Disclaimers: I don't own Relic Hunter, The British Museum or Starbucks Coffee. I don't make any money out of this. Shame, huh? But please do not reproduce any of it without my permission.

This is a quick surprise for Tanya Reed and Ivoryrose - but also a big thanks to everybody who's been reviewing 'Legend of Sydney and Nigel'. You guys keep me going! I'll be updating that soon, but my increasingly Nigel-and-Preston-obsessed muse forced me to write this! I hope you enjoy it! It's also a two-shot - I couldn't quite manage a one-shot!!!

Goodbye To All That

By Katy

After the interview, he really needed a coffee.

Unsteadily weaving between the slow-moving tourists, Nigel Bailey dodged out of the heavy, swinging front doors of the British Museum. He passed down the steps, under the pompously towering colonnades, and started across the vast ornamental forecourt.

A Japanese visitor jumped out in front of him, making him start, requesting that he took his picture. Nigel obliged, politely of course, but he wondered if the gentleman noticed his hands were shaking, or realised that the photo would be blurred. He thanked the sightseer as he gave back the camera, as if he was the one who had been done the favour.

As he passed out of the gates of the complex, two pungent scents tantalised Nigel's senses: the smell of the hot chestnuts that always roasted there, in the street-vendor's crude, round metal oven, and that of the hotdog stall. Both were appealing, but neither would do. His eyes fixed on his destination, Nigel stepped unthinkingly into the gutter, splashing in a dirty, brown puddle and sending a scruffy feral pigeon flapping in the air. A motorcyclist, who had been just starting up from the verge, revved his engine and muttered something loudly about 'dozy sods not looking where they're going', as Nigel scuttled across the road and straight into Starbucks.

Once through the door, he loosened his tie. Although the sky was steely, it was a muggy August day, and Nigel felt crumpled and sweaty in his grey interview suit. He then scrambled to find some change in his pocket and ordered a takeaway 'tall latte'. A second later, he changed his mind.

'Sorry', he called across to the man behind the counter, who was just marking up a paper mug. 'May I possibly change that to, err, an 'extra grande double mocha with whipped cream and marshmallows' to drink-in, please?'

The café worker nodded, without cracking his grim face, and carelessly cast aside the disposable cup in favour of a giant, white china mug. Nigel passed over the extra money, wincing apologetically, and hurried down to the end of the counter to wait for his beverage. He was already beginning to regret his impetuous moment of indulgence.

………………………………………….

Nigel slipped onto a high stall at a bench-like table, which ran along the front window of the café. He stared blankly back across at the museum. Had the interview gone well, he wondered? Who could tell?

It certainly hadn't gone badly. The interrogation board – all seven of them - had clearly been impressed by his raw talent, enthusiasm, and glowing references. They'd agreed that he'd spent the three years since he graduated from Oxford - with a double first honours degree, no less - very well. Working as a research assistant, to a Professor of Ancient Mesopotamia at Cambridge, Nigel had achieved an MPhil qualification within his first year on the job. By now he had lumped together enough of his own research, on top of his duties for his employer, to be very nearly ready to start writing a PhD thesis. On top of this, he had museum experience. He'd spent a month each summer cataloguing and researching the collections at the Sir John Soane's museum, tucked behind the Inns of Court. A tiny cottage of a museum, compared to the magisterial palace of wonders to which he now offered his services, Soane's museum was a cave of antiquated treasures, gathered by an early 19th century collector. Nigel had identified the origins of many pieces that nobody else had been able to understand in two hundred years, and translated ancient texts that the other curators thought simply untranslatable.

Yes, in his own, small way, Nigel Bailey was starting to make a name for himself - but he had a nasty feeling it wouldn't be enough to bag him the job. He had stammered rather too much as he answered questions about his future plans and ambitions. He was 24-years-old, for goodness sake - how could he possibly know? Then the faint lines of a frown had creased across the director's face as Nigel tried to explain away his lack of experience 'in the field'. No, he'd never been on an archaeological dig outside of England. But he was keen to learn! And he'd read, oh, so many reports of such excavations that he was sure he'd fit straight in! Oh, and no, he didn't have much teaching experience…

At the end of the interview, it had all been smiles and handshakes. They'd wished him luck, and told him he was a brilliant young man. They just had one more candidate to see, and he'd hear from them tomorrow, one way or the other.

