Immortality

Chapter Two - A Nest for Three

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It was well past midnight when Nightingale got home. As her hovercraft touched down on the landing pad, she noticed that it had begun to rain, making the light streaming from the penthouse windows swim before her eyes.

She sprang out and, holding her arm above her face to shield her eyes, sprinted for the door. Not even her unnatural speed could carry her fast enough, however, as when she burst through the door, she was saoked to the bone.

"Good evening, Mrs. Brightley." Robin spoke from the sofa, looking up at her from over his tablet.

Nightingale smiled tiredly as she tossed her sodden coat over a hook and kicked off the shoes in which she found several inches of water.

"Michael called, by the way. Says it's urgent. But I wouldn't call him back now, it'll be the early morning in the Britannic Federation," said Robin, referring to Michael's place of work. He'd immigrated there a few years back, to work in a prestigious research lab.

"But it's urgent?" said Nightingale.

"Not really that urgent. He was excited, more than anything. Besides, you're home late," he observed, laying aside the tablet.

"David did one of his debriefs from hell. Pierce looked like he wanted to shoot himself the entire time," said Nightingale, reminded of the way Pierce's eyes kept flickering to his gun as she removed her own sidearm from its hidden pocket in her jacket.

Robin eyed it with poorly veiled distaste as he rose from the sofa, coiling and uncoiling his limbs with unnecessary but very attractive grace as he sauntered over to her.

"Why Pierce?" he asked.

"In David's mind, Pierce fucked up. Probably because David's unusually miserable these days. It's nothing to do with Pierce, and he can't help that David's a sour old bastard," sniped Nightingale.

"Be charitable, darling." Robin chided Nightingale with such affection that he could scarcely have really meant it. "He's not happy."

"He's never happy."

Robin gave a soft sigh, laying his hand under Nightingale's chin and lifting her eyes to his. "Are you worried about him?"

"Of course not, David's a big boy, he can take care of-" Nightingale was denying any soft feelings she might have for David the moment Robin's query was out of his mouth.

"Liar," said Robin, and his voice was so sweet, his lopsided grin even more enchanting, that Nightingale could not take his quip seriously. "I always know when you're lying. You're very good at it, but not so good as I am at reading you. You're worried about him."

"Hmm," murmured Nightingale, and had her revenge upon Robin for his insightfulness in the way she knew would disarm him most - she kissed him.

"Nightin-" began Robin, when she pulled back to look at him.

She kissed him again, winding her fingers in his hair.

"You're not fair," he said.

"Neither are you," she replied, lifting her hand to his face and, with the softest possible touch, light as a feather, brushed the backs of her fingers over his cheek. She lingered on the small lines around his mouth, testaments to his age. He looked far younger than he was, but parts of him told of the difference in their years. "You're far less fair than I am."