Chapter 39. Author's note - this is it, the last chapter! There WILL BE AN EPILOGUE, though. But I'm sad that the story's almost over. I'm going to miss these characters, particularly Robin and Nightingale...

The month passed far more quickly than Nightingale wished it to. Her days seemed to blur into one and when she laid down her head to rest, it seemed as though she had no sooner blinked than it was morning. 

She went to see her sisters nearly every day, sometimes with Robin, sometimes without, when she had learned to fly a hovercraft. Like any skill she put her mind to, she took to it quickly, becoming a much better flyer than Robin.

But the times she did take Robin he was viewed with strange mixture of emotions by her fellow Inamoratas. Every one of her sisters circled around him and stared at him with no shame in their abject examination of him.

The shier, quieter ones, like Cocoa, Ruby, Mermaid, and Silk examined him from afar, seeming to form their estimation of Robin through careful contemplation and meditation on his actions. They seemed to research him carefully through observation, practically taking notes and musing over him before coming to a conclusion.

Nightingale could tell this did wonders for Robin's ego, for she often saw him smirking in a way he was never wont to do when he saw her sisters regarding him.

Her friendlier sisters approached him automatically, seeming to trust him the moment they saw he was the highest person in Nightingale's esteem - higher than Michael or David or Clarence, higher even than themselves, and she had known many of them since their extraction.

Upon their first introduction to him, Glitter and Sparkle (who seemed joined at the hip since the liberation) had gone up to him and touched him.

"Well," Glitter had said to Nightingale. "He's real. That's a start."

"Yes," Sparkle had said, nodding along with Glitter's words. "We were sure that someone Nightingale could like better than her sisters, better even than Detective Beckett, would be a character from one of her silly books."

Robin had laughed.

"So, it's true then? Nightingale likes you?" Emerald sadi to him. Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and curious.

Nightingale, seeing a similar disbelieving reverence in most of her sisters, was able to reflect, with a bittersweet joy, on the cause of it. Robin was the first nice man, other than the agents, that they'd ever met. The rest of the men they knew had either taken the bordello by storm and killed before their very eyes, or they'd come to the bordello in the days of the Inamoratas' captivity and raped and beaten them. Robin was not like that. He was one of the most prominent abolitionists in the world, and he was gentle, sweet, calm, quirky, and had absolutely no interest in having sex with any of them, save Nightingale.

So of course they'd treat him like some mystical, impossible being.

"As in...she actually likes you?" Lace continued, peering over Nightingale's shoulder at Robin.

"I think she does, at least. Do you like me, Nightingale?" he asked, as if challenging her.

Nightingale, full of impish humour, had given Robin's mouth a kiss to prove it. This simple gesture had earned her a gasp from the assembled Inamoratas. 

"My God," said Peppermint, gaping.

"Well, I never," cried Aphrodite, grinning from ear to ear.

"I don't believe it," said Diamond, her face in a hilarious state somewhere between a massive smile and a half-witted gape. "Nightingale...how?"

Nightingale had laughed and left it up to them to figure out how she'd gone from despising the touch of any man to actively, desirously, lustfully seeking out affection from one.

Those of Magenta's school of thought, that is to say, Magenta and her protegees, Fox and Caramel, were more upfront about the sexual end of their confusion over Robin. Magenta, with the two other women at her heels, had phrased this in her customary blunt, crass way.

"You're the man fucking Nightingale?" she'd said, marching directly up to Robin and tapping his chest with one long finger.

He'd grimaced before smiling down at Magenta. "In a manner of speaking, yes," he'd said. "Though the most important thing is that we love each other very-"

"No, that's not the most important thing," Magenta said, her voice overriding his and leaving him to watch her with amusment as she eyed him. "Nightingale's capable of love, we know this. But she's actually sleeping with you?"

"I'm standing right here, Maggie," Nightingale had said, rolling her eyes.

"Damn," said Magenta, her eyes roving over Robin in a way Nightingale did not like. "If she chose you over that detective, you must be incredibly good in be-"

Nightingale had yanked Robin, who was laughing at that point, away from Magenta. Instead, the pair of them went to see Rose, who was huddled in one corner of the room, Diamond and Ruby tending to her as she sat there, wan and sad-looking.

Her sorrow was at odds with the happiness that seemed to fill the room nearly to bursting. Her gloom was a small black cloud that cast shadow over the brightness of the Inamoratas' joy.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Nightingale had said, sitting down across from Rose.

Rose had looked up at her, her wide, sorrowful eyes ringed with red, and had whispered: "Detective Beckett told me what you did for me. Nightingale, how can I ever repay you?"

Nightingale smiled sadly. "You don't have to, Rose. What you must do now is do your best to get better."

