Chapter 20. Author's note - to be perfectly honest I never expected to get this far with this story. So thanks to everyone for supporting me and helping me do it. You are all awesome! Also, I've linked the poem referenced in this chapter. Check it out, it's a very beautiful piece of poetry.

Michael and Nightingale didn't hang about for long after Nightingale's debacle with Clarence. She was on edge, her unhappiness plunging her into a sort of flighty perturbation, quite unlike any other unhappiness she'd ever had. Before, she raged against her clients and the world and was simply angry and miserable. Now, she was frustrated in a way she'd never been.

That manifested itself in an impatience that, when disguised behind her well-practiced allure, managed to trick Michael into thinking she was impatient for him.

As they left, and fairly early because Michael seemed eager to have her back at his home, Nightingale regarded him sadly.

"You're such a nice man, Michael," she told them as he held the door of the hovercraft for her. "A true gentleman."

Perhaps it was the champagne he'd had, or her charm, but he laughed gaily and grinned from ear to ear. "Thank you, Nightingale."

And it was true - she did think he was a very nice man. Her very nice, devoted little idiot. The poor, poor fool, she realized, as she looked over at one point and saw him staring at her longingly. He loved her. He loved an Inamorata. And not just any Inamorata, but one who would never feel more than an affectionate sweetness for him.

 The rest of the night passed as all of her nights with Michael passed. He slept with her, both in the euphemistic term of the word and the literal one as, right after they were done for the third time (Nightingale noted that he was particularly hungry for her that night), he dropped into a deep sleep.

So, making sure he was soundly asleep, she got up. Because she could not find anything other than her silk dress to cover herself with, she simply wandered away from the bed completely naked.

As she approached the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up most of Michael's penthouse, she smiled wryly.

"At least anyone who flies by will have a nice surprise," she muttered as she came to stand right at the window, seeing the reflection of her perfect body in the glass.

She delicately placed her hand on the window and flinched back from how cold the glass was. It was like ice, its coldness seeping through the skin of her palm, burrowing into her flesh, and curling around her tendons, and settling down right into her bones.

There she stood for a long time, simply watching the city. Far below, hovercrafts zoomed by, indicating that the city never truly slumbered as deeply as Michael, who had begun to snore in the next room over.

Like so many winking fireflies, they zipped about, unknowing of the hungry passion with which she was staring down at them. As her mind drifted, her thoughts jumped erratically from Clarence to Michael to Robin to David to Rose and back to Clarence again.

She heaved a sigh. At least her experiment had yielded positive results. Clarence had proved that she could feel things.

"But I wish I'd never found that out," she murmured sadly. Then she shuddered. Pining would do her no good, she knew that. She looked down on girls who pined for things they could not have. Did she really want to become one of those pathetic, tearful girls who cried over the idea of charming men and knights on white chargers?

Her lip curled involuntarily. No. she needed no knight.

So there she stood for a long time, staring down, trying not to think of anything too painful. When her eyes began to itch with sleep, she meandered back to bed.

Michael was still deeply asleep, his mouth open, drooling a little. She had to laugh to see him like that. He looked so childish, particularly when he slept.

When she climbed in next to him he did not wake. All he did was snuggle closer to her, eliciting from her a sad sigh. Then nestling into the soft bed, Nightingale let sleep take her.

It seemed to be only a few minutes, not a few hours, that must have passed when she awoke in the morning. Her eyes fluttered open to brilliant sunshine and she sat up, tilting her head back and absorbing the warmth until it seemed to sink into her very bones.

"Good morning, Miss Larkin," she heard a voice say from the door.

There was a twist of vicarious pleasure at hearing the name she used when playing the woman. But when she looked up to see Michael hesitating at the threshold already fully dressed and staring at her with so much unveiled affection, it made her stomach hurt.

"What time is it?" she enquired, stretching lazily. She leaned forward, spread her fingers, and arched her back, luxuriating in the sensation of her muscles and tendons stretching in a catlike pose.

"Eleven am," he said.

Nightingale yelped. "We're going to be late for Bobby!" she cried.

Michael laughed and came forward, putting his arms around her waist and holding her to him. Her bare skin scratched against the slightly rough material of his suit. "So what if we are?" he said, eyes glowing with less bashfulness than they usually did. "What's a few minutes going to matter?"

