Chapter Eleven - Author's note: So there are only a few days left to submit your fanfiction to the fanfiction competition. Details here, and I really look forward to reading everyone's fics! The information for the fanfic competition is here:

http://www.wattpad.com/68889670-the-great-inamorata-fanfic-competition

The next day was devoted to physical workups during which Dr. Oshiwa - Erica, she had said she wanted everyone to call her Erica, and everyone seemed to be on first-name basis will everyone else all of a sudden - strolled about the gym making notes on a little electronic clipboard. She assessed both her own team and David's as she put them through their paces. She tested them, she said, for their skills using sparring hand-to-hand, target practice, and obstacle courses. These followed upon the medical tests of the previous day that Erica used to determine their physical fitness and degree of health.

That had, of course, brought back little twinges of grief. As Nightingale stood naked in a white room with scanners buzzing about her, stroking her skin, and casting her in deep shades of red, blue, and purple light, she could not help but think of Clarence.

Clarence. Clarence, whom Rose had loved. Clarence, who had not loved her. Brave, brash, darling Clarence.

She did not miss him quite so much now, or at least not in any sort of way that caused her daily pain. But even after twelve years, little things would remind her of him and make her flinch as the wound of her sadness twinged at the memory. The grief of Clarence's death was a wound that had long since healed and smoothed into a scar. It was not a sorrow that reopened, or bled afresh, or turned to agony at any mention of him, not as the death of Robin or her sisters or David would. But it was still there.

And for the rest of the team, who had known him much longer, she guessed their wounds were deeper. Their team still had no doctor, and it was subject upon which no member of the team - and least of all David - could be possibly moved.

Now, Nightingale was eager to demonstrate her physical prowess and took to each task with adroitness and enthusiasm. She was first out of the gate in the obstacle course when both teams, Britannic and Western Union, were set to running it as fast as they could.

"Stop showing off, Gale," panted Nicholas in an agonized shout as he lumbered, sweating and grunting, to follow her as she scampered up over an obstacle of suspended netting, leaped nimbly off the edge, and landed without a sound on the other side.

She didn't reply. Instead, she sprang up the stairs before her and made for the next obstacle, a catwalk suspended over a good thirty-foot drop. She jumped up onto the railing instead and, flying swiftly over it, opted to descend by leaping from the railing and landing on all fours followed by a roll as opposed to taking the stairs on the opposite side.

"That was beautiful," Erica said when Nightingale completed the course. She'd clocked in a few moments before David due to, in part, her showmanship with the stairs. "Not only deadly and efficient - beautiful."

It made Nightingale uneasy, for that was a description she herself would have given of David.

Uneasiness was momentarily set aside when Erica set her sparring with Daniel. As he stood before her on the mats, with both Amartya and Erica observing from the sides, Nightingale stretched in a show of needing to limber up. Daniel had been at her all the previous day and the beginning of that day with what were apparently well-meant but nevertheless irritating flirtations. And as she said to Robin when she'd arrived home the previous night:

"He's a little too big for his britches, I think. Someone needs to take him down an notch."

"You go for it, my fierce Nightingale," Robin had said, petting her face with the tips of his fingers. She had seized his hand and kissed it and tried not to count the number of kisses left before she was gone, off the slavery again, and possibly to infidelity.

"Scared, Nightingale?" Daniel's challenge had interrupted a memory of Robin, which was enough to make her despise him for a half of a second.

Nightingale replied with a colourful phrase straight out of her bordello days and promptly flew at him. She was feather-light and quick as lightning to Daniel's admitted speed; hard as he tried, and fast as he was, he could not catch her. She had Daniel's face to the ground as she clung to his back four times in a row before Erica called her off and sent Pierce to spar with Amartya instead.

Nor could anyone match her for her lightness of foot or her balance - though David came very close in a way that astonished her, for though he had always been exceptionally agile he seemed to be even more nimble than usual - and without practising, she was a better marksman than anyone save David. 

She was, of course, in the best health, courtesy of the Corporation's engineering. And that meant something when compared to two teams - well nearly two, since Rory and Erica seemed to be exempt from examination - comprised of highly trained and exceptionally fine specimens of humanity.

