I do not own any of the characters or plots of the Pendergast series. All rights belong to Preston and Child and I make no profit off this fiction.

AN: But I do love Margo and Pendergast and am still hoping against hope that they will get together someday. Come on, it was so obvious at the end of Reliquary! He's madly in lurv with her, I know it. He's just denying his feelings for some unfathomable male reason. Or because the authors are blind to their chemistry. Hope you enjoy it- it's just a one shot I wrote for my and my friends' benefit.

Margo opened her eyes cautiously, expecting the bright glare of the hospital's fluorescents bulbs. Instead, she was greeted with a soft pink glow along an ornately carved wooden ceiling, in the style of Tudor England. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, in case she's made a mistake, or was hallucinating…or, dare she even think it, dreaming. But no, it was no dream and the soft, pink glow remained. She turned her head slowly to her right and saw the delicate, stained glass Tiffany lamp on the bedside table. Felt the 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Heard the whisper of air as a door opened and closed with a soft click.

She turned her head in the other direction, ever so slowly to accommodate her sore neck muscles, and saw a tall figure gliding towards her. Pendergast. Of course. She smiled.

"Margo," he said. "How are you."

Never a question, not from him. She would have rolled her eyes if she'd thought it was a good idea. Didn't bother answering his not-question.

"Why is it that we keep meeting like this?" she replied instead, cracking another smile. Before she could even start coughing, he was at her side and holding a small, delicate crystal glass to her lips. Just water- but it tasted wonderful. Everything was better with him around. Except when she was running for her life. Or saving his. With some effort, she lifted a hand and pushed his away. The pads of her fingers where she'd touched his skin felt afire. She shivered. He pretended not to notice. Just like he'd pretended to be only mildly concerned when he'd sat beside her on that damned police yacht, racing up the Hudson towards the nearest hospital.

Damned Special Agent. She really hated him sometimes. His presence only heralded the most distressing moments of her life. Like now, being stuck with him…wherever they were.

"We're in my apartment," he answered before she could ask the question and she relaxed back into the pillows some.

"Of course. Your apartment," she babbled. "I should have known. Of course you own Tiffany lamps and Tudor paneling."

"You'll distress yourself," he said, taking her hands and folding them into his own, pressing them across her abdomen. She fell silent and turned her eyes back to his. His pale blue orbs regarded her quietly, unhurriedly. She looked away.

Damned fool.

"You weren't very happy with the hospital. The doctors and nurses…" he paused, searching for the most delicate word.

"Were asses," Margo snorted into the pause and she was rewarded with a strange sound. Turning her eyes to her companion again she saw his mouth broken into a wide, toothy smile, heard laughter issuing from within. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. She was captivated. She'd never seen him look so happy before. Ever.

And surely he never smiled.

"It wasn't that funny," she mumbled and felt, rather than heard, the laughter drop off, the smile slip away. She glanced back once to find only the quirk of his mouth remained- one corner, raised slightly in invisible amusement. "So, what?" she pressed, "D'Agosta and you pulled straws for babysitting duty and you got the short one?"

"Nothing so banal, I'm afraid," he admitted. Then he stood up. "If you are bored, please tell me. I can have your books, your research brought in. Or, if you prefer, something more entertaining."

"You don't have access to my apartment…" her voice trailed off and she decided that yes, he probably did have access to her apartment. And to any other place he wished. That thought, of course, led her mind down a road she didn't like at all and she felt her cheeks flush. At least, she told herself she didn't like it. "Some of my research materials, please," she finally murmured quietly, her eyes never leaving his face. His gave her another cursory, though intense, glance and he nodded.

"Consider it done. Rest more for now. They'll be here when you awake."

And then he was gone and she was alone again. She didn't realize how tense she had been in his presence until she felt her shoulders sag back into the mattress. But instead of trying to figure out what that meant, she closed her eyes and followed his orders. The more time she spent asleep, the less she had to think about how she was in Pendergast's apartment, with his living, breathing body just a few doors away. She shook her head and rolled over. Clearly, the latest ordeal had affected her more than she'd thought. Especially if she was having feelings like…her breathing evened and Pendergast peered in the door one last time, then pulled it shut gently.

