Ricardo flitted through the darkened museum, uncomfortable in his new outfit. Haute couture was his normal mode, and he had learned to appreciate the convenience of island casual clothing, but he'd never worn business attire before. For the thousandth time he ran a hand across his blouse, tugged his skirt down straight, and made sure his hair remained tied back in its bun.

There was nothing else for it. He wasn't a brave pixie, but his Dark Lady had set him a mission. He feared the machinations of mortal lawyers, but he knew one way to prevent them from taking the museum from Phil and Micah. The museum needed money. Lots of money. X had money secreted in a thousand, thousand places, but the oversized were strange about taking money from friends. Instead, he had to find a way to make them feel they deserved it. Hence, his plan.

He flitted up to one of the Information Center's kiosks. "Aparato," he hissed, "are you ready with the conference of video making?"

The machine's smooth tenor replied as if he had been waiting specifically for Ricardo's question. "Of course, Ricardo. This gallery has been marked off limits, the soundproof doors closed until morning. The filtering software is in place to edit out any sound or images that would give your audience clues as to your nature. I have contacted the primaries at each of the companies on your list. While the response rate was less than you hoped, we have two primaries scheduled for the video conference, as well as four marketing directors."

"Six?" Ricardo hated the way his voice sounded when he was distraught, but he'd long ago realized he couldn't help it. All he could do was try to work it to his advantage.

"While the rate is low, it is actually better than I expected."

"You expected how many, Aparato?"

"I expected to be rejected by all of them. Six of thirty is actually quite good."

Ricardo tried to imagine what his X would do. He squared his shoulders, straightened his outfit one last time, and turned to face the video screen.

"Are they ready?"

"They are, Ricardo. I have been making small talk until the official start time of the meeting."

"When is that time being?"

"Your meeting is scheduled to believe in ten seconds. Shall I delay?"

"No. This thing, Ricardo shall do. Give to me the countdown."

"Okay. You're on in five... four... three... two... go."

The screen flashed, six faces appeared the moment the machine said 'go'. Two were highlighted; Ricardo recognized them from his obsession with fashion magazines. The other four had names and companies listed beneath them. After a moment to be sure he had their attention, he took himself in hand and began.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for the agreement to meeting with me today..."

***

Tee flowed through the museum like a tidy glacier. She pushed aside litter, dirt, and disorder and left order and beauty in her wake. Some galleries needed new wax on the floors, so she waxed them. When she made her way to the cafeteria, the floor needed to be scrubbed. The tables, along with their built-in bench seating, folded neatly against the walls. That done, she pulled out the heavy floor machine, loaded the front of it with detergent and scalding hot water, and ran the cable to the plug along one wall.

The new display above the outlet near the door caught her eye. It reminded her of something, deja vu teasing at her errant memory. She knew it must have been there before, but she couldn't remember what it did. It looked well cared for already, so she simply took in its smooth lines, shiny interface, and the pretty swirling pattern on the screen before turning back to her cleaning.

The high-powered scrubbing machine sterilized the floor, whisking away any hint of organics from the tile. When that part of the job was done, Tee packed the machine away carefully and pulled out a fresh set of waxing cloths. On hands and knees, she worked her way across the floor backward, polishing it as she went. When, after hours of polishing, she finally made her way to the door, she pushed herself to her feet. Her back was a touch stiff; the cafeteria was the largest single room in the museum, only rivaled by the Great Hall and the Balcony Galley, both of which had large display areas breaking up the floor space.

The white tile of the floor glowed in the dim evening lighting of the cafeteria, and she smiled at the beauty of it. After a moment, though, she frowned. She had no way of moving the tables back into place without marring the polish of the floor.

Before she could formulate a plan, a familiar voice sounded from the display by the door. "It's okay, Miss Tee. The tables are motorized, I can put them back before the museum opens."

"Hello?"

"It's Mic."

The name sounded familiar. She knew she should remember, but apparently the talking display was too new. She looked over it again, wondering how it could see her without eyes, wondering how it could hear her without ears. Fascinated by the pattern on the screen, she reached up to touch it.

The moment her fingers made contact; her vision went white. One by one her senses slipped by the wayside; the soft susurration of the ventilation fans dimmed to silence, the scratchy cloth of her coverall dulled to a smooth soft nothing, the smell of the wax gradually disappeared until she hung in featureless white.

"Misty?"

At the sound of Mic's voice, an involuntary grin stretched across Misty's face. She spun about, and he was there. On seeing her smile, his arms slipped around her, and he held her in a wordless welcome. His cheek pressed against hers, warm and smooth. Before she could lose her nerve, she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the clean, sweet smell of him. The closest scent she knew was the smell in the Balcony gallery, which was dominated by a living sculpture made of a thicket of bamboo. Beneath the smell of sweet air lay the subtle metallic smell of copper and iron.

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Here she could be more than Tee the forever hapless janitor. Here she could be herself, find out who she was. Here she could become a whole person again, no matter how piecemeal.

Misty lost herself in Mic's warmth, his scent, his soft, unmarked skin. Here in Mic's sanctum, she was safe from the dangers of ignorance. Here in Mic's sanctum, she was able to learn and grow. Here in Mic's sanctum, she could stop living eternally in the moment and be herself.

With that thought, she felt his arms tense ever so slightly. She pulled away, wondering what might have upset him, but when she saw his face, she still had no idea what preyed on his mind. He looked at her with the strangest expression on his face; like he was trying to work himself up to say something. She opened her mouth to ask him what was making him tense.