Rose nodded sorrowfully. Over the next four weeks, Nightingale spoke daily with Rose, either in person or over the comm, giving her details of her own life - her relationship with Robin, her flying lessons, the magnificent collection of books she was now a co-owner of - but, mostly, she listened to Rose's words.

Rose had loved Clarence, that much was clear. Foolish, misguided action that it was, it was evident that Rose had cared deeply for him. It made it difficult for Nightingale to talk about it with Rose, her own attachment making it difficult for her to think of Clarence without pain.

For whenever Rose spoke his name, Nightingale was back in the bordello, pressing David's jacket up against Clarence's chest, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood that poured out of him. Whenever Rose praised his beauty, Nightingale saw only that wintry beauty stained red with his scarlet blood.

"I loved him, Nightingale," Rose had confessed, admitting bluntly but bashfully to her affection.

Nightingale had nodded and stroked Rose's hair as the girl had begun to cry, weeping a little at her inablilty to share this pain with Rose; after all, what good would it do Rose to hear Nightingale mourn for someone Rose had loved, yet who had most likely loved Nightingale more?

Nightingale's silent comfort paid off, however, that much was evident. "She's gettting better," said Robin as the pair of them were leaving Headquarters on day, hand in hand, Nightingale's spirits soaring higher than the tall buildings about them.

And it was true - Rose's cheek gradually pinkened, colour coming back into her ghostlike face, the purple shadows around her eyes vanished as, Nightingale heard from Rose's psychiatrist, the girl started sleeping nights, no longer awaking in the early hours of the morning with terrible dreams.

"I think talking about it has helped her," said Nightingale, considering that they had just left Rose laughing and chattering as merrily as Sparkle amongst their sisters.

She was surprised when Robin stopped her in the middle of the hall, taking her face in one long-fingered hand and staring down at her.

"No, that's not what's made the difference," he said, his voice soft with affection. "She's a child, Nightingale. She needs a parent. And you, with the way you take care of her, you're her mother."

Nightingale smiled somewhat acerbically. "You know, when we were in the bordello, I thought the same thing," she mused, taking Robin's hand once more and leading him down the hall. "Only there, it had a different result. There, I told her I couldn't be her mother, that attachement would only make us suffer."

Robin snorted with laughter. "You? Decry attachement?"

"Yes," she said. And for a moment, Nightingale marvelled at how much she'd changed. Her past, bitter self seemed so distant; except, of course, when she dealt with David. Even the slightest mention of him immediately made her proverbial hackles rise until she, forcing herself to calm, attempted to consider him with a degree of compassion and not abject fury.

"How much you've grown, Nightingale," said Robin, and his voice was proud.

Nightingale smiled.

Her time with her sisters was the main way in which she passed her free month. But she made time for other things too. She called David and tried to speak to him, hoping to patch things up enough to give them a good working relationship.

However, when her attempts failed, Robin tried.

When they were sitting in the living room, waiting for David to arrive - Robin had called once and David had agreed - Nightingale began to grumble.

"I don't understand," she sniped, crossing her arms. "You had to call once. He ignored half of my-"

Robin laughed aloud and Nightingale was jarred from her poor spirits at the lovely sound. The beauty of his voice, a voice that was more melodious than even the one from which she'd received her name, never ceased to shock her into silence.

"With all due respect, my dear, we've known each other since we were six years old. One has a certain sway with that kind of friendship," he said. When he smiled dreamily, staring off into the distance, Nightingale wondered if he was considering some happy memory of David, something from long ago.

"Was he ever happy?" she wondered aloud. "Or has he always been a bitter old bastard?"

Robin rolled his eyes, his expression torn between a smile and a disapproving look. "Nightingale, don't be cruel," he teasingly reprimanded her.

She simply raised her eyebrows.

"In answer to your question, yes," said Robin, sighing. "David has always been very detached and very calm. His undercover work, what he saw, what he did - namely Steel - made him a bit angrier, but he's always been the coldest, most calculating man I've ever met."

Nightingale nodded.

"He's not a happy man, Nightingale. Pity him for that. I know you can," said Robin, leaning forward and running his fingers over her cheek before cupping her chin in one hand.

"Because that used to be me?" she guessed.

"Exactly," said Robin.

But when David appeared, Nightingale could not pity him. She could not force herself to look at him with anything other than hatred, for when she looked at the face she'd once admired, gazed upon a man she used to trust with her life, she could only remember him as the man who'd sold his son to slavery, the man who had betrayed her and forced her into a new servitude.

"I've changed my mind," she spat, when she saw him. "I don't care about be civil with you."

His hazel eyes had flashed. "It's mutual, then," he returned, his voice glacial.

"Enough, you two," Robin had said. He had gotten up from his seat on one of the ridiculously long sofas and had come between them, holding up a hand to each of them as they stared at each other with all the affection of rabid wolves. "You're going to have to get along. So learn to deal with each other."

