Chapter Six. Author's note: I haven't updated this in over two months. Whoa. But I hope it's still okay...

"That's an idiotic question," snapped Nightingale angrily. Beckett had just spent the past hour bombarding her with increasingly irritating and personal questions. "There could be only one answer, couldn't there? So why bother asking?"

Beckett looked up from where he was adjusting the recorder so that it would better pick up Nightingale's words. "Excuse me?" he said.

"It's an idiotic thing to ask me - am I happy?" she retorted, crossing her arms and leaning back.

"Why is it idiotic?" asked Beckett, looking curious. He leaned forward as she flicked her head, tossing a rogue piece of hair out of her face.

"Well, would you be happy in a situation like this?" she asked, gesturing about her with an angry hand.

"I don't know," he said. 

"Why do I get the sense that these questions are just meant to show whether or not I have emotions?" asked Nightingale, her eyes narrowing shrewdly.

Beckett gave her one of what she deemed his rare smiles. "You've guessed it, Nightingale. I have to commend you again on your cleverness. But please answer the question. It's the last one."

Nightingale glared at him levelly. "No, I am not happy. I have bouts of happiness, bouts of joy, but they are few and far between. I am not happy."

Beckett nodded and turned off the recorder. "Thank you. That's all I need, for now."

Nightingale raised her eyebrows as he tucked his recorder into the inside pocket of his immaculate suit jacket, smoothing the creases out of completely unwrinkled pants expertly with the other hand.

"What is it?" he asked as he caught her staring at him.

"Not leaving already, are you, detective?" she asked.

"Yes - why?" replied Beckett.

Nightingale threw her head back and laughed derisively, but it was not malicious. She was having fun deriding Beckett, but in a teasing way. It was a rare pleasure - backtalk with a client. In the back of her mind, she was worried that clients like Michael and Beckett were spoiling her, but she quickly pushed it aside.

"Detective Beckett, if you leave now, one of two things will happen. One: Bobby will see you leaving and will figure out that you are not here for what you pretend to be - he is very clever - and will conveniently arrange to either sue the pants right off your ass or have you disappear. Two: he will assume that I have not been satisfactory and he will give me the soundest beating I have ever had," Nightingale finished, looking evenly at Beckett and raising one eyebrow.

"A beating?" said Beckett. "You mean a shocking, as you told me earlier?"

Nightingale wondered how unemotional he was to be able to discuss such awful things in such a blase manner, but she replied anyway.

"Yes, usually a shocking," she said, her voice even. It wasn't a lack of emotion that made her composed when she described it, but simply the fact that she was so used to Bobby's violence that it was never surprising to her. "But he will give an Inamorata a kick or a slap occasionally."

They were silent for a moment, glaring at each other.

"How on earth did someone as bright as you allow yourself to be treated this way?" mused Beckett, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

He looked shocked as Nightingale leaned forward and grabbed him by the collar of his expensive-looking white shirt.

"Allow myself to be treated this way?" she snapped, her face an inch from his. He twisted a bit, surprise crossing his cool features as he must have realized how strong she was. "Do you ever think I consent to the way I am treated, Detective Beckett?"

Suddenly, Beckett's hand came up and he grasped her by the wrist, bending it back enough to cause her pain. With a small squeal, she released him.

"I meant no offence, Nightingale, but you ought to be more careful manhandling me," he snarled, his eyes flashing with cold anger. His hand was still gripping her wrist, holding her tightly. Then he released her.

"My apologies, sir," said Nightingale curtly.

"So, you say I can't leave? Then what am I to do?" asked Beckett.

Nightingale sighed. "You must come with me back to my room. I'm afraid you'll have to spend the night."

Beckett sighed. Both he and Nightingale got up. When they reached the door, Nightingale stopped Beckett just as he was about to exit.

"You'll have to pretend as though you're actually a client while we're in the hall, detective," she said, feeling a little rueful. "I'm assuming you know what that entails?"