Before she could speak, he moved. His lips pressed against hers, warm and soft and insistent. His arms were around her, his hands wandering across her back, up and down her sides, flitting back up to run across her scalp. A warm glow lit her stomach, a hunger that she didn't understand. She opened her mouth, seeking anything to sate the need growing inside her, and Mic's tongue darted in to tangle with her own.

The clean, sharp taste of him was air on the hot coals seething inside her. She let her hands wander over him as if of their own volition, fingers combing through his cropped hair, then sliding down his neck, her blunt fingertips raking across his back. They wandered past the small of his back, grasping at his tight butt, pulling him into her.

The bulge in his pants pressed against her thigh, and desire exploded through her. Heedless of anything save her need to have his skin pressed against hers, to have him against her, with her, inside her, she tore at his clothing. He grabbed her wrists, and a wordless whimper of protest escaped her. She pulled away, but his eyes reflected the heat in her own. His voice was hoarse with need, "Let me."

With that, their clothes were gone. His gaze travelled down her body, his hands following close behind. Her breath caught as his palms brushed across her nipples. She wanted to look, wanted to feel him against her, but nothing in her life had prepared her for this.

"I... I don't... I've never..."

His fingers brushed across her lips, silencing her gently. "Don't worry..."

"You've done this before?"

"Um... I'm sure I can find some references on the internet."

Mic's eyes flashed, a thousand, thousand images cascading through his eyes. His smile went a little slack as knowledge filled him. Images flashed in his eyes again, this time slow enough for her to see, and her jaw dropped open, too shocked to say anything but, "is that what you want to do?"

"I was thinking something a little less outré." With that, he swept his arms around her, taking her off her feet. Before she could think about it, she clung to him with arms and legs, her body pressed against him. He slid home inside her, sending a shudder of passion through her whole body. The feeling of him against her, inside her, moving with her as she rode him, stared into the flickering diorama in his eyes.

Except the diorama didn’t flicker. It was her. Her from all angles, her gasping for breath with each stroke, each twitch. In all his world, she was the only thing that mattered. That thought washed through her, carried her off in a blue haze. Mic cried out, his body going rigid as he screamed her name.

They shuddered their way to stillness, collapsing to the surprisingly soft, warm floor. She draped herself over his firm, muscular frame, her head resting in the same hollow of his neck she'd started in. The smell was the same comforting warmth, but now spiced with the clean sweat of passion. The pounding insistence of her pulse slowed to a quiet murmur, and she muttered quietly in his ear.

"That was wonderful."

"Yeah."

"I just wish it wasn't over so quick."

He sighed, an odd mixture of contentment and resignation. "It always is."

For a moment, she basked in the glow of mutual satisfaction. The moment passed, the bubble burst by the incongruity of his statement. "Always is...?"

"Over too fast."

"So, you have done this before?"

His lazy smile gained the faintest hint of sheepishness around the edges. "Yes... we have?"

Still warmed by the afterglow, she nonetheless was not about to let that slide. She pushed herself far enough away that she could look him in the eye. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

He met her gaze, but deep in his gaze she could see his uncertainty about how she would react. "You said it went too fast the first time. So... you asked me to let you forget."

"I asked you?"

"Yes. Well, told more than asked. Do you want to remember?"

"No... not yet. We did this before?"

Mic sighed. "More than once."

She had to know. "How many times?"

"Three times."

That wasn't so bad.

"Tonight."

So much for not so bad. She suppressed a wince at her own self-deception. Mic had been a party to it, but only at her request. She supposed she couldn't blame him if she'd asked him to do this. Still, she had to know. "How long have we been... I mean..."

"Having sex?"

"I was going to say sleeping together."

Now a genuine frown crossed his face. "We never sleep together, Misty. I don't sleep, and you don't stay."

"How long, Mic."

"It's been four weeks, two days, six hours and twelve minutes since we first had sex."

"I suppose you'll never forget an anniversary. How many times?"

His eyes flickered, too fast for her to see. "Forty-eight, give or take."

"We had sex forty-eight times? I'm so dead. Micah-sama will fire me! That's if The Lady Morgan doesn't just rip my soul out!" Tama-sensei would be appalled. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she contemplated the enormity of her predicament. "That's what happened to me. She reached back in time and ripped my self away, it must be!"

"Misty!" Mic's urgency brought her back to herself. "Don't worry, Misty. No one is going to find out what we've been doing. And... um... we had sex fifty-one times. It was the first time for you forty-eight times."

She grabbed at anything to distract her from her impending doom. "So, I figured it out three other times?"

"Ah, no. You insisted on another try immediately three times."

She looked out at the whirling void that ate her memories. It loomed behind its glass barrier, cackling evilly at how it had stolen what should be precious, beautiful memories from her. Suddenly she needed to know, however imperfect that knowledge was.

"Show me."

Mic understood immediately. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, please."

As the word 'please' left her mouth, memory crashed through her like a tidal bore. All her fears, her doubts, and her worries got scoured clean away in a torrent of sounds and smells. She saw herself with Mic, over and over and over again, each time more intense and frenzied than the last. In that moment she understood, and with understanding came sheepishness of her own. She may not have remembered, but her body did, and Mic had been learning her body as well. It was no wonder it had been so quick tonight.

Of course, now she knew, and if she was going to be banished, fired, killed, and driven to madness for a penny, she was going to be banished, fired, killed, and driven to madness for a pound. "Mic?"

"Yes, Misty?"

"I want to do it again. It takes longer the second time, right?"

"Usually, for us at least."

"Well then. I want to do it again and again until it takes long enough."

His hands were already sliding across her, his words a murmur against her chest. "Long enough for what?"

"Long enough for me to think it's taken long enough."

"We're going to be here a while, aren't we?"

"Are you complaining, Mic?"

"Not in the slightest, Misty."