Nightingale pulled sharply away. Disobeying and refusing a client was a grave mistake, but, as being late for Bobby was an even graver one, she did it anyway.

"More than you could understand," she said. She darted out of the room, bounding through the main room and into the bathroom where she'd left the clothes of the previous day.

"What do you mean?" asked Michael, trailing after her.

"I'll get beaten, Michael!" she snapped in the middle of pulling on her dress. With it simply over her head, not pulled down over her torso, she knew she looked perfectly ridiculous, but did not care. "I'll be beaten or shocked or kicked by Bobby for being late!"

Michael blanched. "He...would beat you?" he whispered, looking horrified.

Nightingale laughed derisively. "He beats me fairly regularly. But I've got it lucky. There are some who get shocked every day."

Michael's jaw dropped. "But..." he whimpered, and Nightingale swore she could see tears in his eyes.

Torn between pity for his sadness and disgust for his ignorance, she allowed her furious expression to soften as she took a step towards him.

"Michael, Michael," she murmured, touching his face. "Don't be upset. It isn't your fault. Really, you've helped save me from the beatings."

And it was true. Not only did she not see herself as being raped by Michael, but his devotion to her made Bobby happy and spared her Bobby's rough hands and his cruel shocks.

"But-" he began. And when his lips quivered and his brown eyes filled with tears, Nightingale could not be angry with him, not even for his ignorance.

She quieted him with a kiss. "Shh," she said when she drew back. Seeing he was about to speak, she kissed him again, murmuring little snippets of nonsense to soothe him. After a few more kisses, a little more murmuring, he was perfectly calm.

"Nightingale," he said. "Come on. We can't be late."

True to his word, they walked back into the bordello hand in hand precisely on the strike of noon. Michael was smiling and so was Nightingale. She'd taken his hand as they'd gotten out of the hovercraft in front of the bordello. Though her identity anklet was back around her leg and she was returning to the bordello, she was still playing the human woman. The human woman that both she and Michael wanted her to be.

"Hello, Mr. Castleman!" sang Bobby, springing up from his chair. "You're punctual, sir!"

Michael didn't smile at him. As a matter of fact, he gave him a hateful glare, his eyes flashing and his lip curling with anger. It shocked Nightingale, for the expression sat poorly on his sweet face, a face meant for smiles and laughter, not unhappiness. It was reminiscent of a puppy baring its teeth in order to be menacing.

But then, realizing that his anger with Bobby was for her sake, righteous fury over his mistreatment of her, she had to bite her lips to prevent herself from crying.

"Yes. I've brought her back on time," said Michael, emphasizing the last two words.

Bobby looked mystified but smiled. "Thank you," he said. Then he turned to Nightingale. "Come along, you. I've got something to tell you."

Nightingale smiled winsomely at Bobby, kissed Michael goodbye, and was about to depart when Michael gave a cry.

"Wait, Nightingale!"

She turned around. He sprang forward, digging around frantically in his pockets for something. Nightingale watched him fumble for a few moments, a smile on her face. When he handed a slip of paper to her, her smile grew.

"'Ode to a Nightingale' by John Keats," she said, reading from the top of the paper.

Michael's smile was brilliant. "I thought it was appropriate. I hope you like poetry."

Nightingale laughed. "Thank you," she said, kissing his cheek. "Until next time, Mr. Castleman."

With no other words, she departed with Bobby. She followed him for a few moments in silence, mystified. He was leading her to the Red Room, and she had no idea why. But the moment she got there, things made themselves clear.

Sitting in the Red Room, toying with a glass of water, was David.

Her heart lifted to see him, though she would not grace the cold, unfeeling man with a smile. However, her good spirits were immediately dampened by the loathsome glare he gave her.

"Mr. Beckett's renting you again. This time only overnight," said Bobby, grinning from ear to ear. He seemed pleased with the results of his illegal renting of Nightingale.

Nightingale's stomach twisted. She would not get to see her sisters, or explain her absence, or comfort Rose. She'd vanished yesterday without so much as a goodbye, and she would not get to see them again until tomorrow.