Beckett smiled a tiny bit, but it didn't reach his eyes. They remained as cold as ice. "I understand perfectly," he said, nodding. With that, he allowed Nightingale to take his hand and drag him out of the room. As they walked, Nightingale kept casting flirtatious glances back at Beckett, pleased to see that, like most clients, his eyes were fixed on her ass.

When they got to the door of her room, he grasped her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. Leaning forward to bury his face in her neck, he whispered:

"Are there microphones in the room?"

Nightingale twisted her head back and forth, smiling. Out of the corner of her mouth she replied:

"No."

With that, she pushed him away to type in her passcode. She felt him grab her behind and give it a quick squeeze as he waited.

"Come on, you bitch, I haven't got all day," he snapped at her.

She turned around the moment the doors opened and pushed him through it. The moment the doors shut, though, Beckett backed away from her, his face falling into its reserved, cool mask. Nightingale put her hands on her hips.

"Would you like to go to bed, then?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Or would you prefer me to entertain you?" she asked.

His lip curled. "I didn't come to you to sleep with you, Nightingale," he sneered.

Nightingale laughed. It was a genuine laugh of good humour and made her feel nearly happy. "No, that's not what I meant!" she tittered. "I was simply attempting to be hospitable. Should you not be interested in going to bed yet, I could entertain you, Detective Beckett. I am an excellent singer, for example."

He smiled a little bit, but it was so mechanical and icy that it looked more like a grimace than anything else.

"No. Thank you for your kind offer, but I will decline. I've had a long day and I just want to rest," he said. Nightingale as he slipped off his shoes and jacket. As he climbed onto the bed on top of the covers, she looked at him incredulously.

"You're not going to sleep like that, are you?" she asked.

"I was planning on it," he retorted.

Nightingale sighed. "Bobby, though he does not put any recording device in these rooms, does have the habit of bursting in to make sure his clients are not doing a fuck-and-dash."

"A what?" snapped Beckett, looking offended.

"A fuck-and-dash. Where someone fucks an Inamorata and then leaves without paying," explained Nightingale. "Anyway, what I mean to say is that he could come in here at any time while we're asleep and he would expect to find you naked. Should he not, it could end very badly for both of us."

Beckett looked scandalized. "Do you mean to say I have to sleep here naked?" he asked.

"Don't worry, I'll be naked too," laughed Nightingale. She sat down on the bed next to him. He jerked back.

"I am not in the habit of sharing a bed with a bed with someone I don't know! Who's stark naked!" he growled.

"Don't worry, I am," said Nightingale lightly. Her gentle self-mocking covered up the sad idea that she was all too used to having to share a bed with men she didn't know.

He growled wordlessly as he stood and unbuttoned his pants. When he caught Nightingale watching him, he snapped at her:

"Turn your back."

She laughed again. She couldn't remember any other night in her life when she'd laughed so often. "Are you afraid of me seeing you, Detective Beckett?" she asked, her voice teasing.

"I am, actually," he replied.

"Don't worry. I've seen hundreds of men naked before. I doubt you'll be much of a surprise," she said, smiling.

Beckett scowled and Nightingale jerked back a little. The expression was frightening. "Turn your back," he repeated.

"Very well," she said frostily. Only when she heard the tell-tale sound of him climbing under the sheets did she dare to turn back. She caught him with the sheets pulled up to his armpits, looking angry.

So she, assuming he'd feel just as uncomfortable with seeing her undressed as vice versa, she snapped her fingers twice, extinguishing the lights in the room. In the near-pitch-black, she slipped off her clothes.

"I can still see you," snapped Beckett from the bed.

She turned her head over her shoulder to look at him. "Turn your back," she retorted.

She heard him chuckle softly. "I suppose you've got me there."

Nightingale took her time undoing her hair, adoring the luxurious feeling of her soft hair falling in pieces one by one down her back. Then, finally, once she was done, she lifted up the sheets and slid in next to Beckett.

"I suppose that you have to be that close to me, Nightingale?" he said as she wriggled into a position right next to him, not touching him, but close enough.

