly, that would spoil it as a success; that would be a failure. So, I didn't move fast enough for her, and before a year passed, she was gone, with another man, one who was willing to cut corners — obviously. We divorced after that, after him. Larry. From Chuck to Larry: The Jill Robertson Story."

"Jill? That was her name?" She looked at Chuck.

"Yes, that was her name."

Rita stood silent, once again gazing at the city. "I'm sorry about Jill and sorry for her."

"For her?" Chuck asked.

"She's a fool." Rita did not elaborate and she did not face Chuck when she said it, but she saw him stand a little straighter.

"Enough of her, believe me."

They fell into a joint silence. Chuck managed to capture one of the few waitresses and give her their empty glasses, and order two more drinks.

Another drink is a bad idea. I'm liquid enough as it is. If he asks me to his room, I'm going to go. I am so going to go. — I need to escape before he asks. I hope he asks soon. Soon. — Will he ask? He's Mr. Manners.

Fuck.

She changed topics again. "So, have you ever checked for your mom's name in the Barcelona phone registry, looked online?"

He nodded. "It's sort of a game with me. In each city I visit, I take some time and hunt for her there. I can never sleep the first night in a hotel anyway. — If that was her, she's not using the name, Mary Bartowski. Let's just say I'm good at internet searches, a Human Google as well as a Mr. Manners. If she was here and using that name, I'd know. This is my…twelfth trip to Barcelona. I haven't checked every time, but I have checked most of them. She's using another name."

Rita filed that away. Chuck's mother was turning out to also be a mysterious woman.

The night was getting colder. Rita realized with a glance at her watch that it was nearly midnight. New Year, and forty.

Chuck saw her glance at her watch. "Do you have to go?"

"No, I might as well ring in the New Year here, ring it in with you." Did he hear the suggestion in my tone? God, I've lost control of myself. It's been so damned long, so long.

The waitress reappeared with their drinks. Rita hadn't noticed it before, she had been so focused on Chuck, but the waitress was a young Spanish beauty, black hair, and black eyes, eternal tanned legs beneath the briefest cocktail dress. Chuck took the drinks, tipped her well, and the waitress gave him an extra smile, extra wide. Chuck smiled back but with no responsive extra, and when she walked away, swinging her hips, her legs more curvaceous because of her dramatic heels, Chuck did not watch.

He turned to Rita instead, and so missed the waitress glancing back. The whole little movie made Rita feel even better about herself, about Chuck.

"So, Chuck…" she began, hoping he would understand how she wanted him to end her sentence.

He looked at her, waiting, saying nothing. It was maddening. Ask, or I will leave. This is crazy. I don't do this. I don't get aroused, damp. Wet.

"...Chuck," she repeated his name, and leaned to his ear, "...please take me to your room and take my clothes off."

When he leaned back from her, his ears, both the one she whispered into and the other, were bright red. He looked into her eyes. "My room?" he whispered back. She nodded unambiguously. Still, he whispered again. "Are you sure?"

Another unambiguous nod. "Sure." She put her mouth against his ear so that her lips and tongue brushed it. "Take me to your room and take me."

She dropped from her toes.

Chuck drained his gimlet in one go. She did the same. They put their glasses on the railing again, but this time, her hands were free, her arms went around him, his neck. She pulled her mouth up to his and kissed him, tasting him for the first time in a mixture of Chuck, gin, and Rose's Lime Juice, very male and very sweet.

He put his hands around her waist as he kissed her back, then slid them around her and pulled her hard against him. She could feel him in firm outline pressed warm against her lower belly as she stood on her toes. She rubbed herself against him as she again dropped to her heels. She saw with pleasure and a tincture of pride that his eyes rolled in his head as she rubbed down him.

Her warmth burst into flame, in a moment a consuming fire. She gave him an unmistakable look and he did not mistake it. He took her hand and he pushed through the crowd.

They had lost track of time. Before they were at the stairwell door, it was midnight. A cry went up all around them, the sky burst into fireworks. Couples kissed. Chuck whirled around and pulled her tight against him. "Happy New Year, Rita!" Sarah.

She kissed him back with a hunger and thirst that was new to her. But she did not let herself think about it — she plunged into the white heat of her desire and let it burn away at her. He broke the kiss and pulled her into the stairway. He stopped, the door closed and he began to kiss her again. She was up against the stairwell wall, its cold penetrating the back of her jacket even as his heat penetrated the front. She pulled him against herself with all her strength, pinning herself between the wall and him. She raised one leg and wrapped it around him to pull him yet closer, and to expose her center to his. He reached back, then moved his hand with painful, pleasurable slowness from the back of her knee, first rubbing it, God, yes!, then down the length of her thigh, each centimeter of advance an exponential increase of her need. Please, please, please. Finally, his hand found her, centered her attention completely, and she broke the kiss and moaned his name in his ear.

I surrender.

"Chuck!"

He rubbed her through her pants and she felt as though all her body's nerves had contracted to one spot, as if her entire soul, her life, had concentrated beneath a few inches of dampening denim. "Your room, Chuck. Now!"

Numb no more.

He turned and they went flew down two flights. He pushed open the door and led her to his room. While he found the key card in his front pocket, she shoved both her hands in his back pockets, squeezing him. "Hurry, Chuck!"

