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For years, Thomas never thinks of it. He doesn't let himself linger on the inevitability of Peter's aging, refuses to indulge in the fantasy of Peter following Thomas’s example and having immortality dropped onto his head. It simply isn’t a priority, not when Peter is already so young, not when there is simply so much to do.
Thomas is entirely wrapped up in making sure Peter makes it through his apprenticeship, that he and London do not fall victim to the wretched plans of Chorley--and Lesley May--to think of what will happen in ten years, in fifteen, in twenty. He's determined that Peter will live--will thrive--and that the Folly will thrive with him. That's enough, for a time.
And then Peter proposes to Beverley Brook, and every issue Thomas has put to the side, every potential problem he’s studiously ignored--it all rises up to the surface, impossible to deny any longer.
*
Tyburn is an problem throughout, of course--no one expected anything else. Peter says as much when he confirms that Beverley has agreed to marry him, admitting with a rueful smile, “We’re going to go and tell her family tomorrow night--so expect flooding along the Tyburn for a few days.”
“Days?” Thomas retorts, but with a smile to hopefully ease the sting of it. “It’ll be weeks at least.”
Peter chuckles, but gives Thomas a sidelong look. “You’ve never been bothered by it,” he says slowly.
Thomas pauses, surprised at the implied question. “No,” he agrees. “It’s never been my place to--” he stops at this, because Peter is giving him a raised eyebrow, and Thomas has to acknowledge that if he had wanted to make it his place to intervene, he easily could have tried.
Not that it would have done him much good, against a determined Peter and a determined Beverley. Not that Thomas had ever wanted to in the first place.
“I didn’t want to interfere,” he says. “And I look forward to dancing at your wedding.”
Peter’s answering smile at this is a delight to see, almost as much as the way Molly openly fusses over his wardrobe on the night he’s to go over to Mama Thames’s house in Wapping so he and Beverley can officially inform her family of their intentions. From the way Molly’s inspecting Peter’s attire, you’d think he was off to have tea with King Charles.
“I don’t think there’s any lint left,” Peter says at last, and Molly gives him an impatient look, but she does leave off brushing at his shoulders. “Well, wish me luck.”
“I’ll hope for a lack of flooding tonight,” Thomas says dryly, and Peter rolls his eyes as he heads off.
For all of Thomas’ teasing, and all of Molly’s fussing, he genuinely has every reason to believe things will go smoothly. Well, as smoothly as it can when you have a wizard from the Folly marrying a goddess of the River Thames. If Mother Thames really did have any objections to Peter and Beverley’s relationship, it would have all come to a head years before now.
Except that when Peter comes back to the Folly, late that evening, it’s with a frown on his face, a tension in his jaw that has Thomas immediately asking without thinking twice, “Peter, what happened?”
Peter visibly hesitates before responding. “It--no, it went all right. Wedding’s still on, don’t worry. Just…” he shrugs. “Tyburn was there, and she…”
“Made things difficult?” Thomas offers, as delicately as he can, and tries his best to bite back his own irritation at Cecelia.
Peter chuckles, but without any real amusement behind it. “You could say that.” For a moment, Thomas thinks Peter will leave it at that, but instead of exiting the room or changing the subject, Peter bites at his lip and admits, “I wish--I just wish Beverley didn’t have to make so many compromises being with me, you know? That for just one minute, things could be easy.”
“They will be,” Thomas says, gently. “And even if…” He hesitates, but something makes him push onward, past his own reticence. “I think Beverley considers any compromises she makes well-worth it.”
His cheeks feel a little hot as he says this, but he’s rewarded when Peter looks at him, startled, some of the tension finally leaving his face. And at last, Peter’s mouth quirks upward, and he says, “No chance of us avoiding flooding this week. Sorry.”
Thomas lets out a brief sigh, but makes sure to smile at Peter fondly as he says, “The Thames Valley will survive, I’m sure.”
*
Thomas can’t exactly explain what makes him seek Beverley out, three days later. Perhaps it’s the flooding that has indeed been happening this week, the burst pipes along Hyde Park, the flooded homes near Twickenham. Perhaps it’s Peter’s distracted air, Abigail’s worried looks, or perhaps it’s the long, indignant call he fielded from Irene Grant, torn between pride at her son’s engagement and outrage at the notion that anyone could view Peter and Beverley’s marrying with disapproval.
But mostly, he thinks he seeks Beverley out because she is a friend.
So Thomas comes to Beverley’s home, a bottle of wine from the Folly’s cellar tucked under his arm, and a flutter of nerves as he knocks on the door.
When Beverley answers the door, her eyes go wide from surprise. “I hope I’m not intruding,” Thomas offers, wishing he’d thought to call beforehand.
