Chapter Five - Author's note: okay, a new chapter. Sorry it took so long. We're getting into some action now. Next chapter, something is going down, I promise. We'll also see David, Steel, and a whole bunch of other awesome people in the next chapter. But first: some happy domesticity! Also: IF YOU LIKED THIS, PLEASE COMMENT AND VOTE! It means so much to me when you do!

Nightingale, because Robin required it, was true to her word the next day. She obligingly stayed at home, much to the delight of her son and the subsequent jealousy of her husband; for Robin, though he loved his son, loved him as much as he loved Nightingale, had always been jealous of him.

When Nightingale was not at home, the two of them were thick as thieves. She had heard from everyone who had experienced it that the pair were inseparable. Colm was Robin in miniature at those times; a small, fiery print of her husband, complete with Robin's eccentricities, casual disregard for the opinions of others, flamboyant manner of speaking, and his imperious and witty inclinations.

But the moment Nightingale returned, they competed for her attention. Colm became quieter, more retiring, and attached himself to one of Nightingale's elbows while Robin sought to hold on to the other. Colm clambered for her lap and Robin for a kiss, and Colm always won.

This made Robin jealous on two fronts - the first was that he was jealous of Nightingale's place in Colm's heart, that he seemed to forgotten in favour of her. The second was that he rarely won in the battle for her affection, and, though he ceded the victory to his son with a smile, could often be seen sending the boy forlorn and envious looks.

And Nightingale knew Colm was not entirely unaware of these triumphs, for she had once seen him, when he thought she wasn't looking, give his father a smug grin when Nightingale had been forced to choose between sitting next to her son or her husband and had given Colm that particular honour.

"Adorable little shit," Robin had replied, and had gone to sit on Nightingale's other side.

Nightingale was reminded of this rivalry as, entering the library, she watched her son leap up from his place next to Robin and come barrelling toward her. Robin, lounging casually in a large green armchair, closed a book and gave a low sigh.

"What have you been up to?" she asked Colm.

"Reading," he replied.

"Oh?" she asked, and looked to Robin for explanation.

"Frankenstein," he told her, holding up the battered volume.

Nightingale tried to move slowly toward him but failed. She snatched the book out of Robin's hands. Her own quivered as she ran her fingers over the cover and opened it to the first page. There was marked the tell-tale signs of its origin, in a small dedication at the front in a messy hand:

To Jamie

Merry Christmas to the best husband in the world! Hope you like this book as much as I did!

Love Sophie 

Poor Sophie. She must not have known where the book would end up - left behind in a whore's bed by a man who evidently had cared very little for Sophie and her affection, or he would not have fucked Nightingale with his wedding band on and then left the careful present from his wife behind with the stink of him on the sheets.

She snapped it closed.

"Why this book?" she asked, and smiled at Robin. Her voice was brittle, but Colm, who had gone back to sitting wedged into the green armchair with Robin, did not seem to notice.

It was not lost on Robin, however, for his eyes widened and he paused a moment before speaking. When he did, it was in a calm, low voice, as though he thought that speaking softly to her would soothe her.

"I thought this was one of your favourites," he said, his voice infinitely careful.

She knew what he meant, and tried to be as deliberate in her speech as Robin was in his. "It is. But I have a lot of favourite books. A lot of old favourites," she said, and knew that he would understand that she meant the few books she had owned in the bordello. "Why this one?"

"Because it's an excellent book," said Robin. He stopped for a moment and then, reaching out his hand, he took hers. His grasp was nearly as warm and comforting as the look he gave her before he went on. "And because Colm pities the monster."

Nightingale's breath halted. "That's why you chose this book? So Colm would learn about...the monster?" she said. Neither she nor Robin meant Frankenstein's monster. The circumstances of Nightingale's origins, though they were a mystery to Colm, were hardly lost on Robin when had chosen the book.

"Yes," said Robin.

Nightingale smiled and the expression was painful. "So, what part are you at?" she asked Colm.

"Well, Victor's just been put in jail 'cause they think he killed-" began Colm.

"Why don't you sit with us? And you can listen for yourself?" asked Robin. He reached out and took the book from Nightingale. Then, with the other hand, he drew her closer. She circled around behind his chair and stroked his hair, letting her hand fall from his head to his shoulder, until her arm was about him and she was holding both Robin and Colm.

"So, where were we, Colm?" asked Robin.

Colm, who had evidently been reading along, pointed to a passage. "Here," he said. Then he looked up at his parents for approval. When it was given, he smiled smugly and let his eyes fall back on the text.

"That's not the monster," murmured Nightingale softly. "That's Victor talking."

Robin looked up at her briefly, gave a sigh, and began to read:

"Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents" - Nightingale's hand clenched over Colm's arm, but he remained still as Robin read on - "how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb!"

Nightingale knew the next passage so well, had read it so many times when she was in pain and full of fury and fire at being forced to live and weather every agony of slavery, that she mouthed it along with Robin, her lips forming the words as she closed her eyes and listened only to Robin's melodic voice.

"Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live-"

Nightingale could not bear any more. Memories she thought she had long since kept at bay reared up in her mind's eye - no, in all her senses. Taste, touch, smell, sight, sound, all transported her back in time.

"I think I hear my comm ringing," she said.

"Nightingale," said Robin. His voice was a half-whine, not with irritation but instead with the sick worry of an injured animal. She knew he was nervous for her and feared he had hurt her.

"What?" she said, with a brittle smile to please him. "You made me promise I'd pick it up."