As if baby-sitting her were a chore. She was a delightful, brilliant young woman. She had been from the moment he'd met her. She had strength and character and soft brown hair…he raised one long, slender hand to his lips as his eyes widened imperceptibly. Clearly, he was experiencing some kind of post-traumatic stress. After all, he owed his life and the lives of many others to her. When they'd been searching for her, after their perilous escape, his heart had felt like a lead weight in his chest. And she, in the face of all that danger and sorrow, had looked up at them accusingly from her perch on a mountain of garbage and had the gall to ask what had taken them so long. What had taken them so long, when all he'd been thinking of was her…another laugh- softer this time- rose to his lips and he closed his eyes briefly as he relived that moment of finding her, against all hope, alive…

With a stifled, uncharacteristic swear, he swung the door to her room open again and marched back inside.

Margo lifted her head, startled from her sleep and looked over her shoulder at him. He looked so ominous, standing there in his black suit, pale hair brushed back from his gleaming forehead. And his eyes…there was something different about them this time. Her heart pounded in her chest. He moved closer. Oh, gods- could he hear it? She nearly shrank away from him, deeper into the bed clothes, but she stopped herself.

Reminded herself she'd been waiting for this for a damned long time. She'd almost expected it after the museum murders were over, but she'd had that ridiculous hard hat on her head and his suit front had been covered with brains and blood and really, that was no way to begin a relationship.

All those terrible things they had suffered through together…she should hate the sight of him, but she didn't. She'd avoided any mention of him the last year not because he reminded her of the museum beast, but because he reminded her of the different beast- the one that crouched in her breast, that made it difficult to breathe and think. His hand was stroking her hair now and he was murmuring something…a confession? Damn him, he talked too much sometimes. Always treating her like she was a delicate little flower like the ones he knew back in New Orleans. She reached a hand out and grabbed a handful of his short front, jerked him down to her. He never saw it coming.

The soft glow of the Tiffany lamp that played across the ceiling was soon interrupted by the shadows of two figures, locked in a passionate embrace. As his lips found hers, searching, but firm, the sounds he'd heard filtering from her dreams the last several nights filled the room again, in a gentle cadence. His arms crept about her body more tentatively, but her slim figure molded to his more easily than he could have imagined. He pulled away from her suddenly and gazed down into her face. Her hair was mussed, her lips red, her cheeks pink. She smiled up at him.

"Why'd you stop?"

He smiled back at her ruefully. "You're being treated for a bacterial infection, dear Margo."

She laughed then and put her hands on his chest. She could feel his chest hard and powerful beneath his shirt- funny, she'd never imagined him as being so leanly muscled. That slim build…she shook her head and gazed back at him.

"Pendergast, I think I can promise that after that kiss, it's too late. You've got whatever I have at this point."

"Oh?" he mused, but didn't kiss her immediately. Just held her gently in the curve of his arms as he thought. After several seconds he raised an eyebrow. "In that case," he said and bent to her lips again.

Some time later, after she'd begun murmuring his name over and over again- and where did he learn to do that, she thought he'd been raised a gentleman- he glanced up at her again and smoothed his long fingers along her cheek softly.

"Why the hell did you stop this time?" she asked. As much as she loved how gentle he was being- her still sore body loved it, too- she was getting tired of being the china doll. His other set of fingers began to do something quite different and much to her shame, she felt herself begin purring.

"Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss it," he admitted, "but I believe you ought to call me by my Christian name, Margo."

She flushed again as she realized she didn't even know what it was. Damn him to hell, but where did he learn- his lips found her ear, whispered a name.

Much to his chagrin, she was practically screaming it a moment later and he discovered he was quite pleased with himself that he'd had all those soundproof materials installed during his apartment's remodel. After all, if this was going to continue- and he had to admit, he was as eager for it to stop as she seemed to be, which was to say, not at all- he swore as her hands began an intricate activity of their own and the tables were suddenly turned. He found himself on his back, gazing up into her flushed, pretty face. It was an unusual situation for him to find himself in, but he wasn't unhappy with it…and some time even later it was not his name that was filling the small room, or sneaking out along the corridor of his abode.

The Tiffany lamp continued to cast its rosy pink glow over the room far into the hours of the night, its cheeriness matched only by the soft laughter that elicited sporadically from the mouths of its owner and his mistress. For its part, it had not seen such happiness in a very, very long time.