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Most days, Nightingale's duty is just to facilitate the smooth running of the Bureau. When the FAC or Ring Research Institute requests Chief's presence at a meeting, it's her job to adjust Chief's calendar. If one of the Bureau's departments has a request or, worse, a complaint, it's up to her to listen, nod politely, and then pass it on. If a new Sinner has a condition that they need to accommodate or needs approval for an assignment, she's the one who gives the forms a cursory glance before putting them on Chief's desk.
That's all her job requires of her. To assist. Any task at the higher end of the Bureau's management area, like classified 9th Agency documents or physical deployment into the most dangerous Mania incidents, is handled directly by Chief.
All the paperwork has to be signed by Chief. She's the one who attends the meetings, who manages the Sinners' mental state and bears the burden of the Shackles. All Nightingale has to do is facilitate her in the task.
That is her role as adjutant. To facilitate. Assist. To ease the burden of the one who has to deal with the pervasive and ever-changing threat Mania poses to DisCity in ways that nobody else can.
Most days, she's happy to do just that.
Today is not one of those days.
Nightingale drums her fingers against the back of her tablet. She resists the urge to sigh or rub her eyes. By now, she's learned it won't help.
“Tell me what happened again,” she says, clamping down on her frustration. “But slowly this time. And make sure not to leave anything out.”
The Sinners in the middle of the chaotic mess of a recreation room glance nervously at each other. Nino's the one who finally plucks up the courage to speak.
“Well you see,” she says, “I was trying to do a live-stream collab with Peggy here. You know, help bridge the divide between Eastside and Syndicate with positive co-operation, that kinda thing. Maybe set an example for some of the other Sinners in here.”
Nightingale doubts that, but keeps her mouth shut.
“And the stream was really taking off,” Nino says more confidently. “I had DisSubs coming in left and right. The viewers were really digging Peggy's street style, big time.”
“Is this the stream you weren't supposed to be doing outside of your room?” Nightingale asks.
Nino deflates. “Y-yeah, that uh...that would be the um...stream I'm talking about.”
Nightingale finally allows herself to sigh. She casts a glance at the other suspected offenders, wondering how many of them will show remorse. Lisa meets her gaze. Joan doesn't. Luvia (or is it Ray?) turns her eyes down.
Peggy just glares at her, as if being made to account for her actions is some kind of crime.
Right now, Nightingale doesn't find the irony that amusing.
“Things were going well though,” Nino continues, “and not just for the stream. We came in here looking for a bit of a crowd, acoustics, that kinda thing. And people were really enjoying the show!”
“The crowd was going wild,” Peggy butts in with trademark gusto, “for my rappin' Syndicate style. Ain't my fault people tried to steal the show and grab a piece of my pie.”
Nightingale blinks. Nino turns and glares at Peggy, annoyed at having her explanation stolen. But now there's no need for it. Nightingale runs her eyes over the other assembled Sinners and adds the last puzzle pieces herself.
Joan, the Bureau's foremost enthusiast for rock music and rebellious attitudes. Luvia (Ray?), not known for being unstable, but desperate to have her ability acknowledged by as many people as possible. Lisa with her inability to back down from a confrontation, Peggy with her resentment of Eastsiders and equal love of the spotlight.
And the mastermind behind the whole thing, Nino, constantly fighting against other streamers to try and keep herself afloat in a sea of online content generation and desperate attempts to increase viewer engagement.
“Please,” Nightingale asks, “please tell me you didn't have try and turn the livestream into a talent competition.”
Nino opens her mouth. Then she closes it again. The routine repeats a few more times, with none of her fellow Sinners apparently ready to come to her aid. Which tells Nightingale all she needs to know about whose idea the whole idiotic thing was.
Nino's defence is lacklustre. “It seemed like a good idea at the time!” She blurts out, frantically looking around for support. “Everyone agreed to it! It's not my fault you guys went nuts and trashed the place!”
“Hey, don't try to drag me under the bus,” Joan fires back. “Rock can't be blamed if the crowd gets rowdy.”
“A-and I didn't mean to make the lights explode!” Luvia says nervously. “They did that on their own! It wasn't on purpose, I swear!”
“All I did was make a few artistic illusions,” Lisa mutters, “so you can't blame me for people getting over-excited like idiots and panicking.”