“No,” Beverley says after a slight pause. “No, I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you.” Thomas blinks, but when Beverley stands to the side to let him in, he enters the house without hesitation.
They settle in the living room, Thomas perching on the edge of his seat as Beverley pours the wine into a mug and a wine glass. Thomas gets the wine glass, and Beverley curls up on the opposite corner of the couch with the mug in her her hand, her bare feet tucked beneath her as she looks at Thomas consideringly.
There’s nothing for it, Thomas decides, but to get to the point. “I know it’s been a rather...difficult few days.”
Beverley’s mouth curls. “Difficult is one way of putting it.” She looks at Thomas for a moment longer, and Thomas sees the exact moment when she comes to some sort of decision, taking a breath before saying, “You’re part of the problem, you know.” As Thomas stares at her, she adds, “At least, you are according to Ty.”
“Ah,” Thomas says.
“But then,” Beverley continues with a tight smile, “--my sister says a lot of things. Like how I’ll always come second to you and to the Folly. Like how it’s a mistake, tying myself to a man who can never--” Beverley’s voice hitches slightly, but she goes on, “--who will never be able to walk into the river with me.”
Thomas lets out a slow breath. “Cecelia indeed has a great deal to say,” he agrees, carefully trying to pick his way through this minefield.
“Yeah,” Beverley says, an unreadable expression on her lovely face. “But right now I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Me?”
“Sure,” Beverley says. “You’re here, you’ve come to my house with a gift in hand, surely it wasn’t to see the state of my garden or check on the rising water level.” Thomas isn’t stupid enough to not hear the challenge in the words, see it in the tilt of her chin.
Thomas looks down at his own glass, considers, and then says very quietly, “Beverley, I’m sorry.” The silence that answers him is one of surprise, and when he looks up again, Beverley’s dark eyes are very wide.
Thomas takes a deep breath and pushes on, because this should be said, needs to be said. “I know this is a serious issue for you, for your family. And if there was a way to let him--if Peter could go with you into your river and still be able to come back to the Folly, Beverley, please believe me--I wouldn't dream of standing in the way.”
Beverley presses her lips together, tightly, before responding. “I know that. I know you--” she waves her hand at him, “I know you...approve of me or whatever you want to call it, you’ve been better about all this than my own sister has, for--” She stops, swallowing hard, and Thomas is torn between wondering what she was about to say, and thinking perhaps it’s something he shouldn’t hear.
And when she looks down at her mug, and promptly downs half of it in one go, Thomas is nearly sure he doesn’t want to hear it, and quite sure that he will.
“You ever think about it?” Beverley asks him once she’s finished drinking her wine, her eyes brighter now, more desperate.
“About what?” Thomas asks, confused.
“You ever think about--about what it’ll be like in twenty years? Once Peter starts to look older than you, once he starts to slow down, with gray hair and arthritic joints. You don’t ever think about...finding ways to fix it? Change it, somehow?”
Thomas holds himself very still, and Beverley turns her head away with a jerk, waving her hand as if she could wipe her own words away. “Forget it, I’ve...I’ve been listening to Tyburn too much, the wine’s gone to my head--”
“I’ve tried not to think of it,” Thomas says, the admission rising up to the surface, unbidden. He’s dimly aware of gripping the wine glass too tightly around the stem, as Beverley turns an astonished gaze back to him, he sets his glass down on the table with a faint thunk. “But I suppose...it still feels very early, to be worrying about it. Peter’s always seemed so young to me, you see.”
“Yeah,” Beverley says, her voice very quiet, looking so young herself as she sits there on the couch, her feet curled up beneath her. “But he won’t always be.”
“No,” Thomas agrees, an ache starting to bloom, deep in his chest. “No, he very likely won’t.” And that was perhaps the most optimistic of endings, because while Chorley was gone, the dangers of their jobs had hardly ended, anything could happen when you were a police officer and a wizard, that business in Edinburgh six months ago was proof of that much--
But it was...it was still somehow impossible to imagine, a Folly without Peter Grant in it, without Peter conducting his careful experiments in the lab, notebooks stacked on a table, full of his cramped handwriting, the echo of his signare sinking into the walls, etching his presence into the long history of the building.
“Anything could happen between now and then,” Thomas says hastily, as much to cut off the train of his thoughts as to reassure Beverley, to wipe the unhappiness away from her face.
A corner of Beverley’s mouth twists. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“And,” Thomas says, because while it stings to say it, it still has to be said, the offer has to be made. “--once the Folly is better established, once we have more apprentices, if Peter wished to go into your river, if you both wished it--I wouldn’t object.”
Beverley takes a long breath. “Thank you,” she says, her voice low and sincere, but then she hesitates, and blurts out, “But even then, I--” She closes her eyes, and admits, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that to him, take him away from the Folly for good.”