David nodded, shooting Bobby a disgusted look. Then he stood and took Nightingale by the elbow. Without so much as a goodbye, he dragged her quickly through the halls and out of the bordello.

"I wasn't expecting-" she began, not even attempting to disguise her pleasure at seeing him, when he cut her off.

"You fucking idiot," he snarled at her as he pushed her into his hovercraft. His eyes flashed with anger and he shoved her sharply, as if trying to hurt her a little.

Nightingale's jaw dropped in astonishment. She was too shocked for her normal fury to rise in her chest, clawing at her insides like some monster in need of release. She simply gaped like Michael was so apt to do.

"What?" she whispered.

David slammed his hands against the dashboard of the hovercraft. "You utter fool! You tried to sleep with Clarence!" he growled.

Nightingale recoiled. Now, shock mixed with anger and her hackles rose. "That is completely none of your business," she hissed. A nagging thought told her to recite to calm her anger, but she pushed it aside. She did not want to be calm.

"When you do something that completely stupid, it's damn well my business," he snarled.

Nightingale turned away in disgust. She remained like that for the whole flight to his building, her head turned to the glass, refusing to grace David with even a sliver of her face. In her poor temper, not even the magnificence of the buildings held any interest for her.

When they landed, she turned to him expectantly, holding out her ankle. Though angry, she wanted her anklet removed.

He snorted incredulously when he saw her action. "No," he told her, eyeing her disdainfully. "No, I'm not relieving you of your anklet, Nightingale. Not today. No, today, you stay an Inamorata. You're Nightingale, not Ava Larkin. Don't forget that."

She was so surprised that her anger promptly vanished. Not only that, but a strange disappointment at having angered David, made him so upset, wormed its way into her heart and settled there. So when he stalked away, she bounded after him.

"David!" she called. "David, what's going on? Why am I here?"

He refused to respond. He refused even to look at her. It was only when they entered his home that he turned to her.

"Explain yourself," snarled David, gesturing between Nightingale and-

"Clarence," she said. She spotted the tall, attractive man standing at the centre of the room. The moment their eyes met, heat suddenly sprang to life in her. Then, turning her head, she felt relieved to see Robin standing near him. Immediately, she bounded over to the two men.

"Well, go on," said Clarence, motioning for her to speak when she looked at him curiously. "He's already heard my side of the story."

Nightingale edged away from him and closer to Robin, who'd gotten up and was hovering nervously by her side. She retreated towards him, taking his hand to comfort herself.

"No, get away from him," growled David, springing forward and swatting her away from Robin. "I won't have you trying any more of your tricks with Robin, either!"

"David, let her-" began Clarence, but David rounded on him.

"You. Shut the fuck up," he hissed. "Don't talk. If I hear your voice one more time I swear I will rip your goddamn throat out."

Then he turned back to Nightingale with murder in his eyes. She'd never seen him look so terrifying. But, having faced a good amount of terror in her life, she managed to lift her jaw and stare him right in the eye.

"And you. Talk, right now. Explain what the hell you were thinking," snarled David, reaching forward. His hand closed around her upper arm and gripped her in a vice-tight grip, very hard. Hard enough to hurt.

Nightingale wrenched her arm free and raised her eyebrows coolly, though the level of his fury was spooking her. "I wasn't thinking, David," she retorted.

"It's 'Detective Beckett', to you," he replied, eyes narrowing. Beside her, she could hear Robin give a soft, exasperated sigh.

She eyed him scornfully, but it pained her to hear him so furious with her. "Very well, Detective Beckett," she said, allowing a sneer to curl her lip. In response, she got a furious hiss from him. "I wasn't thinking. Or at least, I was thinking too much with a childish, curious side of myself. I tried to seduce Clarence because I was curious. I wanted to fuck him, and that was new. And since Robin had already refused me-"

"What?" spluttered David. "Robin!"

Clarence's eyebrows simply rose as he eyed Robin disparagingly. Nightingale could practically see Clarence comparing himself - and coming out the superior - to Robin in that glance.

"It's true, David," said Robin, coming to Nightingale's side. Despite a warning glance from the angry detective, Robin took her hand and kissed it very sweetly. "She did try to seduce me. And I told her no, just as Clarence did."