Before things escalate, Nightingale interrupts. She glares at them all, conveying in no uncertain terms what she'll do to anyone who butts in now. Luvia withers instantly, followed by Nino. Peggy remains defiant, but falls quiet. Joan and Lisa, wisely, do the same, slumping back in their chairs and looking sullenly annoyed with the whole thing.
Gloved fingers drum against her tablet as Nightingale surveys the detritus again. Half the lights in the recreation room have exploded. Fragments of glass litter the floor. Some of the chairs are missing legs, and she can at least guess that happened during Joan's turn. Not visible are the Sinners taken to the infirmary with assorted cuts and bruises after the whole mess.
Normally, she'd be more than happy to refer this to Chief. Paperwork in exchange for managing Sinners is the usual deal they have, and it's one she's ever-grateful that they made.
But while Chief isn't here, dealing with this is her problem. And despite the urge to throw all the offenders into confinement cells for an hour or two to drive the point home, Nightingale restrains herself from doing so.
“All of you,” she says, running her eyes over them to drive the point home, “are going to pay this off. Until you do, all the funds you would earn from dispatches are cut off. Entirely.”
Joan and Peggy glare at her. Nino's eyes go wide. Lisa leans forward, about to either insult her or launch into a monologue about how she can't do that.
Nightingale cuts them all off before they can so much as breathe.
“Budgets are tight at the moment,” she says in a voice so cold it's almost ice. “And if you keep breaking things like this, they're going to be even tighter. Leisure facilities like this are a perk of your efforts, not an expectation. If you drag the Bureau further into the red, you have no right to complain when we ask you to pick up the tab.”
“If you have any complaints, take them up with Chief when she gets back. And if anything even remotely like this happens again, I will throw you all in confinement for a whole day, Chief or no Chief. Am I understood?”
Reactions to the ultimatum are about what she expected. Nino looks ready to beg and plead for mercy, while Luvia looks like she wants to curl up into a ball. The other three are defiant, but thankfully cowed for now, despite how unhappy they look. At least none of them are glaring at her any more.
The brief flare of satisfaction in Nightingale's chest sputters and dims. She rubs her eyes with her bare hand, trying to ignore the dull ache in the back of her head.
It should be Chief dealing with this. She's the one with the patience and individual rapport to get along with everyone. Right now, Nightingale is painfully aware she has neither.
“You can go now,” she finally says. The Sinners take her cue and leave, filing out in a silent line. When the door closes behind them, leaving Nightingale alone with her own thoughts, she can't help but look around again. Mentally, she tries to estimate the cost of repairs. Faye can manage to get most things the Bureau needs quickly, and somehow cheaply, but it still costs. Discoins are still Discoins.
Dimly, she thinks she hears someone open the door behind her.
“This room is closed,” she says, fighting to keep an even tone. “If you're looking for somewhere to relax, try the one two levels do-.”
The next thing Nightingale knows, someone's lifted her hat off. She blinks, then pivots around, the back of her mind wondering who's so interested in annoying her further today, even as she gets ready to give them a thorough dressing down. Priscilla, maybe, or Bai Yi. It could even be Du Ruo. Whoever it is, she's ready to make them regret i-.
It's Chief.
Chief grins impishly at her, the stolen hat clutched in her hand. Nightingale blinks. She hasn't prepared for this. Nobody's told her that Chief is back from her mission, or that she was coming here. The adjutant is caught entirely off-guard.
And in that moment of surprise, Chief turns around and sprints back through the door.
Nightingale takes a moment to register the reality of what's just happened. Then she takes off in pursuit of her boss at a dead sprint, tablet clutched to her chest, newly-freed hair streaming behind her.
Whoops and howls follow them as they run. Some of them are encouraging. Others are just enjoying the spectacle. For the most part, they come from Sinners, with the few guards and Bureau staff along the way choosing to remain quiet.
Most of them at least. Nightingale is too focused on the pursuit to be certain of who joins in.
Chief's pace is good. She flies down the Bureau's corridors, weaving her way through groups of Sinners or ordering them out of her path. She knows the layout of the Bureau, and it shows. She leads Nightingale on a carefully chosen path, avoiding dead-ends, never going anywhere that leaves only one trail for her to follow.
Keeping up drains Nightingale, mentally and physically. Dimly, she wonders what the odds are for her success. This isn't the first time she's had to pursue her boss like this. There are even people who bet on the outcome, or so she hears. Whether she'll catch Chief or be forced to admit defeat, and how long either outcome takes.
Even, if she's heard correctly, how long she'll lecture Chief when she's caught.