I wish Beverley didn’t have to make so many compromises, Peter had said.
After a moment, Thomas says, “I don’t think...when that day comes, I don’t think Peter will see it as something you’ve done to him. It’ll be a choice that he makes with you. And hopefully, by that point, we’ll have found a way to adjust the Folly’s wards, at the very least.”
“Yeah,” Beverley says, more thoughtfully. “That would be something.”
She seems better now, more settled, and Thomas smiles softly and moves to get up to his feet. “Well, I shouldn’t take up more of your time--”
“You don’t have to rush out,” Beverley says quickly, and then looks a little surprised at her own words. As Thomas blinks at her, she says, looking only a little bit embarrassed, “It’s just--I was going to make a gin and tonic and watch a film. You’re welcome to stay, if you like. You can fill me in on all the gossip at the Folly.”
Thomas considers it, asking, “What film?”
“It’s a period drama, you’ll love it,” Beverley says, giving him a sly smile, one that lets Thomas in on the joke.
“So long as it’s not one of those shoot-em-out films,” Thomas says dryly, settling back in his seat, and Beverley laughs.
“Up,” she corrects, just as Thomas knew she would. “Shoot-em-up films.”
It’s a rather pleasant evening, on the whole. Thomas has in fact seen this film before--it’s one of Molly’s favorites--but he doesn’t mind seeing it again, especially with Beverley’s amusing commentary.
After the film is finished, Beverley walks him to the door, saying, “Thank you for the wine--and for the company.”
“My pleasure,” Thomas says, and means it.
*
It all works itself out in the end, of course. Before the year is out, Thomas finds himself dancing at Peter and Beverley’s wedding, taking Mrs. Grant out for a turn around the dance floor to Ella Fitzgerald while keeping an eye out for Abigail and keeping a mental tally for Molly on just how many of her pastries are disappearing--but all the while, his gaze is drawn to Peter and Beverley, sitting at the head of their table in their wedding finery, their faces alight with joy.
There’s a faint ache in his chest, looking at them, but it’s the sort of ache Thomas wouldn’t trade for anything.
Irene catches him looking and turns to glance over her shoulder, her own expression approving. “They look well together, don’t they,” she says, her voice rich with satisfaction.
“They always have,” Thomas agrees, and carefully leads her into a small spin.
*
And so it goes, and the years pass, and Peter reaches the end of his apprenticeship not a moment too soon, as the Folly acquires two new apprentices in the space of one very eventful week, one of them a nephew of one of the Little Crocodiles, the other a promising PC just out of probation.
The first day that they welcome Priya and Adam into the Folly, Thomas feels an almost overwhelming sense of dislocation on seeing their young faces, their eyes wide from awe and surprise, and the feeling of having Peter there, seeing his grinning face as he patiently answers Priya’s questions about the statue of Isaac Newton and he distracts Adam from Molly’s suspicious looks.
Thomas is more than happy to hold himself back a little, let Peter and Abigail take the lead in giving the tour, setting out the general lay of the land. It’s worth it for the moment when they’re all in the labs and Peter’s showing everyone the ponchos and goggles he’d ordered “in case of exploding apples,” he’d explained in grave tones, and while Adam and Priya stared at him blankly, Thomas had smirked to himself, only for Peter to catch his eye and give him a quick wink, looking so mischievous and pleased with himself and all of twenty-five again--
And something in Thomas’s chest lurches at the sight of Peter standing there, at realizing that he truly does seem as though he’s twenty-five still--or really, that Peter looks as he always has, young and handsome and full of life, practically unchanged since the day he first walked into the Folly.
Thomas can feel the thought creeping around the edge of his mind, and ruthlessly shoves it to one side, where it can gather dust and he will never ever look at it straight on, or at least...at least not until he has to look at it, until it becomes necessary to...to deal with it. Whatever it may be.
If anyone notes his brief lapse into silence, no one comments--Abigail gives him a curious look over her shoulder, but Thomas gives her a reassuring smile, and Abigail grins back and turns her attention back to Peter, who is solemnly assuring a deeply skeptical Priya and an alarmed-looking Adam that exploding things in the lab is not only expected, it’s encouraged.
“Say rather, that we’re resigned to it,” Thomas interjects dryly, and it’s worth the effort to make sure his voice stays steady when he has the chance to see Peter laugh like that, his eyes crinkling, that brilliant smile spreading across his face.
There are no laugh lines etched into the corners of his eyes, though. Thomas makes a point of looking.
*
For months afterward, Thomas doesn’t say anything. What can he say, really? It’s not as though he has any proof. The mere absence of any visible signs of aging isn’t--it doesn’t prove anything, that there are no hints of gray at Peter’s temples, no softening of the skin around his jawline. It’s a new century, a new time, and people don’t wear their age as obviously as they used to do, and just because Thomas can’t yet tell if Peter’s ageing or not, that doesn’t mean that he--that he’s become--
But every time Thomas’s thoughts lead to the same place, try as he might to put it to one side, it still lingers there, like an unquiet ghost.