Nightingale watched David positively quiver with anger, his cold eyes becoming icy as they flicked between Clarence, Nightingale, and Robin.

"How dare you be so utterly foolish?" he demanded of her, advancing, fists clenched, jaw tight, and eyes flashing. Nightingale was reminded of the time he'd attacked her in bed; there was the same irrational fury in his face. This puzzled her, as it was strange for David to be so irrational.

"I wasn't trying-" she began, but he cut her off with a swipe of his hand.

"I don't care what you were trying to do! You were undermining all the credibility of the case against the bordellos! You would've ruined all our hard work, everything we've all done! And if you'd succeeded in having your way with Clarence - you know, I'm surprised you didn't," he snapped, breaking off his sentence halfway through to glare at Clarence. "He's the kind of man to think with his dick and not his head. Tell me, Clarence, why did you refuse Nightingale? It's so very out of character for you!"

"Because, Detective Beckett," he said, taking a page from Nightingale's book and eyeing him coldly with eyebrows raised. "I'm rather invested in this case, and I, much like anyone in this room (including Nightingale, in fact) would not want to undo all our hard work for simply the satisfaction of shagging Nightingale."

Despite the circumstances, Nightingale gave him a tiny smile and was surprised to see him return it. David, however, did not seem to share their congeniality, as he turned back to Nightingale and snarled:

"If you ever so much as kiss Robin's cheek again, Nightingale, I swear you'll be off this case," he threatened. His voice, as quiet and smooth now as it had been loud and ragged before, echoed menace in every syllable.

"David!" cried Robin in protest. "At least let the girl have some freedom!"

Nightingale stared at David in disgust. He was supposed to be liberating her, and yet he was restricting her freedom in a far more painful way than even her clients did.

"David, she knows not to do it again," said Clarence, and his voice was low and smooth and soothing. "Right, Nightingale?"

Nightingale nodded, though so frostily that it could not be mistaken that she was anything other than furious with David.

"So at least let her kiss Robin if she wants to. Trust Nightingale with that much," cajoled Clarence.

"I won't," snapped David. "She doesn't deserve it."

"She is standing right here, and, if you see her as a person, as you so often like to say, would like it if you called her by her name," growled Nightingale. She stamped her foot, tossed back her hair, and then met his eyes.

"Stop behaving like a foolish slut, and then I'll consider giving you a name again," he said flatly. There was more cold, hard fury in that sentence than there had been in any of his words before.

She simply raised her eyebrows coldly once more, though she felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Had she really sunk so low in David's esteem?

However, Robin's and Clarence's reactions were not like hers.

"David!" yelped Robin. "You ought to take that back, right now!"

"David!" snarled Clarence at the same time. "I don't care if you're my boss, but you've got absolutely no right saying that to Nightingale!"

David looked ready to murder both Clarence and Robin, surging forward towards his friend and his subordinate with his hands clenched with fury.

"Boys, boys!" said Nightingale, holding up her hand. Everyone immediately stopped talking. "I appreciate your concern, my darling boys, but leave this to me." Her mockingly sweet tone turned to a cool sneer at the end.

Clarence and Robin immediately eyed each other and then backed up. Nightingale smirked a little, enjoying the feeling of power. She'd commanded them, and they'd obeyed. It was...refreshing.

"Detective Beckett," she said, voice colder than even David's at that moment. She approached him slowly, punctuating each word with a step, all the while not taking her eyes off him. "I would ask you apologize, in which case, I will be the more reasonable of the two of us and forgive you."

David shot her a hateful glare. "I'm not apologizing for the truth," he snarled and, with that, he stomped out of the room and into an adjoining one.

"Nightingale, you mustn't mind him," said Robin quickly, springing over to her and taking her hands in his, rubbing them soothingly. "He doesn't mean it, he honestly doesn't. He's just-"

"What?" she snapped at him. He flinched back before realizing her anger was not directed at him. "Just what? Does he have any idea how horrible that is, to call me that?"

"He does," said Clarence, sidling up to her. His eyes flicked over her whole body before he smiled acerbically, eyes flashing with anger but full lips quirking up with amusement. "It's why he said it. He meant it to hurt, Nightingale. He meant it to hurt a lot."

