Chapter Twenty-Nine. Author's note - I'm sorry to announce this, but we're getting kind of close to the end of the story (you've probably already guessed this). I doubt that I will write a sequel, though I've got pretty good ideas for one. Also: about the translation of the French that comes later. Some of the words have multiple English meanings (eg. "spirituel" can be translated as either "spiritual" or "witty"), but I have used the English meaning that makes the most sense in the context of Cyrano de Bergerac.

When David left in the morning, Nightingale sent him along with her letter for Robin and made him promise to deliver it to him. Only when he agreed did she relax a little, flopping back on her bed - which she'd found more and more comfortable over the past few days, no doubt a result of David's kindness - and staring up at David.

Though he usually struck an impressive figure, Nightingale found him even more menacing than usual. It was likely due to the fact that Nightingale now knew that he had, at all times, a sidearm hidden somewhere on his person.

"Remember, Nightingale," he told her, gesturing with one long-fingered hand to her bed. "The gun's hidden under your bed. I'll be with you during the raid, but should Bobby find out before then, use it to defend yourself."

Nightingale's eyebrows rose and she stretched, delighting in the way David's gaze hardened as she straightened her supple limbs. "Are you telling me to shoot someone if I have to?"

David shook his head, allowing a grim smile to grace his face. "No, Nightingale. I'm ordering you to. If your life is in danger for any reason, use that gun."

Now she sprang up. Casting off the sheets and going over to him, she had the audacity to run her hands down his arms before picking up both his hands. She spoke to his palms, not to his face, examining the lines of his hands as though she could tell his fortune.

"Are you saying that, if Bobby finds out, if he's going to shock me to death, I ought to shoot him?" she asked. She dared not look up, as if not wanting to know that David would condone Bobby's murder.

"Yes," said David.

She continued, now flipping his hands over to stare at the backs of them. "And if, say, Rose were panicking and about to give us away to Bobby to save herself, I ought to shoot her?"

"Yes," he said. His voice was calm, composed, and cool, but also fervent.

Nightingale was astounded at the speediness of his reply. He was so sure, so confident that she ought to take another life, even the life of an innocent such as Rose, to preserve her own life. It was shocking.

David must have sensed this, for the hands that Nightingale was holding gently rose to cup her face and lift it to his.

"You're surprised by that," he told her. He didn't wait for her to counter his words before he went on. "You shouldn't be. Don't you know how important you are? How important your safety is? How precious your life is?"

"To you?" she snapped before she could stop herself.

David's face coloured a little but he went on smoothly. "To the case, to the cause. You're the figurehead, the emblem of abolition. I don't think you realize that."

Nightingale shrugged. "Oh well," she muttered, and turned away. "You know, Detective, you really had me worried there, for just a second. That you might accidentally, you know, care about me."

"Angry" was not a strong enough word to describe the emotion that darkened David's face.

"Don't you dare say that to me," he told her, eyes stormy with fury.

"And why not?" she enquired, throwing herself back onto her bed with her eyebrows arched. His anger didn't frighten her, not anymore. She knew she could speak back to David and he would never hurt her. "I'm not sure you are aware of how much you mean to me, David. Why shouldn't I point out that I seem to be far more attached to you than you are to me?"

"After everything I've done for you-" he began, but Nightingale cut him off with a derisive laugh.

"For me! Oh, but my dear Detective Beckett, you are always so very quick to point out that everything you do for me, every kindness you've given me, is always for the precious cause! Why shouldn't I think you don't give a damn about me as a person?" she growled. She'd sat up and was crouching on the bed, like a tigress ready to spring.

David turned his face away. He seemed at a loss for words, grinding his teeth in silent frustration.

Nightingale took the opportunity to strike. She leaped forward and seized his face in one strong hand, forcing him to look at her. He responded by shaking her off.

"I care for you, Nightingale," he snarled at her. He words were awkward and he blushed saying them, though he had never blushed to see her naked, when that was far more intimate.

"Care for me? No! Like me, yes, you've admitted that, respect me sometimes, but care for me! Why should I think you care?" she shouted, giving him a shove to the chest.

He stepped back, glaring down at her. "I do care for you!" he shouted back. Nightingale wanted to jerk back in surprise, for he was usually so menacing in composure that he did not raise his voice. However, she did not want to seem weak, so she straightened up and stared him straight in the eye.

"Prove it," she spat.

David kissed her.

Nightingale was so surprised that it gave her pause. But she could not pause for very long as David's mouth pushed roughly against hers, so unlike Robin's sweet, gentle kisses. She was about to respond, to either shove him away or draw him closer (her befuddled brain was making very little sense) when he drew back.

"There," he growled, holding her face in one hand. His hand cupped the side of her neck and the pad of his thumb dug into her cheek as he practically spat the words at her, so resentful and so full of venom were they. "Is that how a man shows he cares for you, Nightingale? Because I rather thought that was how they showed you they saw you only as an object. For you, I thought care was respect. Apparently not."

Nightingale stared at him. Not entirely sure of her actions - quite unlike the time she'd seduced Robin, which had been almost clinical in the way she'd planned it - she shoved his hand away so grasp his head in her hands. 

Their heads were leaning together, eyes half-closed, when the door opened. Immediately, David shoved her away as though she were something filthy and diseased.

"Oh, sorry," said the voice from behind them. Bobby was standing there, grinning madly. "Didn't realize I was interrupting. Should I come back later?"

"No," said David. His voice was cold and full of ice. "I was just leaving. I'll deliver your payment on the way out. But remember, I would like to reserve Nightingale for tonight."