And then Molly starts to hang up new photographs in one of the galleries, and Thomas no longer has any excuses left.
Molly’s chosen her photographs well--there’s one of Thomas and Peter with the last of the old crowd, at that first open house at Casterbrook, another of Abigail at her graduation from Hendon, beaming in her new uniform, Thomas to one side of her, Beverley and Peter on the other, with Abigail’s parents and Irene Grant around them all. There more photographs, including some of Thomas in his younger days before the war. For once Thomas can let his gaze slide past that without any sting, because at the very end is a photograph of Peter at his own graduation from Hendon, an arm around both his parents, smiling for the camera.
And in every photograph of Peter on the wall, he looks exactly the same, looks as though he hasn’t aged a day, looks just the same in these photographs as he looked yesterday, going over Priya’s Latin homework in the study, his head bent over the desk.
Thomas stares at the photographs until the images all turn into a colorful blur, his heart pounding with what Thomas finally, finally has to acknowledge is hope--painful hope, but hope all the same.
It still might not be true. But it could be true, it could have already happened when Thomas wasn’t looking, and perhaps he’s just now finally seeing the evidence of it, it’s just now becoming harder to deny.
Or Thomas is just deluding himself. Seeing what he wants to see, wanting this to be true so badly that he’s tricked his brain into seeing something that isn’t there.
After another long moment, Thomas makes himself take a step back, away from the photographs on the wall. There’s no point to--to tormenting himself further. Either it’s true or it isn’t, either he will be proven right, or--or he won’t, and they’ll still have to go from there.
His gaze slides, almost against his will, to that last photograph of Peter at Hendon, and Thomas swallows.
He’s never actually said so in so many words--not out loud, and certainly never to Peter’s face-- but Thomas has been aware from the very start how damned lucky he was, that it was Peter in that alley in Covent Garden so long ago. So ridiculously lucky that it was Peter there attempting to interview a ghost, that it was Peter who was the one to finally say yes to Thomas’s offer of an apprenticeship, that it was Peter there next to him for every dangerous case, that it was Peter willing to take on the long, slow work of bringing the Folly in step with modern times.
Thomas, in short, has been so damned lucky to have Peter here with him that it beggars belief, and that will be true no matter what comes next. Whether Peter...whether Peter dies tomorrow, sixty years from now, or simply stays locked in his twenties for the next century and a half, that can’t erase the history in these photographs, that won’t change the simple truth that Peter...that he has been everything that the Folly needed, and far more than Thomas could have asked for.
“Are you alright?” Beverley asks two days later, when Thomas comes to her and Peter’s house for dinner.
“Quite all right,” Thomas says, a little distractedly, looking over at the kitchen where Peter’s putting the finishing touches on dinner.
When he turns back to Beverley, she’s raised an eyebrow at him, curious.
Thomas hesitates, and then says, abruptly, “Peter’s been looking well, these days.”
He’s not even sure what he expects from her in response--a quizzical look perhaps, or maybe a fond smile sent Peter’s way--but what he doesn’t expect is for Beverley’s face to go still, her dark eyes alert as she looks at Thomas as if--
“Yeah,” Beverley says slowly, watching his face as she tests the waters. “I’ve been thinking the same thing myself, lately.”
Thomas can feel his heart racing a little faster at this, and he can already feel the question forming, have you noticed that Peter--
Except then Peter calls out from the kitchen, “All right, one of you come in here and taste this, I need a second opinion,” and the moment is broken, and Beverley is putting a smile on her face and gesturing for Thomas to follow her in.
The food tastes delicious, of course--Peter’s a better cook than he likes to take credit for--and it goes well with the Red Stripe that Thomas had brought over for dinner.
At the table, the subject of Peter’s mother comes up. “She’s doing all right at the care home,” Peter said, a shadow passing over his face. “Settling in nicely, making friends.” He bites at his lip and doesn’t say anything else, and Beverley reaches out to squeeze his hand on top of the table.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Thomas says, swallowing against the tightness in his throat--he’s done this too many times, watched as friends and acquaintances faded away to age and to time, but it’s a fresher sort of pain now, imagining himself at Irene Grant’s funeral--imagining Peter at his mother’s funeral, his face twisted from grief and loss.
“Yeah,” Peter says softly, before visibly shaking himself out of it, and determinedly changing the subject to Priya’s habit of trying to sneak in extra magical practice so that she could catch up with Adam, and whether it was a good idea to bring Adam along for the next visit to the Quiet People.