Nigel took a sip of his coffee, licked the lingering cream off his lips, and tried to cast the whole traumatic incident from his mind. He'd done his best - what more could he do? He popped a marshmallow in his mouth and began rolling it around his tongue.

It was then he saw his brother. Even though the tall, smart-suited figure was still at some distance, Nigel knew it was Preston instantly, as one always does with family members. He was just passing down the steps of the museum, and now he was striding confidently across the forecourt.

'Oh hell,' thought Nigel. 'You're the last thing I need!'

To Nigel's chagrin, Preston had known that he was applying for the new job. The younger brother's girlfriend, Amanda, who they'd both met through a mutual friend, had let it slip. She was hopeless like that! Still, Preston hadn't known when the actual interview was. 'What is he doing here?' thought Nigel crossly. 'Surely he should be at work …oh, bloody hell, he's coming this way!'

Praying that Preston wasn't in the mood for coffee, and was heading for the nearby second-hand bookshop instead, Nigel grabbed a newspaper that a previous café-dweller had left on the table. He opened it at a random page in front of his face, all the while peeping surreptitiously around the side.

He groaned internally as Preston walked straight into Starbucks. The elder brother didn't order a take-away. He ordered a double espresso, drink-in.

Ducking right down behind the newspaper, Nigel's eyes registered the page he had it opened upon for the first time. The peachy, swelling curves of a naked female form filled his vision. He began choking on his marshmallow.

Coughing loudly, Nigel tried to turn the page over, but the pages of The Sun flopped down and half of them slipped completely from his fumbling hands. Most of people in the café started staring at him, including Preston, who was just picking up his espresso from the end of the counter. There was no denying knowledge of his brother now. There was no denying it for either of them.

Nigel, blushing bright pink, swallowed the dastardly marshmallow with an effort and took a large gulp of coffee. Preston nodded an embarrassed greeting to his wayward sibling and began weaving his way through the tables to join him. His joyless expression resembled that of the father of a two-year-old who had just had a very public tantrum.

'Nigel - I didn't expect to see you here.' He pulled out a stall next to Nigel's, and sat down.

'Likewise,' said Nigel, and then coughed again. He took another sip of his coffee, as Preston swiped up the copy of The Sun, and tossed it away onto an empty chair, a little way off.

'Really, I hope you didn't buy that! It's bad enough that you're happy to be seen reading this trash in public, let alone wasting your money on it!'

Nigel gritted his teeth and smiled viciously. 'I didn't buy it. I was just…just… checking out the weather forecast.'

'Oh,' said Preston, his tongue slipping into his cheek. 'I believe you, thousands wouldn't. The weather looks good on page 3, does it?'

'I wasn't looking at page 3!' protested Nigel. 'I hate that rubbish! It's so… so… degrading…for men as well as women.'

'If you say so,' said Preston, his supercilious tone making it blatantly clear he didn't believe a word Nigel said. 'I wouldn't have thought, with a beautiful girl like Amanda in tow, you'd be needing such cheap fixes…anyway, how did the interview go?'

For a second, Nigel was confused. Then he narrowed his eyes. 'How did you know I was here for the interview? A moment ago, you said you weren't expecting to see me.'

Preston blanched, and then spoke very fast: 'Well, I knew you'd applied for a job here, and I can't think of any other reason you're not in Cambridge, or at the British Library, at this time of day. I just put two and two together, that's all.'

'Oh,' said Nigel flatly. 'Fair enough. Well, it went okay, I suppose. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.'

'No?' Preston cocked his head and the edge of his lips twitched into a little smile. 'Well, never mind. There'll be plenty more opportunities coming up, won't there? Why don't you stay at Cambridge - get that PhD?'