She didn't give him any opportunity to speak as half-ran from the library. Nightingale had not, of course, heard her comm. But she couldn't stand to listen to any more. Robin would worry, she knew, but she would let him. She would spare Colm's feelings, and her own.

She arrived downstairs quivering all over. She hated how frightened she was. It touched her deeply. She had not thought she was beyond the bordello - she would never be beyond it - but it surprised her how keenly memories could cut after so long. She had clothed her mind with the softest, sweetest, gentlest things she could imagine - Robin's kindness, Colm's devoted love, and the affection of her sister-Inamoratas.

Nightingale knew softness was not enough for her. It was not enough for anyone. Even Robin, whose gentility was beyond measure, had armed himself with a sharp tongue and a fiery independence. Those who were too soft needed someone to protect them - Rose's weakness would have been her downfall had Nightingale not been able to defend her, and even Nightingale could never do enough - and so Nightingale protected herself with a hard armour of wit, strength, and intellect.

She was tempted to recite to calm her nerves, but as of late, the tactic had seemed childish. So Nightingale, bracing herself with a few deep breaths, reached for her comm. She had a horror of speaking to Rose at the moment and so could not possibly call Michael. She ended up dialing David's number. She supposed she was in a mood for a fight.

It rang once, twice, and then, with a small crackle, someone answered.

"Hello, this is David Beckett's comm, you have reached the automated-" a voice began, before Nightingale heard David's voice in the background snarl to hand the comm over. She did, however, have time to recognize the tenor lilt that managed to maintain its liquid tone even over the comm as Steel's.

"Steel!" she said in genuine pleasure.

"Agent Brightley," he replied.

A growl cut over Steel's words, the demand for the comm louder and harsher now. Nightingale smiled just a little at hearing it.

"Should I give him the comm?" asked Steel. Teasing was alight in his tone but there was not a single snap from David now. He was the only person Nightingale knew who could escape teasing David unscathed. Even Robin risked a metaphorical bite if he taunted David, but Steel could say whatever he wanted with what seemed like no consequences.

"I don't care either way," said Nightingale.

"Oh?" said Steel. "And why is that?"

"I needed a distraction," replied Nightingale.

"From what?" said Steel. His teasing was gone.

"From the fucking weather," snapped Nightingale. "What do you think, Steel?"

There was a short pause. "Oh, I see. But why call David? Is that your idea of a good distraction?" asked Steel. His tone had regained a little mockery, but it was such a gentle derision, and entirely directed at David, that it couldn't hurt Nightingale.

"It usually makes me angry. Angry's better than miserable, right?" said Nightingale. Her attempt at humour sounded more pathetic when she said it aloud than it had in her thoughts.

"If it's angry you want, I'll give you over to him. Angry is what he's best at," said Steel. He had ignored Nightingale's sad effort at making him laugh and instead smoothed it over with more sweet mockery.

Anger turned out to be Nightingale's first reaction when David's voice crackled into her ear. It came as a blissful release from her pent-up anxiety.

"I was busy," he snapped. He didn't bother to say anything else.

"So was I," she retorted.

"Yet you still found time to call me. I'm touched," he said. His sarcasm wasn't sweet like Steel's had been. Nightingale had always observed that particular difference between father and son with a wry sort of irritation. "Was there something you needed?"

"I just wanted access to the case files. I'm don't have the authorization to access them. I need something to read." Nightingale's tone was clipped. She was regretting using this particular tactic of erasing her unhappiness. Recitation would have worked much better.

"Find a fucking novel. Isn't Robin good at that?" sneered David. Nightingale could imagine the derisive curl of his lip that went along with it. 

"Oh, I'm sorry that I wanted to do my job instead of pissing away my time reading-" began Nightingale.

"And it's my job to give out sensitive information to entertain you?" David overrode her before she had the chance to finish.

"Yes, because I evidently do this job for my own entertainment," retorted Nightingale.

There was a short pause.

"I'm not authorizing you," said David.

There was an exasperated sigh and then, miraculously, David amended his statement. All Steel had to do was sigh and David obeyed him instantly with the small amount of kindness he could managed. Nightingale couldn't imagine ever having such an ability to control David.

"It's because I'm not authorizing everyone. Goodbye, Agent Brightely."

He hung up immediately and left Nightingale with a buzzing comm.

Giving a sigh, Nightingale unhooked her comm from her ear and set it down. She wondered if Robin and Colm would still be reading. She sighed once more. Turning about, she ascended the stairs one by one. She forced herself to consider the book again, this time as something that had saved her life in those dark nights in the bordello.

Step by step, she remembered - the passages that had kept her alive, the ones that seemed to suffer with her, the way Sparkle had come to love the book.

When she reentered the library, her two birds looked up.

"Still reading?" she asked. She took up a seat on the floor before Colm, crossing her legs and gazing up at him with a broad smile.

He nodded vigorously and grinned. As Nightingale's eyes flicked briefly to Robin, she saw how hard he was staring at her. She pacified him in an instant by merely looking at him. He could read her completely perfectly now. He had always done it very well, but now Robin could practically hear her thoughts in her semiotics.

But Nightingale still reached forward and squeezed his hand. He grinned in precisely the same way as Colm - brightly, with one side of his face more than the other, and in a completely and utterly beautiful way - and nodded once.

"Do you want me to read instead?" she asked him.

"Please do," he said.

Nightingale took the book. Her voice did not waver and she felt perfectly at peace as she began to read.