I raise an eyebrow. "Or you've been holed up down here in the dark for hours, and your brain is fried. Scoot over." I bridge the gap between us, and he moves so the arms of our chairs touch. I start accessing the databases as he watches, still tense beside me. Don't know if I should take that personally. "It's going to be a pain in the ass to go through, but I am going to get you a list of all the black market explosives sellers and buyers within seventy-five miles." I print the page before going to the next. "I am also printing you a list of bomb makers and criminals known to have used ordinance in their crimes." I press a few buttons and out pops the list. "Done. Now, just because I like you and am super nice, I am going to get us some lunch and help you locate these bastards. Sound good, your Lordship?" I stand up. "You take a break. Go outside, fly around, do yoga on the beach, just get out of here for fifteen minutes. You need it."
Because I'm feeling particularly generous today, and we're going to be down here for hours, I assemble a feast. Salad, turkey on wheat sandwiches, V-8 juice, and chips which I will do my damnedest to resist. He's still gone when I return. I do love a man who listens to reason. I switch on the radio to the classic rock station, set up the remote laptop so we can both access the computer at the same time, sit down with my sandwich, and start culling the lists. My partner in anti-crime returns a few minutes later to resume his post. I learned in the week we were compiling the Casanov case he doesn't like to talk while working, so we do our separate assignments side-by-side. He's not the most sociable of people. Probably why we get along so well.
As we reach hour two, I have the locations on seventy-five percent of my scumbags and strained eyes from staring at this monitor. At least the tedium is broken by my new favorite game: count the times the hero glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking. Fifteen times in two hours. I don't know whether to be flattered or creeped out. Wonder if he does the same thing with Liberty. In my limited experience observing them together, I've come to the conclusion they aren't a couple. There's no touching, no tenderness of voice, nothing to indicate they bump uglies. And if he has a girlfriend, she's very understanding considering he probably has a day-job then spends hours either here or on patrol. No, he doesn't have a girlfriend. It's been a long time since he has judging from his reaction to me. Poor guy. All work and no play. No way to live.
It's my turn to glance. He rubs his neck and grimaces in pain. "Super-healing on the fritz?" I ask.
"What? Oh, no. I've just been hunched over for so long it finally caught up with me. I'm fine."
We continue working for a few minutes, and the rubs continue. After the tenth time, I throw my pen down. "You're driving me fucking nuts. Would an aspirin help?"
"No. My body metabolizes them too rapidly. Multiple Vicodin or Oxycotin might."
"Well, we're out." I came home from rehab and found all the pills and booze gone.
"I'll be fine," he says as he turns his head toward me, followed by a quick intake of breath.
I push the chair away from the desk. "Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter as I stand.
"What-What are you--" he asks as I walk over.
"Turn around. I'm good at this." He hesitates but obeys. "Where does it hurt?"
"Um, um, the bo-bottom of my neck and shoulders. Are you--" My hands slipping onto his shoulders makes the hero jolt. Yeah, it's been awhile since he's gotten laid. "You don't--"
"Shut up," I say, kneading his shoulders. "I used to do this for Justin all the time, so don't read anything into it. It's either this or I smash my laptop over your head in frustration. So relax. You're as tense as a man facing execution." I dig my thumbs into the base of his neck, moving in a circular motion. I used to do this for Harry too. He'd take off his shirt, I'd pull out the baby oil, and work out his kinks. The massage usually only lasted a minute or two before he pounced. God I miss those nights. Lust ripples through me at the memory of our oily couplings. Nightingale's not the only one who needs to get laid. "Feel good?" Nightingale nods. I'm coming up on my old record, eleven months. It's unnatural. I mean, the program says I shouldn't start a relationship. A one night stand isn't a relationship. It's…stress relief. They advocate that. It'd be a mercy on both ends. Gazing down at Nightingale with his pink lips relaxed and smooth breathing, I have the strongest urge to spin this chair around, rip off the lower part of his costume, climb on top of him, and screw his brains out right in that chair. I'd leave the mask on. Be kind of thrilling to fuck a guy without knowing who he really is. My hands slowly move from his shoulders to his collarbone and the start of his pecs, rubbing up and down. "Bet this feels even better," I whisper duskily. His head tilts back to see my face. I smile seductively, but that smile falls when I meet his eyes behind the plastic coverings. I gasp a little in surprise. Fuck.