The scent of antiseptic filled Nightingale's nose, and the white light reflected off the clean tile floor. The infirmary at Chaldea looked sterile. But that was the thing about germs-they hid from sight, ready to invade and destroy. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of the little monsters.

"Nightingale," said Master, coming through the door. "The infirmary is as clean as it's going to get. You need to take a break."

The Berserker looked at the Master blankly for a moment, and then understood."And go clean the kitchens? Very well." She pulled out the bag she took with her everywhere.

"No, you need to relax. Or at least do something fun." Master had that insistent tone that always made Nightingale wonder if something needed to be tightened up somewhere. She nodded absently as she prepared her kit for departure.

"You could watch some videos," cajoled Master, fingers tapping on the counter.

"Continuing education is important for a nurse," agreed Nightingale. "I'll find time to work on that." She checked her revolver, even though she never needed to reload it. Letting things like that slide was how sickness crept in.

Master's eyes narrowed. A squint? Nightingale made a mental note to check for vision problems later. Then the magus said, "Nightingale… Dantés is back."

The nurse froze, and then carefully closed and tucked away her case of syringes. "I'll be taking some personal time, Commander. There's a recalcitrant patient who needs a check-up."

Master, who sometimes had an unhealthy sense of humor in Nightingale's opinion, beamed. "Your favorite sort, I know. You have fun now!"

Every time Nightingale tried to provide the healing the Count of Monte Cristo so desperately needed, he eluded her. Nevertheless, she persisted.

She found him in the wide hall of Chaldea, loitering just around the corner from several other Servants talking. Eavesdropping. An obviously unhealthy behavior.

Somebody around the corner screeched as Nightingale slowly, stealthily paced up behind the Avenger. Engrossed in his deviant behavior, he didn't notice. Silently, she reached out…

Somebody else laughed, and her fingers closed around empty air. She stared at where he'd been. He'd fled. Again.

She couldn't stand his untidiness. The way he clung to his pain offended her. And the odd nostalgia she felt around him distracted her from the all-consuming nature of her work. It made her slow. She hated it.

Later, she found him walking away from the general lounge. She ducked out of sight into somebody's room and then stepped out to look after him. In the room she'd left, Jeanne Alter said, "Hey! Do you mind?"

He paused, listening. She could see his pain in the tilt of his head and the shift of his weight. He should have come to the infirmary long ago, but the stubborn ass refused to listen to reason.

He looked back and saw her. Their eyes met. Then, moving like black lightning, he vanished.

Too fast. He always moved too fast. She'd only ever catch him by stealth.

Someday.

She turned around to check the roughness of Jeanne Alter's voice. It might be a cold. Even Servants could get sick, after all.

He called himself the Count of Monte Cristo. He called himself the King of the Cavern. He called himself Avenger. And he accepted nothing else. He moved through Chaldea like a shadow: shunned by almost everybody and preferring it that way.

He had a singular task, one only he could perform. Without his guardianship, the Master of Chaldea would be a quivering wreck. The black flames of his hatred seared the nightmares from the Master's sleeping mind. He needed nobody else for that, even if the Master's dreamself sometimes insisted on joining him.

"I don't understand why you run from her," said the Master one evening after an exhausting battle with a psychic demon.

The Count tilted his head back, letting his hat fall off. "Oh God, Master, don't start."

The Master, ever stubborn, said, "Well, I don't. I think the two of you could help each other."

"I am vengeance incarnate. I don't need help. Especially not her idea of help."

Only from the Master would he accept such an incursion. He remembered, even if the Master had forgotten, what had happened in the darkness of the Mage-King's Chateau d'If. He'd promised then to be the Master's light of hope in darkness. If that involved putting up the Master's oblivious but well-meant intrusions, so be it.

He'd endured worse.

She moved toward him, her ruby eyes glittering, holding a scalpel in one hand and a revolver in the other. Despite the obvious peril, part of him had wanted to let her catch him. A foolish part, belonging to some other man.

Oh, Mercedes…

And yet he couldn't forget the other from the second Chateau d'If. He'd called her Mercedes then. Although she'd long since reclaimed her True Name, he couldn't stop associating her with what another man had once had and lost.

A pause, long enough that the King of the Cavern thought the Master had dropped the subject. But instead:

"You know I remember, right? What you've done for her? It may have been in dreams, but I don't forget dreams so easily."

The Count let the young magus continue believing that little lie. "Absolutely irrelevant. Her malfunction put you in danger, that's all."

She, of all others, he would never permit to walk beside him. The very idea was unthinkable. They had nothing in common. If sometimes she faltered and the flaws in her Saint Graph brought her bad dreams… well, those had to be solved for the good of Chaldea's mission. That was all.

"I won't let you break," he'd told her as he stood over her unconscious form. Her lips had formed a single word before she opened her eyes briefly, and then closed them again.

It'd hardly be safe anyhow. She had a tendency to confuse healing with violence. And her belief that he could be healed was pure madness, as befitted a Berserker. No. In the waking world it was best that he keep out of her way.

She kept sneaking up on him, though. If he wasn't careful, she'd end him someday.

The Master toyed with the Count's hat. "I could prove you wrong pretty easily."

The Count gave the Master a nasty look. "And you could face that slime growing in your dreams alone next time, too."

"All bark and no bite, Dantés." The Count's fingernails curled into his palms as the Master stood up and tossed his hat at him. "Thanks for your help. Maybe think about what I've said sometime."