Nightingale rounds the corner. She tries to ignore the loose hair in her eyes, or the sweat pouring down her brow. She tries to ignore the burning in her legs. The urgent need to breathe. For now, she can manage.
The corridor is empty. Her pace slows as she walks down the row of doors, carefully eyeing each one. A gut feeling tells her that Chief has to be just as tired as her by now. More, given she just got back from a field deployment. And there's nowhere else for her to hide.
She consults the mental map of the Bureau she keeps. This area is kept aside for cleaning supplies, storage, and assorted menial items. Lightbulbs, mops, chairs, a few spare bits of plumbing. The kinds of things Sinners are dangerous enough that they don't need to cause harm, and that saves the maintenance team constantly riding up and down the elevator.
Nightingale stops. She turns and heads back, halting in front of an unmarked door. She has a memory that it's one of Chief's repurposed 'secret rooms', a place for her or a few trusted Sinners to retreat when they feel overwhelmed or tired and need somewhere to rest.
It's an obvious place to hide. So obvious that she'd otherwise overlook it. Nightingale puts her frustration to one side and heaves a weary sigh.
When she opens the door, naturally, Chief is right there, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. With Nightingale's hat dangling loosely in her hand.
“Hey Nightingale,” she says with the same grin she had on earlier.
Nightingale doesn't reply. Instead, she steps inside the room and pulls the door closed. Then, with a faint click, she locks it.
Nightingale advances on Chief. Her pace, given the relative size of the room, is measured. She wipes her loose hair back, trying to reassert the aura of professionalism she works so hard to maintain.
“What do you think you're doing?” She asks, coolly.
Chief's grin doesn't falter. “Provoking you, obviously.”
Nightingale steps in closer. Chief takes a half-step back, but the wall keeps her pinned in place. Before she can try and wriggle out, Nightingale takes another step. She plants her hand against the wall, firmly, and leans in close.
“Two days,” she says in a clear voice. “You were supposed to be back two days ago.”
“It's not my fault,” Chief says. “I got kidnapped again. You know how it is. I step outside for five minutes and some pretty woman wants to take me home with her.”
Nightingale grits her teeth and tries not to roll her eyes.
“Did you miss me that much?”
The question jabs at her. Nightingale ignores it. She reaches out with her bare hand and plants it on Chief's waist. Now she's well and truly trapped. Chief flicks a glance down and opens her mouth, clearly about to keep up what she thinks is witty and playful conversation.
Nightingale's kiss shuts her up.
It's a brief moment of contact. A spark, a flare-up of the stress that's been nipping at Nightingale for the past two days. Two days of dealing with Chief's role instead of merely assisting her. Of being in charge instead of just being an adjutant like always.
Before long, Nightingale breaks the kiss. “Two days, Chief,” she repeats. “You should have told me if something happened to you.”
Chief's eyes twinkle. “So, you really did miss me that much?”
Nightingale decides to let that remark slide again. She leans back in and takes another kiss, more forcefully this time. The repressed frustration and worry of the last two days begin to spill over. She leans in more, pressing Chief even flatter against the wall so she can't even begin to escape.
Obligingly, Chief doesn't try. She doesn't make it easy though. When Nightingale's tongue tries so slide past her lips, she puts up a token resistance even as she mewls into her adjutant's mouth. Nightingale tries again, more insistent this time, and Chief immediately relents. Nightingale savours the victory, even as the heat of it flows through her core.
Soon, or however long she spends ravaging Chief's mouth, just kissing isn't enough. Nightingale withdraws, panting. She can imagine how she looks right now. Her carefully re-ordered hair a mess, her cheeks flushed, panting for air even as she thinks about what to do next. It's an entirely unprofessional state to be in.
And, with the door locked, one nobody has any chance of seeing her in.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” she says as she pulls Chief closer against her body. She removes her gloved hand from the wall and drags it across Chief's charcoal grey shirt. Chief spares a glance to follow it and grins again.
“Shouldn't we be doing this in my office?” She asks coyly. “I've got a lot of paperwork to get back to you know.”
Nightingale doesn't laugh. Her gloved hand starts to work at the buttons on Chief's shirt, one by one. Tempting as it is to rip them all off, there aren't any spare bits of clothing to hand to replace them.
“Your paperwork can wait,” Nightingale says. “I need this after the last two days.”
“What if someone walks in on-”
“I locked the door.”
“They could still walk past and hear us.”