But she watched Erica marvel at David's fitness as she put him through increasingly rigorous tests. He was running on a treadmill when Nightingale noted how Erica was staring in fascination at him. He was hooked up to various monitors, trailing cables from his hands, arms, and chest, as well as a mask over his mouth and nose. This seemed hardly to bother him as he, with his eyes facing forward, his limbs moving in fluid grace, ran harder and faster and increasing paces and inclines.

This wasn't the first that she had seem Erica admire David. She'd examined each one of them the previous day, of course, including drawing blood and a computer scan, but it was during the physical examination that Nightingale saw Erica pay close attention to David. From outside the examination room Nightingale had caught a glimpse of Erica feeling the sinews of David's back as he, half-naked in the bright white light, bent this way and that to exhibit his supple form.

Not in any sort of sexual way, however - or, if there was any attraction, Erica kept it hidden behind a firm wall of detached professionalism. No, this was an academic curiosity. She marvelled at him the way any person would marvel at such a vigorous specimen - with wonder.

Now, when Erica finally let David off the treadmill Nightingale heard her praising his strength and his stamina as unheard of, she said, for a man of his age. Nightingale's sharp hearing allowed her to discern the tone of Erica's praise as she listened more carefully.

"I've never seen anything like this," she said, as she showed him her clipboard. "Usually it's our youngest agents - in this case Amartya, the youngest male agent on either team - that we expect to have the highest scores. The advantage of youth, you know."

David nodded. He did not look surprised. He did not look smug. His face was composed into an expression both serene and cool, and without anger.

"But you, Detective Beckett - unmatched in stamina, strength, and general physical health. This is the profile of a man in his late teens not one" - here her voice dwindled off as she thought better of naming David's true age - "any older than that. Nightingale, of course, equals your scores but even she barely exceeds them. Truly remarkable. You do a doctor proud."

David thanked her with a modest inclination of his head before he left her in favour of, Nightingale realized a moment too late, her own company.

"Well, there's someone to rival Caroline in her adoration," Nightingale observed as he came to stand beside her. Both watched as Caroline, standing at the shooting range and managing to poorly cover the glare she sent Erica, neatly blew the head off a dummy some fifty feet away. Sorcha, who was shooting with her and looking astonishingly pleased at the activity for such a delicate, gentle creature, took a step away before firing on her own dummy.

Nightingale expected it to earn her a grimace or a sneer. Instead she got a little smile. "Are you envious?"

"Of her admiration, or of your skill?" she said, a look of disdain on her face.

This time she got a glower. He turned to face her to give her the full force of it as he went on. "Of my skill. I am beyond expecting your jealousy of someone else's affection."

"I'm not envious," she said. Then she went on. "Of your skill. The only good thing the Corporation ever did for me was give me my physical strength - why would I need to be jealous? I'm not threatened by you."

"Oh?" he said. His face was utterly expressionless except for the pitch of his brows.

"If you'll remember I saved you just over a week ago from someone who had you flat on your back and red in the face," she reminded him, with a smile that was so stickily sweet she was sure it was gruesome.

"Prove it," said David.

"I'm sorry?" said Nightingale, pretending not to understand. Then, with a little snarl, she dove for him.

He had anticipated her actions and was out of her grasp in a second. She feinted to the left and then went for his right, and succeeded in twisting his arm behind him only to have him shake her off and round on her.

Sparring with David was a lot like fucking him, Nightingale realized. He was very strong, very flexible, and extremely rough. But since Nightingale was the expert in fucking she could predict his tactics in fighting.

As she turned about, aiming a punch at his throat, he grasped her hard by the arm and threw her flat on her back onto the mats. It surprised her. He was fast - she was supposed to be faster. She bared her teeth at him in a wordless snarl only to kick upwards with her legs. Her feet connected with his chest and served to wind him for a moment, during which time she slipped out from under him.

She caught him about the neck and sprang up onto his back, but David, with a low growl, flung her forward so she flipped over his head and went sprawling on her back. He dove after her but she, rolling over, got to her hands and knees and then-

He was on her again, and it astonished her. He was faster than her! How? She shrieked in anger and in frustration, all hot, visceral fury as he pinned her to the mat and turned her over. She gave a tiny growl as he, anchoring one arm on her chest and wrapping the hand of another about her throat, spoke.