"You suppose correctly, Detective Beckett," she replied, mimicking his dignified air.

He chuckled again. "Goodnight, Nightingale."

She froze. She realized that was the first time that a man had used the little phrase towards her, common as it was among normal humans. None of her clients ever stayed awake long enough to bid her goodnight - all of them fucked her and then, without fail, dropped off into a swinish slumber.

"Goodnight, Detective Beckett," she said, her voice small with emotion.

After a moment, he spoke. "Oh, and Nightingale?" he said.

Nightingale, miraculously already nodding off in the warm bed, jerked awake. "Mmm hmm?"

"You needn't call me Detective Beckett. David's fine."

She smiled, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Very well. Goodnight, David."

She heard him laugh and, for the second time in her life, Nightingale drifted off into a peaceful sleep next to a man.

She woke some time later to hear David mumbling. As she watched, he rolled over so that he was lying on his back, his eyes rolling around under his lids. She propped herself up on one elbow to watch him. He looked a little troubled.

Then, faster than she thought was possible, she was on her back with her arms twisted above her head, David straddling her. He was panting, his chest heaving as he gulped huge amounts of air. She was panting, too, but out of shock and fear - he looked quite terrifying, his eyes blazing and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

But after a moment she saw his eyes widen and his breathing become regular. "I'm sorry," he said, releasing her. "I...didn't know it was you."

Nightingale watched as he lay down again next to her, closing his eyes. "Who did you think it was?" she asked gently.

"I didn't know. When you're a government agent, it comes naturally to attack someone who's staring at you in the middle of the night," he said softly.

Nightingale nodded. She didn't press the matter, allowing him to sink back into sleep. Just as she began to drift off to sleep she felt him roll over and heave a sigh.

"Can't you sleep?" she asked. The men she usually shared a bed with usually slept like the dead. She often speculated bitterly that it was really too bad that they weren't actually dead.

"No," he said.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Nightingale.

"I suppose you are very talented at making men sleep," David observed acidly.

"Why can't you sleep?" asked Nightingale, ignoring the mean-spirited little comment. "Is it something I can change?"

"I don't sleep well," he said. "And it's normally not a problem because there usually isn't anyone with me who has to share in the inconvenience." His voice became bitter at the end. They lay there for a few minutes before Nightingale stretched out her hand and took his.

"That's the opposite of my problem," she said quietly.

"Listen, I've already said too much," said David, turning his face away and removing his hand from hers. Nightingale realized with a flash of intuition what was making him unhappy. Poor, cold, Detective Beckett was lonely, but didn't want to admit it. So she found his hand again and before he could withdraw it,  squeezed it affectionately and said:

"Perhaps you need someone to comfort you." And she knew that he would know she meant it innocently.

Without any further ado, David rolled over and snuggled into Nightingale's arms, burying his head in her chest. She was surprised, but wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head gently.

The pair of them fell asleep like that, Nightingale cradling David like he was a child, and he curling willingly, trustingly, into her embrace.

When she woke, her arms were empty. She sat up, disoriented. Ordinarily, she would have woken at even the slightest indication that her client was leaving, but David must have crept so stealthily out of her embrace that she had continued to slumber innocently.

She brought this up as she saw him pulling on his socks.

"Is it because you're a secret agent that you creep with a cat-like tread?" she asked, her voice light and teasing.

Just as the sentence left her mouth, she noticed that he was sitting as far away from her as the room would allow, perched like the most elegant of vultures on the chair before her vanity. He was also glaring at her as though she'd done him some great, personal wrong. It was incongruous with the vulnerability he'd shown the previous night.

"Perhaps," he snapped.

"Perhaps," she mocked, climbing out of bed. As he turned his face away, she realized that he was trying not to see her naked.

And that made her laugh bitterly - the idea that any man would be good enough to avoid staring at her lasciviously. When her laughter spiralled upwards, from pleasurable giggles to high-pitched hysteria, he spoke, all the while keeping his eyes lowered and his face turned away.