Nightingale raises an eyebrow as she pops another button. “Chief, you know these rooms are sound-proofed to ensure privacy.”
Chief's grin is wicked. “Aren't you the one who said I get loud when you find the right spot?”
“Then,” Nightingale whispers huskily as she leans in, “I'll have to think of a way to make sure you keep quiet, Chief~.”
With a casual gesture, Nightingale brushes aside Chief's partly-unbuttoned shirt to reveal the pale skin underneath. Her hand lingers on it, enjoying the way Chief trembles from so little contact. It seems she isn't the only one who's been missing someone recently.
It's her bare hand that moves next. It trails down Chief's waist, round to her front, and hastily gets to work undoing her belt. All things considered, it's a sloppy effort. Her patience is rapidly running out, and Nightingale's surprised she doesn't tear a button out or ruin the zipper with her fumbling.
Before Chief can fire off another quip, Nightingale kisses her again. There's no resistance this time as her tongue slides into Chief's mouth. Just the murmur of eager sounds from both of them, and the primal satisfaction of what they're doing.
The sound of Chief's zipper going down signals Nightingale to continue. Her bare hand flexes, pressing two fingers between Chief's legs and then slowly dragging them back up. Chief's whines spike at that. Her hips try to press against the contact, but Nightingale's fingers glide further up before they can.
Nightingale ends the kiss again. She grins at Chief. Chief's hair is a tangled mess, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed a blissful shade of red. The sight is intoxicating. Nightingale's gloved hand touches Chief's bare neck, and Chief shudders at the contact.
“Not fair,” she gasps. “You've been planning this.”
“You gave me enough time,” Nightingale says as her lips move towards Chief's neck. “What did you think I'd do to you when you got back?”
“W-wait,” Chief says. “Not my neck. People will see if you- ah!”
Nightingale changes course at the last moment and sinks her teeth into Chief's exposed shoulder. Chief's voice is all the encouragement she needs to bite down harder. When she stops, there's a clear hicky left, bright red against the pale flesh. Nightingale spares her partner a glance.
“Of course, Chief,” Nightingale says. “I'll be sure to leave your neck alone. We wouldn't want anyone getting any ideas now would we?”
“N-no fair,” Chief pants. “You're evil you know th- ah!”
Nightingale isn't listening. There's too much in her now. Too much need, too much frustration, too much of an urge to let go and ravish Chief until she can't even walk. The only thing vaguely holding her back is the fact their relationship needs to remain a secret.
Which means no stripping naked in a relaxation room. No tearing Chief's or her own clothes off and ruining them, and no obvious marks. Nothing that anyone can see after they walk outside that will make them think they've been having sex during work hours.
Fortunately for her, Nightingale has the ability to work around those limitations and take exactly what she wants, what she needs, anyway.
Her bare hand slides down past Chief's waistband and in-between her legs. Chief's voice peaks, and underneath it, Nightingale thinks she hears the sound of her hat as Chief lets go of it. It hits the floor with a dull thud, but by now, neither of them is paying attention to it.
All Nightingale cares about is the feeling of Chief's hand as it grips the back of her head and presses her harder against Chief's bare skin.
Making herself look presentable afterwards is easy enough for Nightingale. Hair pulled back into place, hat back on top. Brush down her jacket, rearrange her rumpled skirt. A few moments to compose herself and breathe. Once she's done, the adjutant everyone sees her as is back. Calm, collected, professional, if often exasperated at the antics around her.
Chief needs a little help to do the same. Her shirt needs to be done up just right in order to cover up the bite marks which, despite Nightingale's best efforts to control herself, reach up to just below the shirt's collar. Her hair, longer than Nightingale's, is even more of a mess. Somehow, thankfully, her trousers aren't stained, a silver lining Nightingale is grateful for.
Once she's done tidying herself up, Nightingale sits back down on the sofa to help Chief. Her lover's eyes are still hazy as she buttons up the shirt. Nightingale recognises that look. It's the one Chief has when she's pushed herself too far after far too little sleep.
“What happened this time?” She asks patiently.
“Hm?” Chief blinks. “Oh, right, the assignment. No kidnapping, thankfully. Just technical issues which meant the communicator got cut-off. And I didn't have time to get a new one.”
Nightingale throws a curious look at her. Chief meets her gaze and turns away, sheepish.
“And by that I mean I...forgot to charge my phone battery before we left.”
Nightingale doesn't sigh. She's too glad it was only a dead battery that kept Chief from contacting her.