"Still not envious?" His face was inches from her, all his white teeth bared. The fire was in his eyes and his chest heaved great gasps of air. Nightingale was not afraid of him. This was David in ferociousness, but it was not the severe, elegant, terrible killer.

She could not speak properly with his hand on her throat. He did not release her enough to let words form properly, instead watching her with his eyebrows raised, challenging her to cough out a hoarse reply to satisfy his pride and unbend hers.

Then Nightingale spotted it, with a little thrill of satisfaction. The way he held her left him with a weak spot. So, going limp in a counterfeit of surrender, she waited until his grip had loosened slightly. Then she kneed him as hard as she could in the elbow.

He gave a grunt of pain but the hand about her throat slackened and she put all the strength of both arms into weakening the one holding her chest. When David faltered for but a moment Nightingale wriggled out from under him, was on her knees in less than half a second, and kicked him onto his back.

She did not give him the opportunity to use his legs or his arms as he had her. She sprang upon him and straddled his hips, grasping him about the wrists with both hands and spreading his arms about on either side of him, until he lay spread-eagled and completely defenseless.

"No," she said.

She expected anger in his face at his defeat. There was anger on his face, that was, true, but it was mixed with such a dizzying array of feelings that there were other more troubling emotions she could find in the lines about his mouth or the tightness of his jaw.

"Yeah!" yelled Pierce. He and both teams had stopped what they were doing and were staring. "Yeah, Nightingale! Twelve years and you can still put him flat on his back!"

As Nightingale helped David to his feet, she smiled at his expression. The look in his eyes was horrifying and it made Pierce's expression turn instantly to a mollified terror.

"Keep going and you'll be the one flat on your back, Pierce," Nightingale said.

Pierce knew Nightingale well enough to know that her threats of violence never amounted to it. The same could not be said for David, who had remained silent and currently gave the impression of a frigid and vicious menace.

"Pierce, perhaps you'd like to take a turn on the treadmill for me?" asked Erica, her mild voice sweet cutting in over the implied violence about to be wreaked on Pierce.

He nodded at her, evidently grateful, and then everyone went back about their tasks. Nightingale watched as David, giving a little shake of his shoulders, slipped out of the gym.

"Showing off again, Nightingale?" Nicholas asked as he ambled toward her. He had recently finished his second attempt at the obstacle course in what Nightingale assumed was a futile attempt to beat her superior score, and was towelling the sweat from his bare torso as he spoke.

"Fuck you, Nick," she said as kindly as she could. He grinned and she patted him on the arm, impressed as she always was by his sheer size and brawn. She was strong her her size, she knew, stronger even than any woman of her physique, but she had absolutely nothing on Nicholas for sheer might.

"No, I'm going to thank you this time. It's nice to see David wheezing for a change," he said.

"Because he beat all of your scores and a few of mine?" asked Nightingale.

"No, because he's been such a complete asshole lately - but he beat all of my scores? Are you serious?" said Nicholas.

"Apparently he's the fittest of us all. Except me, though. I can't really take credit for that - Corporation engineering, you know," said Nightingale, with a bitter little twist on the end.

Nicholas nodded absently. "I think I'm going to have another try at the obstacle course," he said, and then he was off again, evidently now trying to best both Nightingale and David.

She was watching Pierce panting away on the treadmill, Caroline doing an unhealthy number of sit-ups, and Amartya and Daniel taking a turn shooting. Rory was, as he had been the entire day, absent. Sorcha was also no where to be seen. She seemed to have vanished.

With a sigh, Nightingale opted to make a departure of her own. Erica had no more tests for her for that day, and it was nearing six o'clock. Colm would be home from school and Robin back from the shop. Even the thought of that was enough to set her half-wild with desire to fly instantly to them, and settle between her sweet son and her even sweeter husband.

She slipped out of the gym as David had, though she did not try to find him. She went instead for the locker room where she stripped naked, washed the exertions of the day off her skin.

The soft, sweet rush of the water babbled and whispered as it flowed in a sparkling silver from the shower head. Nightingale could feel each drop as it struck her flesh in tiny pinpricks, beaded against her skin, and ran in minuscule rivers down her legs.