Nightingale and David stared at each other for a moment. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a rational part of Nightingale was trying to reason with her; David had done his duty, for the greater good, for the benefit of his people. Wasn't that commendable?

Nightingale continued to glare but David spoke, as though begrudgingly acknowledging the wisdom in Robin's words.

"Very well," he said. "I will be civil to you, Nightingale, if you apologize to me."

Nightingale gaped before clenching her jaw and spitting back at him: "Then I will trust you, David, if you apologize to me." It was as ridiculous a request to him (for she knew that her Mr. Darcy would never unbend his pride so far) as his had been to her - her, apologize? What had she done wrong? He had wronged her, she had done nothing. He was the aggressor, she the innocent!

They glared at each other, neither one prepared to yield. They stood face to face, both of them with legs spread and fists clenched, standing like soldiers at attention. 

That was what spurred Nightingale to speak. For seeing David standing there, a mirror's reflection of her anger and her bitterness, sparked something in her.

Robin was right, as he always seemed to be. Nightingale and David were similar. Their anger, their cynicism, their pride, even their wit was the same.

It made Nightingale wonder if she continued on, whether she'd end up like him. Whether she'd become as stoic and reserved and full of cold detachement as him; whether she'd sacrifice everyone she loved for a cause; whether she'd enslave the people she loved to better society.

Because David was so detached, so cold that he was ruled by his morals. As Nightingale regarded the firm, angry set of his jaw, she saw no tender feelings there.

Was that what she wanted to become? Her gaze flickering to Robin, she shuddered at the very thought of doing to him what David had done to her.

So she spoke up.

"I suggest a truce," she said.

David arched his eyebrows and stared at her, the frigidity of his gaze seeming to freeze the air between them, till Nightingale swore she could see her breath and hear his words crackle as he spoke them.

"Do you, Miss York?" he said.

She flinched and glared at the use of the name. "Agent Brightley," she corrected him.

Now he flinched a little, anger flaring in his eyes. Robin jumped, too, and from the corner of her eye, Nightingale saw him give her an astonished look.

"Now, my dear Nightingale, are you quite sure that I'm the one you-" Robin began. Nightingale had to smile just the tiniest bit at his tone. It was simultaneously rueful and filled with so much puffed-up masculine pride that she smirked a little at it.

"Robin, you proposed to me once. I think you meant it. And I will take you up on it," she replied, and her voice was hard and cold, for David's benefit. But when she turned to Robin, her tone immediately softened, becoming as sweet and gentle as she was capable of. "If that's what you want, of course, my darling."

Robin grinned at the endearment that had slipped from Nightingale's lips. Never had she used such an endearment, let alone used one that made her sound so much like him.

"Very well, then," he said, and smiled. "It would make me the proudest man in the world if I could be your husband, Nightingale."

Nightingale threw him a glowing smile, her happiness shining bright in her face, before turning back to David and assuming a calm, detached demenour.

"I am a government agent as you so cleverly brought about" - here she sneered the words - "and I intend to marry Robin. Therefore, you will call me Agent Brightley, or Nightingale. Nothing else. Am I understood, Detective?" she said. She revelled in using the tone. It was strong, cold, and commanding - just the kind of thing that her previous enslavement would never have permitted her.

"Yes," snapped David. Nightingale had to work to cover up her surprise at his compliance.

"Good," she said, and nodded. "I suggest a truce, Detective. That we put our personal lives and our personal grudges aside and work together professionally. May I suggest that?"

He nodded, too, and it unnerved her to see how similar to her he looked in that gesture. "Yes."

"Good," said Nightingale. Trying to practise what she'd just preached, she fixed her gaze on David and forced herself to continue. Even forming the words in her mouth was a labourous process, so far she had to unbend her pride to even conceive them. "Professionally, I trust you, David. I shall keep my personal feelings out of it and will tell you that, as one of your agents, I would trust you with my life, but more importantly, Robin's life or the lives of my sisters."

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth but made Nightingale feel lighter, freer. As though some great load had been lifted off her shoulders.

In response to her praise, David inclined his head and returned with a commendation of his own. "As I trust you, Nightingale. I can say, unemotionally, that you are the most miraculous, talented, brilliant being I have met. Professionally, that is," he added, apparently eager for her not to forget that he hated her.

"Then shall we shake hands and part as colleagues?" asked Nightingale.

"No. You are my subordinate, Nightingale. You will follow my orders," he returned, the harsh authority in his tone more evident than ever. "I do not want to have to remind you of your place before the team."

Nightingale's lip curled but she forced herself to regard him dispassionately; not as Steel's father or the man who'd imprisoned her again, or even as the man she'd made love to or the one who'd freed her and her sisters.