“He does have a tendency to put the demi-monde off,” Thomas says, as mildly as he can, but it still brings him a sharp look from Peter.
“Well, he won’t improve without practice,” Peter points out.
Beverley snorts as she goes to get another can of beer, saying, “Just so long as you don’t have him practicing with my sisters. They’ll have him tied up in knots before you can so much as blink.” She pauses, and adds, “It’d help if he got cheaper suits.”
“Do you think so?” Thomas asks curiously, and Peter pulls a face.
“The bespoke thing doesn’t exactly help,” he concedes. “I mean, it’s one thing when it’s you, you’re the Nightingale, people are used to you walking around looking like a star from an old Hollywood film--” Thomas can feel his eyebrows twitching upwards as Peter gestures at him, “--but it’s different with Adam.”
“Mm,” Thomas says. “I could discuss it with him, if you like.” Peter gets that pleased look on his face, the one he only gets after Thomas volunteers to do something Peter’s been wanting to tell him to do, but didn’t know how to ask him for in the first place. It’s getting rarer these days, mostly because Peter’s lost whatever reserve he still had in bossing Thomas about, but Thomas recognizes it immediately even now.
“Good,” Peter says. “I’m pretty sure Molly’s been debating whether or not to accidentally let something happen to them.”
“She’d never do it,” Beverley protests as she gets back to the table, beer can in her hand. “It’d be too much of a blow to her professional pride.”
“I think you underestimate how much Adam annoys her, though,” Peter points out, and then both he and Beverley look over at Thomas at this, as if he’s somehow the root cause of Molly’s disapproval.
The unfortunate part is that he knows exactly what they’re referring to. “Adam does have a tendency to remind some people of my old colleagues,” Thomas says as neutrally as he can; he and Peter have discussed this before and have always come to the same conclusions about it, and Thomas agrees with those conclusions, it’s just--
When people say that Adam is a reminder of Thomas’ old colleagues, they don’t mean it as a compliment. And when Thomas thinks of it, of how at times, Adam feels like a reflection of what the Folly used to be, what Thomas used to be, when he is a living representative of the type of apprentice that Thomas would have once considered ideal--well.
“I’ll talk to her,” Thomas says. “And to Adam about the suits.”
“Excellent,” Peter says with another of his pleased smiles, settling back into his chair. “Oh, before I forget, I was talking to Dominic--DI Croft, from Herefordshire--on Facebook the other day, he and Victor are definitely coming in for the FA Cup final.”
“Oh, that’ll be nice,” Beverley says, sounding pleased. “We’ll have to have them for dinner.”
“Yeah, it’ll be like the old days, we’ll have a unicorn come rampaging through the kitchen,” Peter jokes.
*
It’s a Wednesday morning when everything comes to a head, and Thomas doesn’t see it approaching in the slightest. He’s busy in the labs with Adam and Priya, teaching them scindere--well, re-teaching it in Adam’s case.
“This forma will be a major building block for you,” he explains, and then, to avoid the appearance of seeming to insult Adam’s (admittedly shoddy and haphazard) training prior to his formal entrance into the Folly, Thomas nods over at the table that Peter burned a hole through nearly--dear Lord, that was fifteen years ago now. “Go through it too fast, and when you attempt to use it in higher-order spells you’ll just burn through things. Literally.”
“That’s what happened to that table?” Priya asks, her eyebrows flying up her forehead.
“Peter had a remarkable talent for destruction in the early days of his apprenticeship,” Thomas says, dryly. “Before he came along, I didn’t know it was even possible to do that with lux iactus scindere.”
Adam is peering at the table more closely, and lets out a low whistle.
“Precisely,” Thomas says, picking up an apple from the pile on a nearby table, and handing it to Priya. “Shall we begin?”
Peter comes into the room not soon after, while Adam and Priya are occupied in attempting to have their apples levitate in midair.
Peter’s footsteps are quiet and Thomas has his back turned to the door, so it’s not until he hears the strain in Peter’s voice that he realizes something’s amiss, right as Peter asks tightly, “Thomas, can I have a word?”
Thomas looks behind him at that, his ears pricking, and Peter’s face is drawn tight with tension, lips thinned.
Concerned, Thomas holds back his first few questions--is something wrong with Beverley, is your mother all right--and quickly excuses them both from the room, leaving their apprentices to it and following Peter out of the room.
“Is something the matter?” he asks Peter as soon as the door is closed behind them, but Peter shakes his head, clearly unwilling to discuss whatever the issue is within earshot of Adam or Priya. So instead they go into the magical library, Thomas watching the straight line of Peter’s back as he bites back his impatience and worry as best as he can.
At first he thinks that it’s Peter’s mother, that Irene’s taken a turn for the worse, but it’s not devastation he sees in Peter’s face as he finally turns around to look at Thomas, only that tightly coiled tension. “Peter, what’s wrong?”
