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I’ll be the first to admit that for a copper I can be surprisingly blind to things that are right in front of me. It’s not like people ever hesitate to point that out. Lesley in particular was always rather vocal about it, which makes me wonder: The last time she said it, was she trying to tell me something? The time before that? And that’s exactly the sort of thinking that gets you sectioned eventually, so – let’s leave it at that. What I’m trying to say is: Sometimes I overlook things and when people point it out to me, I always feel like the bloody fool I am.
To be fair, I was busy in the weeks following the fall of Skygarden. Whenever I wasn’t stuck on the wrong side of interview rooms, I was busy practicing, researching or – mostly at night – pacing and trying not to climb the walls in frustration. In other words: I was not in the best frame of mind to begin with.
Varvara Sidorovna, by comparison, was merely a nuisance. Granted, she was not what I’d call the ideal housemate, but I’ve had worse. The most she could do under Nightingale’s and Molly’s watchful gaze was the odd remark here and there or nagging me about wanting more unsupervised time in the coach house, preferably with access to the code for renting pay-per-view Russian sitcoms, which is what they’re using these days for slow torture. I mostly ignored her unless I was asked to witch-sit her for a while.
Mostly.
Then came the morning when me and Varvara were the first to appear for breakfast, and before I’d even had my first cup of tea, she pinned me in place with an open, curious stare.
“What?” I said after a moment, because really, that woman was as creepy as Molly on a bad day.
Varvara smiled. “I’m just looking for clues.”
That right there should have been my cue to let it go, but hindsight – and so on and so forth. “Clues for what?”
“You and the Nightingale.” She tilted her head, ignoring my sudden coughing fit because of course she’d say that just when I tried to take the first sip of my tea.
“What, are you telling me you’ve been living with him all this time and you’ve never…” She trailed off. “Oh. Well, then. Never mind.”
And just like that she pretended to become fascinated by the magazine she’d brought to the table, a small, content smirk on her face. It left me staring at her with my jaw hanging open until Nightingale appeared in the doorway and I had to pretend nothing had happened because I wasn’t about to repeat that suggestion in his presence, thank you very much.
So really: It’s all the fault of the Night Witch for even putting that thought in my head, because once it was there, it just wouldn’t leave.
Over the next couple of days I could tell Nightingale became increasingly frustrated with me and my lack of an explanation for this – whatever it was – that had suddenly turned into the elephant in the room. He was very polite about it, of course, but his reminders of “Peter, focus” during practice were Just. Not. Helping. Neither were the concerned glances whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice, or finally the suggestion that I might want to take an evening off to unwind – his expression, not mine – at the pub.
How do you explain though – especially to your governor – that you can’t help but fucking notice things all the fucking time now? “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll try the forma again and by the way the skin behind your ear looks really soft, mind if I check” or “I can’t focus because you have really elegant hands and do you know what they say about guys with long fingers” seemed somewhat inadequate. Besides, Nightingale’s irate expression is nothing short of frightening, and I didn’t want to risk it.
So when Nightingale suggested a night out for me, I accepted without even a token protest, which earned me yet another suspicious look. Seriously, no matter what I do, it’s wrong.
It was a Friday and Jaget Kumar happened to be available for a pint. If he also agreed with suspicious speed, I tried not to notice it too much. Jaget is good at checking your well-being with a covert once-over instead of asking stupid questions. Unfortunately, after we’d found a table and had a pint each in front of us, Jaget broke the rules.
“You seem really distracted,” he said, all matter-of-fact and pretending to watch the bar. “New case?”
Damn Russian witches and their mind games. “Nah. Training and stuff.”
Jaget glanced at me over the rim of his glass. “Uh-huh.” He paused. “So, how’s Nightingale?”
Of course I choked on my beer, because why do people keep asking questions when I’m trying to drink? Jaget simply watched me with raised brows until I’d recovered.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Jaget frowned. “Calm down there. I haven’t seen him in a while and I thought, after everything…” He must’ve seen my expression because he changed the topic immediately. I don’t remember what we ended up talking about, though. I kept thinking that a night out would’ve been a good thing for Nightingale too, because Jaget was right, of course. I’d seen the lines of tension around my governer’s eyes and the way he’d raked a hand through his hair in frustration only the day before, and how I couldn’t decide at the time if I wanted to smooth it back down or make him look even more dishevelled or –
Yeah, this was getting out of control and one of these days I’d have to find a way to get back to some professional distance. Besides, it wouldn’t do to choke on my drink whenever someone mentioned my boss.