As he spoke, he distanced himself from her.

"Aw, that's a shame. I was going to have her dance for the gentlemen tonight," said Bobby. His grin quickly faded, replaced by nervousness, as he took in David's murderous expression. "But I suppose that could wait until tomorrow," he added lamely, voice weak.

Despite her confused state, Nightingale smiled a little to see Bobby so subservient to someone.

"I'm going to be off," said David. "Here, you come with me. I'll pay you in person, yes?"

It wasn't really a question. It was an order. David used every little bit of his authority on Bobby in one glance and Bobby appeared to have no choice but to follow him. Nightingale watched as Bobby immediately obeyed and the two men left her.

With a groan, she sank to the floor and sat there. Though she might be a touch more comfortable with beds than she had once been, she still shied away from them.

As she leaned her back against the bed, her spine cushioned by the thick blanket, she considered her strange, mysterious detective. Once again, David had proved himself to be enigmatic. She'd no idea what to make of him. But, shaking her head, she put him out of her mind. It proved to be less difficult than she'd imagined, for she was very good at simply putting things out of her thoughts. If she had not been, she would have gone mad with sorrow, anger, and grief over the clients' treatment of her.

Nightingale sighed. She was about to reach for Pride and Prejudice when she immediately thought, not of her own Mr. Darcy, but of Robin. Her poor darling Robin, what would he say if he'd known David had kissed her?

Luckily, she did not have to think about it any longer as the door opened and in bounded Rose.

Nightingale was astounded to see the change in the girl after one night of not being forced to fuck a client. There was a bounce in Rose's step, a sparkle in her blue eyes, a handsome blush in her cheeks. Even her red hair seemed shinier. She looked healthier.

"Hello, Ros-" was all Nightingale managed to get out before Rose began speaking.

"Dr. Marshal - he said I could call him Clarence - is the most wonderful man I've ever met!" she cried.

Nightingale rolled her eyes and pretended to go back to reading. "Considering you've only ever met clients, that's not really saying much, is it?" she sniped. She turned a page.

Her ill temper did not deter Rose's in the slightest. The girl continued to jabber about Clarence, commending his manners, his voice, his gentlemanly qualities, his-

"Oh, for God's sake!" snapped Nightingale as Rose started a long-winded, adoring speech on the beauty of Clarence's face, giving particular sweet attention to his eyes and his Cupid's bow. "He's not some angel sent down from whatever God is kind to Inamoratas - if such a being exists - he's a human man!"

Rose stopped speaking. For the first time, she seemed to notice Nightingale's disapproving, sneering air. "Don't be so mean, Nightingale," she said. Her eyes, which had been so wide and bright as she raved about Clarence, became even wider but dimmed with hurt.

Nightingale sighed and closed Pride and Prejudice. "I'm not trying to be mean," said Nightingale. "All I'm saying is that you oughtn't fall in love with him or anything ridiculous like that."

Rose bristled. She looked hilariously indignant, like a child who has been slighted by something irritating. Yet at the same time, a pink blush coloured her face, making Nightingale worry. "I wouldn't do that," she said. Then, after a pause, she looked up and asked Nightingale, in a voice that was too hesitant for her question to be hypothetical, "Why would it be so bad if I did?"

Nightingale had to prevent herself from snorting derisively at the poor girl. "Because if you go around falling in love with every man like him, you'll end up loving half of the fucking continent," she said, trying to make her voice gentle and succeeding enough to make Rose's pained expression soften.

"Oh," said Rose. She looked a little put out.

Another sigh heaved its way out of Nightingale's lungs. "Come on. Let's have a French lesson, yes? It will at least stop you from lovingly describing Dr. Marshal's Cupid's bow."

As Nightingale pulled Cyrano de Bergerac from under the bed, Rose gave an offended huff. "Why? You're in love with that fucking detective, why can't I-"

"I am not in love with Detective Beckett, Rose," snapped Nightingale. When she girl flinched back, she closed her eyes and paused. "Love is for romances and happy stories, not for me."

Now it was Rose's turn to snort derisively.

"Hey! Easy with the sauciness, there, or you won't get any lessons," growled Nightingale.

Rose giggled and Nightingale was overjoyed to hear the sound. "All right. Let's see how much you remember from last time."

Nightingale continued from where they left off. Rose's pronunciation, while dreadful, was still fairly impressive for someone who did not speak the language. The pair of them made fairly good progress, moving slowly but steadily through page after page as Nightingale periodically quizzed Rose on new vocabulary.

But there was one sentence that gave her pause. As Rose read on, Nightingale remained smiling at it.

Rose eventually stopped, seeing the expression on Nightingale's face. "Uh oh," she said, grinning mischievously. "The snarky Nightingale is smiling. What is it?"

Nightingale looked up, too happy with Rose's good humour for her teasing to get to her. "Read this sentence again," she said, pointing to it.

"'Un homme affable, bon, courtois, spirituel'," said Rose, her diction halting and careful. "What's so special about it? What does it mean?"

Nightingale smiled. "It means, 'an affable, good, courteous, witty man'," she said, smiling affectionately at the page.

"And why is that special?" pressed Rose, her mouth turning down with disapproval as Nightingale did not answer her right away.

That was because Nightingale's thoughts had drifted past the enigmatic David, past the handsome Clarence, and settled on another man.

"It just describes someone I know very well, that's all," she said softly. She got a flicker of a memory of Robin, his bashful smile, complete with his bow-like lips pulling up at one side and his dark eyes flashing, before she continued the French lesson with Rose.