Peter stares at him for a long moment, and then asks, “Did you know?”
Utterly baffled at this point, Thomas asks him, “Did I know what?”
He’s not at all prepared for what Peter says next. “That I wasn’t aging. That I haven’t been aging, not since Skygarden.”
Thomas feels the revelation wash over him like cold water, and Peter doesn’t miss it, of course he doesn’t, he can read Thomas’ face as easily as Thomas can read his. “So that’s a yes, then,” Peter says, the angry snap to his voice obvious. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
Thomas has half a dozen questions burning in the back of his head, when did Peter realize, is he sure--but this is certainly not the time to ask, not when Peter is so obviously upset at the news, and at his belief that Thomas was deliberately concealing information from him.
So Thomas tries to explain, as best as he can, the waiting game that he and Beverley had been stuck in, knowing just enough to suspect but not nearly enough to confirm. It doesn’t work, the unhappy curve to Peter’s mouth is testimony to that, and finally all Thomas can do is admit, “I wanted so badly for it to be true that I didn’t trust my judgment on the matter.”
Something in Peter’s face clears at hearing that, and he looks at Thomas silently, his dark eyes filled with understanding. Thomas looks back at him, as steadily as he can, and that feeling of being...of being exposed doesn’t embarrass him like it once would have.
It’s Peter, after all.
“You still should have said something,” Peter says finally, but any lingering anger in his voice is gone this time.
“Yes,” Thomas can concede now, “I likely should have, but Peter…” He hesitates before continuing, but at last admits, “I thought eventually you’d see it on your own. Surely you must have noticed.” After all, it’s been fifteen years, and the only thing to change about Peter’s appearance is the length of his hair and the quality of his suits. And of course, the addition of the ring on his left hand.
Something flickers across Peter’s face at this, but all he says is, “Well, clearly I didn’t.”
For one long moment, looking at Peter’s unhappy face, Thomas can feel nothing but bewilderment, because this is--this is the result he hardly dared to hope for, a reprieve he thought would never come. All these years of funerals, of standing still and watching the world go by, and then Peter came and--
Haltingly, Thomas tries to ask, saying, “I understand your irritation with me, of course, but...you don’t seem pleased at the news.”
Peter’s face shifts at this, expression flickering, and Thomas understands the truth, that Peter is unhappy at this news, even if Thomas can’t fully understand why.
But he holds his tongue, and doesn’t press Peter for more. After all, there’ll be time for everything to sort itself out.
As he follows Peter out of the room, looking at the straight lines of his back and shoulders, Thomas is reminded again of just how much time there is now, and he feels all over again the overwhelming relief of it.
*
The following week is fairly quiet. Peter seems to be contemplating things, and Thomas tries to give him the needed space to do so. Thankfully, Adam and Priya haven’t seemed to notice anything, and if Molly or Abigail have observed anything amiss, they’ve kept it to themselves.
As for Thomas, if sometimes he catches himself watching Peter’s youthful, unlined face and feeling a sudden burst of gladness, he has the grace to keep it to himself.
On Friday afternoon, though, as they’re going over various odds and ends, Peter says casually from where he’s reviewing Priya’s Latin assignment, “Are you free Sunday evening?”
“I am, why?” Thomas asks.
Peter finally lifts his head, and gives Thomas a small smile. “Nothing, just wanted to see if you wanted to come over for dinner.”
Oh. After a second, Thomas offers, “I could bring wine.”
Peter’s smile gets a little wider, and he says teasingly, “Just don’t let Bev look up the label on her phone--or if she does, don’t let her show me the results.”
Thomas ducks his head to hide his own sudden grin, but offers in a dry voice, “Somehow I think I can manage that much.”
And so Thomas arrives on Sunday evening, wine bottle in hand, prepared for another pleasant evening at Peter and Beverley’s house, just like so many he’s spent before. What he’s not prepared for is to Peter to answer the door with at least two days’ worth of stubble on his face.
Thomas blinks, and then says, his gaze fixed on Peter’s jaw, “Growing a beard, I see.”
Peter rubs at his unshaven chin, looking a little abashed. “Yeah, Beverley thinks it’ll age me up a bit. Give us a little more breathing room.”
Thomas tilts his head to one side, considering it. Truthfully, Peter carries off the stubble well, and if Thomas pictures Peter with the full beard, with his usual confidence and bearing-- “You’ll carry the beard well, I think,” he says slowly, surprised.
Behind Peter, Beverley’s coming to the door, her full skirt floating around her legs as she walks. “He’s definitely got the bone structure for it,” she agrees happily, taking the bottle from Thomas’s hand as she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling of oranges and ice--a new perfume, Thomas assumes.