The rush of the water was not enough to prevent her from hearing as the door opened on the other side of the room and someone entered.

Nightingale ignored the sound, assuming it was Caroline or Erica come to clean up before going home. Neither one appeared, however, and so Nightingale went about shutting off the water, towelling herself dry, and changing into new clothes.

She was about to leave when she heard an odd little sound. Someone - a woman, despite the low pitch - was speaking in a voice she could not immediately place and with accent she had heard from none of the Britannic team members.

"Hello," said the voice. And then, it paused and tried again, this time drawing out the vowels into a slightly longer lilt, repeated: "Hello."

There was silence for a moment. Then the voice spoke again.

"I am Agent Nightingale Brightley," she heard the voice say, and one that was so startling like her own it made a chill run from the base of her spine right up to the crown of her hair.

Nightingale crept quietly around the corner and found Sorcha behind a stone half-wall, in an area that served as a bathroom, posturing before the mirror. The young woman must not have heard Nightingale's silent footsteps, for Nightingale was assumed Sorcha would not want to be caught doing what it was she was now practising.

As Sorcha cocked her head, and then touched her lips, and then tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear - all the while staring deeply into her own image reflected before her - Nightingale promptly realized Sorcha was imitating her.

She watched for a moment, unseen and unheard. Sorcha repeated certain actions again and again, until Nightingale was alarmed at recognizing better the flesh-and-blood woman currently running through familiar mannerisms than she did the picture her own reflection in the mirror.

Especially in that moment, Sorcha reminded Nightingale of herself beyond her astonishingly convincing mimicry. The true, real Sorcha seemed a version of Nightingale - a better version of herself, really. One who was not so bitter, nor quite so beautiful. Sorcha's more human looks made her superior in Nightingale's eyes - more natural.

"Sorcha," she said, and then the girl turned. Instantly, she went from Nightingale-persona to the shy, flighty temperament of the nervous half-Inamorata.

"Hello," she said, and her low voice was like music. "I'm sorry. I was just practising. Practising being you. Was it okay? I think it was a start."

"It seemed spot-on to me. And I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm sorry," said Nightingale, and smiled as kindly as she could at the sweet creature. "Do you want me to leave? I'll go."

"No - no," said Sorcha. She motioned with her hands as though she meant to touch Nightingale's, but then she drew back. Nightingale had noticed this about Sorcha. She seemed to touch no one but Rory, to whom she clung as though she were his shadow. Except right now, of course - right now he was no where to be found. "No. I don't want you to go. I'm sorry."

Nightingale smiled again. She made to leave but Sorcha stopped her.

"No - wait. Agent Brightley?" she said.

"Nightingale, please," replied Nightingale as she turned back.

"Nightingale," she said, and there was the mimicry again - Sorcha parroted back the name in the exact tone Nightingale had used. "I have a favour to ask."

"Yes?" said Nightingale, a little wary.

"If I'm to imitate you, I'll need to..." began Sorcha and then she trailed off, either shy or embarrassed or quite possibly both. Either way, she was rather enchantingly bashful - Nightingale liked bashfulness, it reminded her of Robin - and so she filled in what Sorcha had left out.

"Observe me?" she guessed.

It got her a quick little smile, flighty and extremely sweet. Again, Nightingale saw the Inamorata in Sorcha and it made her ache. If this woman was even half Inamorata she was a sister to her, and there was very little Nightingale loved better or protected more fiercely than her sisters.

"Yes. And for that I'll need to see how you interact with Mr. Brightley," she said. Then she added something else: "And with your son."

"You're not getting Colm involved in this," said Nightingale. She set her teeth in a growl and challenged Sorcha to contradict her. Inamorata or not, she would accept no one endangering her son.

"No, no. Of course not. But understanding your relationship with your son will help me understand you. And mimic you properly," Sorcha explained. Her hands were held in plea before her, and Nightingale would have taken them in her own had she not assumed the gesture would have been unwelcome.

Nightingale nodded. Then, with a sigh, she went on. "Sorcha, are you asking me to take you home?" she said.

Sorcha smiled. "If that's all right, Nightingale."

"Of course it is. Come along, then," she said, and held out her hand.