"Of course, David," she said.

Extending her hand, she looked at him pointedly. He stretched out his in a mirror image of her gesture and, taking her hand in his firm, warm grasp, squeezed her fingers.

Though his eyes were cold and his expression impassive, the touch was gentle.

And with that, they parted. Nightingale had not forgiven him; she doubted she ever would. But at least her trust in him was restored.

"Well," said Robin, when David had left. "That was the most productive ten minutes of my life."

"Oh?" asked Nightingale, sidling over to him. "How so?"

"The woman I am in love with agreed to marry me and my fiancee and my best friend reconciled their differences," he explained, taking her hand and planting a most gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles. "All in all, that was rather a lot to happen in such a short span of time."

Nightingale laughed. "You're forgetting, Robin, that I never actually refused you," she pointed out, cupping his chin. "I only ever protested on legal grounds."

"Good Lord, you're right. Which means we've been engaged for far longer than I thought," mused Robin. "I suppose that means we shouldn't wait any longer."

So the next time Nightingale went to see her sisters she was wearing a simple gold wedding band, the twin of the one that Robin wore now, too. She'd had her agent's badge printed, too, and had waved it about in proof of the new identity she had - no longer Nightingale the whore but Agent Nightingale Brightley.

They met the news with cries of shock and happiness, for if Nightingale, who had once despised the idea of romantic love, could be married within a few weeks of liberation, couldn't they find something like it in the rest of their lives?

And, of course, she wore the ring the day she went to see Michael.

She'd spoken to him very briefly over the comm, trying to keep her conversation with him to the bare minimum. She'd heard his sweet, gentle voice, that loveliness that reminded her of Robin with more bashfulness than her husband could ever have, and she'd felt guilt and worry begin to eat away at her.

She'd conversed with Michael long enough only to ask him to meet her at a restaurant - it would be her first time going to one without Robin - and then, once he had confirmed it, she'd hung up.

"But I thought you'd ended things with him," Robin had said when she had told him where she was going.

"I did," said Nightingale. "Sort of. I told him I'd never loved him. But then I fucked him, so I suppose it was a bit of a mixed message."

Robin grimaced in his delicate way before planting a kiss on her cheek. "Well, it's rather big of you to  do, my dear," he said.

"Thank you," she said, practically glowing 

She remembered Robin's commendation as she walked into the restaurant. She remembered it the moment she saw Michael sitting at the table, his chocolate brown eyes wide as he stared out the window.

While his face was turned and she remained concealed to him, Nightingale was able to examine him in detail. He looked so fragile and childish sitting there, gazing out with wonder at his surroundings, his boyish face calm and peaceful as he contemplated the world about him.

Even when his head turned and he spotted her, his visage retained its usual youthful purity.

"Hello, Michael," she said once she'd sat down.

"Nightingale," he breathed. When she saw too much affection in his eyes, Nightingale was careful to wave the wedding ring before his face.

"You look well, Michael," she said. It wasn't even a lie. For once, she could be truthful with Michael without fearing for her life.

"You do too," he said. That was most likely not a lie, either, for Nightingale's beauty seemed to attract attention wherever she went. 

"Michael, I-" she began, wanting to get to the heart of the matter as fast as she could - namely, her deception of him and her love for Robin - but he quickly cut her off.

"It's okay, Nightingale. Or, Agent Brightley, as I hear I'm supposed to be calling you," he added with a sad smile. "I know what you're going to say. You explained everything pretty well at the bordello, actually. But for everything else, I understand. Pierce explained everything to me."

"You must understand, Michael. I never meant to deceive you," she said, leaning forward and using every ounce of persuasion she had to soften her words. "I only did so to preserve my own life."

Michael sighed deeply and gave her such a sad smile that it nearly made her weep to see it. "I know," he said. "And I'm sorry for taking advantage of you, Nightingale. I was in love with you, but I-"

Now it was Nightingale's turn to cut him off. "No, you don't need to be sorry, Michael. I forgive you. Do you forgive me?"

Michael smiled again, this one of such bittersweet joy it made Nightingale ache. "Of course."

And that was how Michael and Nightingale parted on good terms, with the promise to see one another again. This pleased Nightingale more than she could express, for Michael had been her first friend from outside the bordello. It did her heart good to know that he could remain so.

And so it was that leaving her home once the month was up felt not like being caged, but taking flight. Nightingale left for work in the hovercraft, waving goodbye to Robin, and finally felt at peace.

Her sisters were free, Michael was happy, Steel was reunited with his parents. And she had Robin. Most importantly, she had Robin, Robin whom she loved, Robin, whom she would never cease to adore.

She smiled as she flew out over the city, free as the bird she'd been named for.

All was well.