The door opened and they spilled into the room. He fell, her feet tangling with his, and she fell on top of him, her purse sliding down her shoulder, her arm, to the floor. She pushed herself up on her hands and he rolled over beneath her. She kissed him as her hand found his belt and she moved out of her own way. She undid the buckle, unbuttoned his jeans, and unzipped his pants. It all happened in a split second. Burglary was in her skill set, breaking and entering.

She undid her own belt and button, unzipped her pants, and pushed them down. She could not wait. Nothing in her life had ever felt so urgent. He was a wellspring and she was a parched and waterless land. He was in her hand, a quick appreciative squeeze, and then he was inside her. She sighed in satisfaction and then she began to move.

The first time was fast and furious, a rushed, coats-on reclamation project but remarkably satisfying. It ended with him shouting her name, Rita.

Sarah, I'm Sarah.

It had not been enough, and Rita wanted him naked, wanted to be naked with him. They undressed slowly, then moved to the bed. She managed to remove her knives when he was looking at other things.

When they were both on the bed, he began at her fingertips, the first time allowing them now to go slow, and he nuzzled the end of each finger, kissed each, and then began to move down her hand to her palm and then the heel of her palm. She never knew that the insides of her wrists were erogenous zones until Chuck taught her that about herself and took full advantage of it, a tutorial in wanton trembling. She was rising and falling on the bed and he was still easing toward her elbows. He reached them and then, having attended delicately to the insides of her elbows, he slid his hands and himself to her shoulders and her neck, her ears, and then her lips. She was begging him with her body, but he did not increase his speed. He moved with delicious deliberateness. He descended her neck slowly, his lips and tongue soft and warm, yet demanding response. Arching her back, she whispered his name again and again.

He worked lower, a man with a mind for details.

Chuck was asleep. Rita had been asleep for a few minutes, her body too completely satisfied, completely relaxed, to resist sleep. But her old habits, her professional catnapping, woke her.

She gazed at Chuck. All of her was warm and wonderful, fully alive, tingling, head to toe, and all she wanted to do was to curl tightly against him and sleep in there in the hollow of his arm.

But dawn was coming and she had made enough mistakes in one night to last a lifetime.

It was worth it. It was.

She had found herself again with Chuck's help. For a night, she had been human, a woman, not an agent. There was beauty in her ruins.

She could allow herself no more and, even more importantly, she could not involve Chuck in her mission, bring him to the attention of a man like Javier Coosur. Only Henri, so far as she knew, had any idea that Rita's path had crossed Chuck's.

She hated to abandon him after what happened with the woman, his mother. Rita would walk out of his room and, like his mother, leave his life, be lost to him. He did not have enough information to find her, and that was good. He was better off not finding her, not knowing her. She hoped that one day he would regard her as a happy memory.

He was certainly her happiest.

She would hurt him, yes, and the thought of that made her ache, but she would not involve him in her life.

She slid from beneath the sheet and found her clothes, her things. She dressed quickly and tiptoed to the door. She put her hand on the knob but turned to look once more.

A sea of sadness swallowed her. I would have liked to hear him say my name. Sarah.

She opened the door and closed it with no sound. Burglary skills. She walked down the hallway, her eyes stinging, her feet hard to move, like they were attached to something, to the floor.

Chuck's singing came back to her, one lyric.

The sound of song dies in the dawn

It was necessary.

It was for the best.

It was.

Maintenance — she would return to maintenance. Self-maintenance — of as much self as she had.

This had been a one-off affair, her birthday present, even if Chuck had not known that was what he gave her.

There was no tomorrow with Chuck.

She walked through the dark city alone, a small figure below looming, inscrutable buildings, barely conscious of her path among the remnants of the New Year's celebrations: bits of blowing confetti, empty, broken bottles, and drunken couples swaying as they walked, like sailboats on the sea, buffeted by the cold wind.

Head down in the wind, she dodged the remnants and couples successfully but she dodged remembering unsuccessfully; Chuck's scent was on her hands, her skin, and his taste on her lips; she could feel him inside and around her.

She needed to shower, floss, brush her hair, and then go to bed. Wash and comb him away. Discipline would provide.

Tomorrow, she would contact Henri and figure out what was going on with Javier, if Henri had any intel on the reasons for the delay. She assumed Henri had lost Javier's tail; Henri had a gift for getting away.

She reached her apartment building and trudged up the two flights to her apartment. She unlocked and opened the door, and went inside, her mind full of images of Chuck, Chuck's bed, of the two of them together. She locked the door.

A gimlet, that's my drink from now on.

She undressed, shedding her clothes in a pile to be sorted the next day. She stumbled into the shower and tried to scrub and boil some of the sadness away. No luck. She was sadder after the shower than before. The gray pre-dawn did not lighten her mood. She put on some sweats and shut her blinds.

She went to bed wishing she were in Chuck's bed instead. Eventually, she fell into a shallow, regretful sleep.

The cold of a gun against her forehead summoned her out of sleep. She opened her eyes, carefully.

"Don't move, you blond whore."

An unfamiliar voice. A click: the lamp beside the bed was on.

The woman Rita and Chuck chased had a gun to Rita's head. No tremor shook the hand that held the gun and no mercy lurked in the brown eyes focused down its long, black barrel.

"What the fuck are you doing to my son?"

A/N: See you in a week or so. For those of you reading Her Gift, look for a chapter tomorrow or the next day. My hope is to finish that story before continuing to post this one.