"What the hell is so funny?" he asked.

"You," she replied, still laughing. "You are. Why aren't you staring? Are you trying to protect my modesty, David?" Her voice went from humorous to acidly mocking as her lip curled in disgust on his name.

"As a matter of fact, I am," he snarled.

She laughed scornfully. "Then you're a fool," she told him.

His head whipped around and his eyes were cold as ice as they bored into hers. For the first time Nightingale had ever experienced, a man stared into her face when confronted with her naked beauty.

"How am I a fool? Do you really care so little for any shred of modesty you have left?" he growled, gesturing to her figure with a hand that looked like it wanted to slap instead of pointing.

But she wouldn't let herself be intimidated, not by him, and not by any man. She might obey Bobby and her clients, but not out of fear. It was out of an instinct for self-preservation, and nothing more.

"Why should I care for it? It's not useful to me. Here, the exact opposite of modesty is what keeps me alive. Your warped standards for feminine modesty are utterly useless to me. Why should I cover myself for my clients? It'll get me beaten," she said to him.

His eyes were still icy as he got up. But Nightingale could tell he'd been swayed by her words. As he got up, she found her dressing gown an donned it, covering the frame that seemed to have disquieted David so much.

"There," she said softly. "A peace offering. You can look at me without damaging my modesty now." Her voice had only the slightest tinge of mocking as she looked at him.

He graced her with a small, cool smile. He inclined his head. "I take it that I'm supposed to leave now?" he asked.

"Yes. As you make your way out, you'll see Bobby. Pay him. I'm sure that the bill will be hefty enough," she said. She approached him and fixed his tie, adjusting it from its fractionally crooked position.

David backed away. "Fine. I will be back in a few days. I would like to speak to you again, Nightingale, if that is possible."

Nightingale laughed. "If you have enough money it is."

David gave her another tiny smile. "And I do." He was about to leave when Nightingale grasped his arm.

He turned to her, his eyebrows raised, staring her down coolly. She felt awkward for this first time as she looked down nervously. "David, could you do me a favour?"

"Depends," he said. But when she looked up, she could see a little bit of warm concern blooming in his eyes and it made her bold.

"When you leave today, please tell Bobby that you'll be back soon. It'll make things easier for me if he thinks that you want to see me again," she asked. Her stomach twisted with agitation as she stared up at him, using all her persuasive powers on him. She widened her huge eyes, let her bow-like lips quiver, as she tilted her head back and grasped his hand.

But it did not seem to be her spectacular beauty or her talented wheedling that seemed to convince him. He seemed to respond to the desperation of her words, not to the loveliness of the voice that spoke them.

And he also seemed to be the only man she'd met who was immune to her charms. A man like Michael, or one of her clients, or even a cruel man like Bobby would have been stunned speechless by the amount of allure she directed at him, but David simply nodded.

"If it would help, then I will," he said. "As I understand, it would not be out of character for one of your clients to express his...pleasure with you."

"No," she said, her voice become acid.

"Very well, then. Good day, Nightingale. I will see you again," he said. He doffed an imaginary cap to her before walking out of her room.

Nightingale sighed and collapsed onto her bed. Then, remembering that he had left her a book, she snatched it out from where he had appeared to have left it while she was asleep. Taking it from where it lay innocently on the table, she opened it to the first page.

Her eyebrows rose and she smiled broadly as she saw that, at some point, someone had scrawled in an elegant hand on the inside of the cover:

Nightingale,

Some of these poems remind me of you and the way you were created - particularly "The Tyger" and "The Lamb". You ought to read them.

David Beckett

So she flicked through to where the poems were printed. She came across "The Lamb" first and studied it carefully. As she read, she scowled, disgusted by the nauseatingly pastoral imagery of the poem. Feeling far more irked with David than pleased, she turned to "The Tyger".

She read it eight times. Then she smiled. Perhaps David was a touch less reserved than he appeared.