Both of them survey Peter’s face for a moment, and Thomas is standing closely enough that he can see the growing flush on Peter’s cheeks. “I agree,” Thomas says to Beverley, starting to smirk. “It’ll look good with his jawline.”
Peter is definitely blushing now, but he still makes a point of rolling his eyes as he holds out his hand to take Thomas’s coat. Beverley is the one to lead Thomas into the house and off to the kitchen, her arm linked through his. “He’s getting used to it now, I think,” she says in an undertone, glancing back at Peter, who’s carefully hanging Thomas’ coat in the closet. “Finally sinking in that this is real.”
“Good,” Thomas says, in an equally soft voice.
“Oh, and when he asks you about the teeth thing, you don’t have to feel obligated to answer,” Beverley says quickly, and as Thomas turns to her in confusion, Peter’s already joining him, and the subject--both on Peter’s acceptance of his immortality and whatever ridiculous question he has involving teeth--is tabled for the moment.
Dinner is wonderful, but Thomas wouldn’t expect anything else. The food is excellent--Peter’s a far better cook than he wants to admit to being--but it’s the company that matters. Not just Peter, but Beverley too--her ease around Thomas, the way she uses his first name so easily, as though she’s always done it.
Although this dinner is different, Thomas must admit--if nothing else, because Thomas can look at the two of them and not be reminded that someday, Peter won’t be there.
Peter catches him staring, and asks, confused, “What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Thomas says quickly, taking a long drink from his wine glass. Barely two glasses of wine in, and he’s already growing maudlin, good grief.
“I’ll get the chocolate tart out,” Beverley says as she gets to her feet, giving Thomas a sympathetic glance as she goes that signals that she knows what Thomas’s earlier expression meant.
Peter lights up at the mention of dessert, and he says, “That actually reminds me, I’ve got a question to ask you--”
Beverley groans theatrically as she heads off to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Remember what I said, Thomas, you don’t have to answer him.”
“Answer what,” Thomas asks, bewildered, as Peter retorts to Beverley, “Yes he does, don’t be so discouraging!” He turns back to Thomas, elbows on the table as he leans in, face alight with what the apprentices have termed Peter’s ‘science face’, and Thomas’ amusement turns to utter befuddlement as Peter asks, “The thing is, I’ve been wondering about your teeth.”
Thomas stares at him. “My teeth,” he repeats, blankly.
“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding as if this is perfectly reasonable. And from one angle, it really almost is--after all, it’s been fifteen years, for God’s sake, he really should expect nothing less from Peter at this point. “That’s the thing I can’t work out about this whole immortality business--what the hell happens to our teeth as time goes on? The whole point of human teeth is that they wear down with time, there’s only so much that modern dentistry can do to prevent that, but what about people like us? Are they just like, forever stuck at a certain stage in a person’s development? Will my teeth always stay in the state they were in when I was in my twenties? Or do they regrow themselves?” He looks a little more closely at Thomas’ mouth and asks, “Those aren’t dentures, are they?”
Thomas stares at him, and then turns to call out to Beverley, “If you have another bottle tucked away, I wouldn’t say no to it right now.”
“Already ahead of you,” Beverley says as she comes back in, wine bottle in one hand, chocolate tart in the other, three forks jammed straight into the center.
“Thank God,” Thomas says in all sincerity.
“Does it help if I tell you that I tried to get these answers out of Beverley first?” Peter offers.
“Like I said, feel free to ignore him,” Beverley says in a conspiratorial tone, pouring herself another glass, and then refilling Thomas’s glass as well. “I usually do.”
“Oi,” Peter says, protesting; Beverley just laughs and gives him a wink.
“Still love you, babes,” she says cheekily, and Peter scoffs, but Thomas can still see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
*
It’s late by the time Thomas finally takes his leave--Peter and Beverley had offered to put him up in their guest room for the night, but Thomas has an early morning tomorrow, and he’d rather not have to start his day struggling through London’s traffic anymore than he already will have to.
So he says his goodbyes and turns to head off to the cab, but to his surprise, Beverley says, “Hang on, I’ll walk you out.”
Thomas blinks, but finds himself oddly charmed, both at the offer and at the way that Beverley threads her arm through his again as they walk out the front door. He’s not nearly inebriated enough to need the support, but it’s rather companionable.
“Thank you for having me tonight,” he says, the night air cool on his face as they slowly make their way to the waiting cab.
“Thanks for coming over,” Beverley says, and laughs as she adds, “And for confirming to Peter that you don’t have dentures--he’s been looking for a new project, and this is going to keep him busy for ages.”
Thomas laughs at this. “Oh, I know. He’s one conversation with Abdul away from inviting himself along to my next dentist appointment.”
They reach the cab, and the cabbie rolls down his windows to ask, “You Nightingale?”
