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In the operations room, the printer beeps. The chugging noise gives one last gasp before Nightingale retrieves a copy of the latest field report. She might as well deliver it herself, given how their destinations are the same.
Two knocks, then she opens the door to Chief’s office.
“Chief, about these crates—” Her steps falter at the sight of a figure covered by a white sheet, fabric cut short at the ankles, standing next to the desk. She can’t quite hide her bewilderment. “What are you doing?”
The top of the sheet whips around. There are two holes where eyes lay, and the surprise within them nearly matches hers.
“Nightingale,” Chief says. A mix of embarrassment and exasperation tinge her words. “Faye just came by, telling me to set a good example for Halloween season. She let me borrow this costume.” Her arms open up in a feeble shrug.
“I see.” She walks closer, studying the draping, fraying fabric. “It’s very Halloween.”
“A ghost. Ghastly.” The sheet gradually crumples up as Chief pulls it off, before settling into a pile. She drops the messy bundle onto the couch. Her hair is ruffled and scattered. “Though, I think it’s more that the budget’s stretched thin.”
“That does sound like Faye.”
Nightingale sets the report down on the desk. She reaches out towards Chief, poking at the stray hairs that curl in odd directions and pressing them down flat. As she does so, she recites the latest situational report.
“More Corruptors than usual. We recalled the platoon patrolling the area after the second battle, as they weren’t equipped to handle such numbers. The platoon sustained six injuries in total—five wounds on the arms and legs, and one sprain.”
“And they’re in the infirmary?”
“Two will have to stay to recover.”
“I’ll visit them later. After the meeting.” The resolution in Chief’s voice is brought short by a tentative question. “So, what do you think?”
“About?”
“Trick-or-treating. In the Bureau.”
She brushes aside a wandering strand of hair near Chief’s eyes. “They can’t have too much candy.”
“A little bit of candy,” Chief says.
“Maybe.”
“It’ll be good for morale.”
Nightingale hums. “Halloween is a big holiday tradition for the kids.”
“Not just the kids,” Chief hesitantly corrects. “The adults seem to be more excited for the candy than anyone else.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Nightingale taps her fingers against the desk. With a soft smile, she amends her previous statement. “Halloween is a big holiday tradition for everyone, after all.”
A bright grin leads in Chief’s jovial tone. “Right? We’ll make it a good day for everyone at the Bureau. You too, Nightingale.”
Nightingale shakes her head, wistful. “I shouldn’t impose on their fun.”
“Nonsense. You deserve to relax and have fun.” Chief slides a hand underneath hers, still set on the desk. There’s a comforting warmth to the gentle grasp. “If there’s a specific type of candy or treat you want, just let us know.”
The question has her pondering. But, rather than of candies, she wonders if there’ll come a time where the warmth might lose influence, commonplace as it’s been. If the touch might, one day, fail to ease her mind or lose its capability to render her speechless through the tactile feeling alone. The way it grounds her to the present, drunk on fervent elation.
“Nightingale?”
She squeezes Chief’s hand then lets go. “I’ll think about it,” she says.
Chief nods. “Okay.”
Nightingale’s attention swivels to the clock, its minute hand now ticking ten past the hour.
“I’ve got twenty minutes before the meeting,” Chief notes.
“The Eastside representatives, correct?”
“And some from Public Security. I’m not too excited about it.”
“You’ll do well.”
Chief’s head tilts slightly. “You always say that,” she chides with a light smile.
A frivolous thought blooms. An absurd yet honest thought that surges forth, overtaking her reasoning in a rushing swell and has her pulling the white sheet off the couch.
“Chief,” she says.
In one smooth motion, Nightingale tosses the sheet over the both of them, carving a space made for two only. A space to hide the world from them and hide them from the world. Her breath stills as the thumping in her ears quicken, and she can see—quite clearly—lips part in the dimmed light.
“Yes?” The response is quiet and brief but, in that confined space, it’s solely for her.
The knowledge is captivating; the faint breathy quality, music to her ears—a near competition to her beloved classics.
“I’ve decided.”
And the eyes that look at her now, unfailingly earnest and seeing who she is. The eyes that approach her now, unwavering and wholly distant from those mocking gazes at the training academy.
Nightingale leans in, whispering, “Trick or treat, Chief; you’re it.”
A soft chuckle, a hand brushing over her cheek.
And the gap closes.