Nigel shrugged, hardly glowing with enthusiasm. 'Maybe I will… but what are you doing here? Spying for the V and A?'

He summoned up a cheeky grin. Preston had been a curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in Kensington, for the past seven years. He had risen fast there - Preston, too, in a rather more showy way than Nigel, was making a name for himself as an expert on relics from the mediaeval and early modern worlds.

'No,' said Preston, firmly. 'I have an afternoon off.'

'It's a bit of a busman's holiday, then, going to a museum!'

Preston took a large swig of his espresso, grimacing slightly at its bitterness. 'I love history, Nigel. You know that.'

'Yes…' began Nigel, suspicion sparking deep inside. Preston was clever and talented, but he'd never been as passionate as Nigel about what they did. Indeed, he normally spent his days off on the golf course, or pursuing the hopeless cause that was his love life in expensive restaurants and wine bars. 'I'm just surprised, that's all,' continued Nigel. ' It hardly the best time to visit the British Museum, in the summer like this, when it's packed with tourists. And, you're wearing a work suit…'

'I am very interested in the new 'Enlightenment' exhibition! Really, do I have to justify to you everything I do in my free-time?'

'No,' replied Nigel, retaliating with a glare. He was starting to wish that his drink wasn't so large and yummy; he was absolutely dying to get out of there!

Preston's cross expression softened suddenly. 'To tell you the truth,' he confessed, 'things haven't been going too well for me at the Victorian and Albert, lately. I've felt a little… held back. But, enough about me! You're the one who's had the big day - are you staying over in London tonight?'

'I, uh, thought I'd get back to Cambridge.'

'To that grotty little bed-sit? That's hardly the place for future employee of the British Museum, eh? Why don't you come back for dinner? Sleep in your own bed, for a change.'

Nigel scanned his mind frantically for an excuse. He hadn't been home since last Christmas, and that little family reunion had hardly ended amicably. He didn't really think of his room, at the family home in suburban London, as his anymore. Not that Preston had changed much, but with the elder brother as 'King of the Castle' - and without mum and dad - it just wasn't the same. Still, it was his childhood home, full of happy, comforting, if sometimes painful, memories. His desire to flee was overcome by an instinctual pang for the warm and familiar.

'All right,' he replied slowly. 'I guess it will be good to avoid the evening commuter trains.'

'Great.' Preston downed the remainder of his espresso and bounced to his feet. 'I've got a couple of other bits and bobs to sort out in town, but dinner will be at seven, as ever. See you then!' He took two steps towards the door, and then stopped abruptly, as if he'd had an afterthought.

'Uh - I suggest that you remove that, um, large blob of whipped cream from the end of your nose before you leave the café. Bye.'

'What…eh? Bugger!' Nigel scrambled to wipe the offending whiteness from his face, his cheeks flushing an even brighter scarlet than they had earlier. There was no way he could stay there and finish his pricey drink now. He slid inconspicuously down off the stall, inadvertently catching the eye of a young woman sitting at a nearby table, peeping at him over her book.

She smiled warmly, keenly even.

'Oh God,' thought Nigel. 'The whole place is laughing at me!' He mustered a brief, embarrassed smile then turned, and fled.

The girl's heart sank as she watched Nigel – and his criminally cute backside - run across the road. Once he was on the other side, her view of him with eclipsed by a double-decker bus.

'Ah well,' she thought herself. 'It was nice while it lasted.' She'd been watching Nigel like a hawk since he'd entered the café. He'd brightened up her day - guys that gorgeous don't sit down at the table next to you on a regular basis. All her efforts to catch his eye, however, had failed - apart from at the last, but he obviously hadn't been interested. Shame - given half a chance, she would have happily licked whipped cream off his entire, naked body…

'Knowing my luck, he was probably gay anyway.' She returned to her well-thumbed copy of 'Le Morte d'Arthur' by Sir Thomas Malory, casually wondering if he, and the tall, blond guy he'd been squabbling with, were lovers.

Conclusion to follow shortly! Thanks for reading. Please review.