“Yes,” Thomas confirms, and turns to Beverley. “Thank you again for inviting me over, this was lovely. Ridiculous questions about teeth and all.”
Beverley smiles up at him, but her expression wavers, and then, before Thomas can quite realize what’s happening, she takes in a deep breath and steps forward--
--and is hugging him, her arms squeezing tightly around his back, her face pressed into the front of his coat. Surprised, Thomas’s hands hover an inch or two away from her back, and he asks, worried, “Beverley? Is everything--”
“Sorry,” Beverley says, her voice muffled, not stepping away, not loosening her grip even an inch. “Sorry, I just--God, I’m just so fucking relieved about Peter.”
Thomas feels the truth of that hit him like a blow, remembering what it felt like, that moment Peter had said, I’m not aging, the sheer relief in having it confirmed at last. In knowing the one thing he could never shield Peter from was no longer something he had to fear.
Slowly, Thomas lets himself wrap his own arms around Beverley, carefully at first, and then he’s holding her in a grip every bit as tight as she’s got on him. “I know,” he says quietly into her ear. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Beverley sniffs, and when she finally pulls away from him, he can see that her eyes are shining, but she smiles wetly at him and says, “Of course you do. That’s why I like you.”
Thomas’s throat is too tight for him to speak at this moment, so that all he can do is look at Beverley in response, but it’s all right. He knows she understands him anyway.
Epilogue:
Peter’s new beard causes something of a sensation among the apprentices--and Molly--on the first day he appears with it, but it still takes a full week before the truth comes out.
It’s a night when Peter’s having dinner at the Folly--Beverley is out of town, doing business upriver for her mother--and when Peter casually mentions having an early morning appointment at UCH with Abdul, all of their apprentices stare at him.
Peter can’t help but notice, and his eyebrows start to rise a little as he asks, “What?”
“This will be your third appointment with Dr. Walid this week,” Priya says, in a tone more suited to uttering, this will be your third time going into the sewers.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees.
Priya’s mouth purses, and she looks over at Adam, who shakes his head a little, and then at Abigail, who looks back at her before looking at Peter and asking, “We’re asking if you’re sick. Or if there’s something else going on.”
Peter blinks. “Wait, this is what--okay, first, I’m not sick, there’s no need to worry about that.”
“Told you,” Adam says sotto voce to Priya, but he looks relieved all the same, as do Priya and Abigail.
“Have you been worrying about this all week?” Peter asks them next, and Priya lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
“I mean, you have been acting weird,” Adam concedes, with his usual disconcerting honesty. “You and Nightingale both--no offense, sir,” he adds quickly to Thomas. “The only reason I didn’t think that Peter was sick was because if he was, you’d be way more…” He trails off in the face of Thomas’s raised eyebrows, and Abigail discreetly coughs into her hand.
“What Adam’s trying to say,” she says, rolling her eyes at a blushing Adam, “--is that while we’re all glad you’re not sick, we’d also like to know what’s going on.”
Peter hesitates, and then looks at Thomas. Thomas looks back at him patiently, and Peter nods slightly before turning back to their apprentices, who are watching them both, waiting to hear whatever Peter’s about to tell them.
“Okay, I’m not sick. The reason I’ve been at UCH so much is because Dr. Walid and Dr. Vaughan are running tests, since it now appears that I’m...well, that I’m not aging anymore.”
There’s perfect silence around the table, all of the apprentices looking at Peter with blank expressions, as if they’re still waiting to hear more.
Clearly nonplussed at their reactions, Peter shrugs and says, “That’s it.”
Abigail’s the first to speak, her forehead starting to furrow as she says slowly, “But...wait, I don’t understand. Why’s this coming up now?”
“Because I just figured it out last week,” Peter explains, and there, that’s when the shocked expressions appear, with all of the apprentices--and Molly, Thomas is amused to discover--gaping at Peter as if he’s just stood on his head and started speaking in ancient Etruscan.
Abigail is, for once, too shocked for words, a hand clapped over his mouth as she stares fixedly at Peter, and so it falls to Priya to gasp out, “How?”
Adam’s even worse than the other two, as he visibly gropes for words before stumbling out with, “But you’ve been immortal for ages now, surely that’s not--it can’t be news to you.”
Thomas doesn’t dare look over to see the look on Peter’s face, he’s too busy occupied with keeping a straight face of his own. Whatever face Peter is making, it must be an expressive one as Adam continues, too astounded to be tactful--not that tact has ever been his strongest suit, blurting out, “But it’s so obvious, you look younger than any of us, and you were born in the eighties, for God’s sake--”
Thomas can’t resist any longer. He looks to the side, and one glance at Peter’s piqued expression is enough to push him over the edge, and Thomas gives in to the inevitable, dropping his face into his hand as he laughs out loud.