Nightingale flinched back, astonished.

"But why?" pressed Robin in a whine like an unhappy dog's. "Why would he want to hurt her like that?"

"Because he's angry," said Clarence, waving his hand airily.

"He was more than angry, Clarence," said Robin, staring worriedly after his friend. "I've never seen him like that. Though he's often cold and sometimes mean-spirited, he's never like that. I just don't understand why."

Clarence sighed. "Surely you do, Robin, if you think about it," he said.

"The case?" suggested Robin, though, based on the way his tentative suggestion fell flat, he was not convinced with his explanation.

Clarence shook his head in such a way that Nightingale was taken for a moment by the way his hair bounced. "No. It's not because of the case. He trusts the two of us not to compromise the case. Despite what he says, he even trusts me. No, he's angry for a different reason."

Nightingale did not miss how Clarence's eyes flickered to her face. Nor did she miss how, when their eyes met, she marvelled at the beauty of his.

Realization seemed to dawn on Robin, for he nodded, eyes wide and sad. "Oh," was all he said.

"Mind telling me that reason?" asked Nightingale, crossing her arms and glaring between them.

"Yes," said Clarence, responding to Robin. "It's why he wanted to hurt her. He wanted to hurt her as badly as she's hurt him."

"How have I hurt him?" demanded Nightingale, growing more waspish as the two men continued to ignore her. "How on earth have I ever wronged David?"

Immediately, in a unison so perfect it looked rehearsed, Robin and Clarence eyed her, both seeming to appraise her. As if on ratchets, their heads turned in an eerie synchronization. With Robin on her right and Clarence on her left, they both stared at her with the exact same expression of curiosity on their faces.

Nightingale gave a frustrated shout. "Tell me," she hissed menacingly, drawing herself to her full height.

"No," said Robin and Clarence, still in unison. They looked at each other, a ghost of Robin's lopsided smile appearing at their synchrony.

"For now, it's best that we keep quiet about this," Clarence assured her, reaching out to stroke her arm. She gave him a withering look, refusing to fall prey to his charms.

"Yes," concurred Robin, his head bobbing. "Nightingale, forgive David."

"Forgive him?" she shrieked. Robin tried to hush her, but she shook him off. "Forgive him? He dragged me here to berate me for what he feels was my stupidity, forced me to call him 'Detective Beckett', and then called me a slut! I think I'm entitled to demand an apology before I forgive him!"

As she said it, a certain vicious pleasure wormed its way into Nightingale's mind. As much as her unhappiness with David made her more miserable than she cared to admit, being able to openly express her fury with him was exhilarating.

"Nightingale, Nightingale," purred Clarence, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Please, calm down."

Even his charm had no effect on her fury. But when Robin stepped forward, she found herself calmed better than all those literary recitations had ever done for her.

"Miss Nightingale," cooed Robin, kissing her cheek. She immediately blushed. "Do you trust me?"

She turned to him, staring into his dark, sincere eyes. He smiled at her encouragingly, that quirky, warm smile.

"Yes," she said. "More than anyone else."

His smile became hundred-watted with pleasure and he practically glowed. "Then trust me now. Don't ask us why David is so angry. It will do no one any good. Please, for me, just trust that it's nothing you've done wrong."

When Nightingale opened her mouth to protest but Robin hushed her.

"Trust me," he said.

"Fine," she huffed, tapping his chest with her index finger. "But don't think I'm happy about this."

He smiled. "Thank you."

She gave a massive sigh and sank down onto the sofa. She'd just stretched out and settled comfortably when Robin alighted at her feet. She'd just smiled at him when she felt Clarence come to stand at her shoulder.

"Well, isn't this lovely," she remarked. "Just sitting here doing nothing while Detective Beckett sulks like a child. One of you two, entertain me. I'm bored."

Robin laughed at her commanding tone. "As you wish, Miss Nightingale," he said, his beautiful voice made even lovelier by his mirth.

And, Nightingale and Clarence joining him in his laughter, Nightingale felt a surge of happiness. She forgot about the bordello, forgot about Rose and her sisters, whom she had abandoned without so much as a goodbye, and even forgot about David sulking in the next room.