The MBCC's Chief has been through too much at this point for her adjutant to ever lose faith in her. No matter what's happened, from Apostles to the Illusory Moon, Chief has clawed her way back to the Bureau. For the sake of the Sinners, and herself, and, Nightingale hopes, just to see her again. Time after time, day after day, she has always come back.
It should make her worry less that next time, Chief won't come back. And yet it somehow never does.
“One of these days you're going to let me come with you to make sure you're safe,” Nightingale says, adjusting Chief's belt and tucking a loose strand of hair back into place. “And not just let me sit here waiting for you to let me know you're alright.”
“Okay.”
The abruptness of the response catches her off guard. Chief reaches up and caresses her face. There's a hopelessly earnest glimmer in her eyes.
“Promise. I'll let you come with me one day,” Chief says. Nightingale's heart flutters. Then the grin comes back. “Do you think we can trust Faye and Wynn with the paperwork while we're gone?”
“That's...” Nightingale pauses to consider it, and begins to nod. “Not the worst idea you've ever had. Wynn's been wanting the chance to learn the ropes lately. I'll ask her in her next assessment if she's interested in taking on a more senior role at some point.”
And like that, their frantic moment alone is over. Nightingale gets up and brushes herself down, determined not to leave the faintest wrinkle in her uniform. Not even because she's afraid Christina or another keen-eyed Sinner will make a guess about what she's been doing.
She just can't stand the idea of someone pointing out a flaw in her work attire.
“The reports on what you've missed are on your desk,” she says as she heads towards the door. “I've filled out as much as I can while you were away, but there are certain documents that require your personal signature. And your classified correspondence hasn't gone down. If anything, it's gone up.”
Chief rolls her head around. A few audible cracks reward her effort.
“Thank you, Nightingale,” she says, dragging herself upright. “You're my hero.”
Nightingale scoffs. “Flattery won't save you from paperwork, Chief.”
“Trust me, I know,” Chief says. “But I mean it. You're indispensable. And more than I deserve, sometimes.”
The flattery attack is new. Nightingale pretends to tuck a loose bit of hair behind her ear to hide her unexpected blush.
“The same could be said for you, Chief,” she says.
Chief looks away, her expression awkward. Moments pass. Nightingale turns towards the door. There's still too much that needs doing today, even with Chief back. Work to manage, things to delegate, people who need support and advice. Their rendezvous hasn't changed any of that. It's just made it more bearable.
“I was planning on taking a bit of time-off next week.”
Nightingale hesitates, her hand on the door-knob. She glances back, eyebrows raised. Chief moves towards her, the earlier awkwardness and fatigue gone, a look of hopeful expectancy in their place.
“Just the Wednesday, maybe Thursday if I can get it.” Chief flashes a rueful smile. “And if the Sinners will let me. Do you...want to see if you can take the day off too?”
“Are you...asking me if I want to go on a date, Chief?”
“Maybe.” Chief is in front of her now. Her hand reaches out and gives Nightingale's gloved hand a tentative squeeze. “Been a while since we had time for ourselves. That wasn't, well,” she tilts her head towards the room, “this. Are you interested?”
Nightingale doesn't even need to consult her mental calendar to give her answer.
“Of course, I'd...like that a lot.”
Chief's eyes brighten at her response. She leans in and steals a quick kiss, fleeting, with none of the frantic passion from earlier, but still warm in its own way.
“Great. I'll get started on the planning right away. Look forward to it.”
The door handle turns, and they both step out into the corridor. Nigthingale's heart flutters in her chest, and she imagines Chief's is the same. Nervously, she brushes her hair back and prays. The last thing she needs is for someone to see them right now.
“Oh, Nightingale, before I go.”
For the second time in less than two minutes, Nightingale turns around. Chief is jogging back down the corridor towards her. Perhaps she's forgotten something important. A question, or a request, or any one of a dozen things that she's been thinking about while they were apart.
To Nightingale's complete surprise, when Chief reaches her, she throws her arms wide and pulls Nightingale into a warm, tender embrace that's entirely inappropriate.
And Nightingale really can't find it in her to care.
“I love you,” Chief whispers.
“I love you too,” Nightingale whispers back.
Just as quickly, the embrace ends. Chief pulls away and throws one last look at her before vanishing down the corridor. Nightingale watches her go, far longer than she needs to, gazing wistfully at the corner.
Then she turns and heads her own way, a spring in her step that isn't entirely professional.