Inamorata

Chapter Six - The Lamb

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?"