Immortality

Chapter Nine - La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Author's note - ugh, this chapter was a serious *ahem* pain in the ass to write. But here we meet some new characters, which should be fun, yeah? Yeah. Also: PLEASE vote and comment. The encouragement really means a lot to me!

The next day was somewhat brighter, both in the cast of the sky and in Nightingale's mood. She awoke early in the morning tucked into bed between her son and her husband. Colm, who had a nightmare in the small hours of the night, had climbed in next to her and allowed her to soothe him back to sleep.

It had done her good to soothe someone else's suffering, for it had spared her focusing on her own. As she stroked his hair she had asked him what he had dreamed about. He refused to tell her. She allowed him that secret. To force him would have seemed hypocritical, since she had concealed both the secret of their immortality and the impending case from Colm.

As she lay between Colm and Robin, both of whom lay still sleeping in the dim light, Nightingale realized she was not going to tell either one of her immortality, or of the possibility of Robin living as long as his wife and son. She would tell him eventually, she knew, if only for the reason that she wanted to secure his immortality as soon as possible.

After a moment or two to think about what Michael had said she had found the good in it. She had no desire to live forever, but the thought of Colm never growing old or sick was comforting beyond words. And provided Robin would consent to taking Michael's treatment - at least temporarily to extend his life - it was a good thing. He would not want to be immortal, but to add any years to his life was an improvement upon what had been until recently the bleak prospect of his dying relatively imminently.

She rolled over as lightly as she could and, raising herself on one elbow, regarded her husband as he slept. As she regarded his face she realized she would never tire of looking at it. His face was one of the more interesting she had yet to see. He was not a dashingly handsome man, though he had a certain brand of wild charm and eccentric appeal. That she confessed. But the dark, rich mane of his hair, the straight nose, the soft, smooth lips, the flawless complexion, and the deep, bright eyes - when they were open - fringed with inky lashes, these were all things that made him lovely.

More even than that, his smiles and his mischievous looks seemed a permanent fixture on his face and heightened his pleasing features into something Nightingale adored. When Nightingale looked at him he was positively beautiful.

She could not help kissing him when she thought of him that way. When she did he stirred and woke.

"Hello," he said, sleep still heavy in his eyes. He yawned and then he smiled at her. "I really do like to be woken up like that."

"I'll make a note of it," said Nightingale, and smiled back at him. Placing one hand on his chest, she began to trace patterns over the steady thumping of his heart. Even under the fabric of his shirt Nightingale could feel the even, plodding rhythm.

His smile became sly and then he closed his eyes. "Wait - I'm not completely awake," he said, feigning sleep unconvincingly. Cracking one sparkling, impish eye back open, he went on. "You'd better do it again."

She obliged him and when she drew back he sighed.

"Tell me what's troubling you," said Robin. Reaching up, he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

"Nothing that hasn't been troubling me for a long time," Nightingale replied. She said it without a smile and lowered her eyes. If she looked into Robin's eyes she would tell him instantly of Michael's discovery.

"Don't say that like you don't trust me with whatever it is," he said.

"Robin, my love, I trust you with anything," she told him. "You know that."