So anyway, I may have tried to overcompensate some for the rocky start of the evening, which is the only reason I can come up with as for why me and Jaget ended up in a jazz bar which, if not actually part of the demi-monde, is at least frequented by its members, and that’s when my recollection gets a bit fuzzy. We happened to meet Beverly and a few of her sisters, and at one point Chelsea and Olympia gave me a kiss on the cheek simultaneously, one on each side, accompanied by a lot of giggling, but who knows. After that? Fuck if I know. I remember telling Jaget that he’d make an awesome dwarf if we ever played Dungeons & Dragons, and that may have been when he decided to put me into a cab and send me home.
I know I was still pondering the Nightingale-problem on the way back. The images followed me all the way to the Folly’s back entrance, up to the first floor landing on the stairs where the object of my frustrations happened to be standing with a bemused expression on his face.
I don’t know if he was simply surprised to see me meandering back home at half two in the morning or if he enjoyed my stumbling up the steps, but either way I’d just reached the drunk stage of hopeless self-pity and the humour in his eyes was the last straw. “No need to look so smug, it’s all your fault,” I all but growled as soon as I drew level with him.
Nightingale, posh bastard that he is, didn’t even flinch. The only outward sign of irritation was an eyebrow raised in question. “Had a good evening, then?” he asked evenly.
As I regarded him closely it became easier to decipher the look in his eyes, surprise and amusement but also caution, and in that moment it seemed only logical to make him face his role in all this, so I stepped even closer, right into his personal space, close enough to see his expression morph into something that on a less refined man would be astonishment until I was so close I couldn’t watch his expression anymore because my gaze dropped to his lips instinctively, and his tongue darted out to wet them, which by then really was too much to bear, so –
Alright, what I’m trying to say is, I threw myself at my boss and kissed him because it seemed like a good idea at the time, which goes to show that risk assessment is really hard to do under stress.
Even in my impaired state of mind it only took me a second to realize that Nightingale was not an active participant. In fact, he was by my best estimation not moving a muscle, standing frozen into immobility at my assault. It broke through my haze quicker than a defence would have, I reckon, enough for me to drop my arms which had wrapped around his waist entirely without my conscious input.
As I blinked and chanced looking directly into his eyes I was rewarded with the most pronounced open display of feelings I’d ever seen on Nightingale: Shock. Anger, dark but fleeting like a raincloud, giving way to something else entirely I couldn’t name, settling on – resignation? “I think maybe one pint too many, Peter,” he said lightly, with only a hint of mockery to get his point across.
And it wasn’t right. It was all wrong – me doing this, yes, but him brushing me off, that was worse. My hands curled into fists at my sides. “This is not about me drinking, sir,” I said it with as much emphasis as I could manage, suddenly desperate for him to understand. “This is about you and your, your suave ways and the suits and how is a bloke supposed to work on a new forma when you’re standing there all regal and I want to lick your jaw and – it’s just not fair.”
Nightingale’s eyes had widened during my outburst, but he made no move to interrupt me. As I thought back over what I’d just said, I rather wished he had. For a moment neither of us spoke. I stood in front of him, breathing heavily because apparently having a meltdown is hard work, and Nightingale slowly extended a hand to hold onto the banister as if he was on unsteady ground.
“Well, you have been somewhat distracted lately, but I thought…” He trailed off and shook his head before fixing me with an intense stare. “Something isn’t right.”
“Of course it isn’t. You’re wearing a goddamn dressing gown when your grey suit would be a lot more flattering and I’ve been wondering how long it’d take me to get that off you. You could do with some fun, it’s not like you don’t have enough on your mind to last a lifetime…”
I could tell my words had an effect on him by the way his cheeks reddened slightly, but he shook his head again. “Hold still,” he ordered, in his no-nonsense voice usually reserved for emergencies, the one I’m used to obeying that tone without question. I did my best to keep still and unmoving, which by the way was pretty fucking difficult because suddenly he stepped closerto me, put a hand on my cheek and closed his eyes.
Fuck, I’m going to kiss Nightingale, I thought, only a bit hysterically, but as my eyes drifted close in anticipation, I heard his quiet murmur: “Something… lowering inhibitions? Not true seducere, then, possibly some variant of – oh, interesting.”
I couldn’t exactly make sense of this commentary, which even for Nightingale was pretty low on the sweet-nothings-scale to whisper on an occasion such as this, but as I drew a breath to ask, Nightingale stepped back and released my cheek slowly, his thumb ghosting down my jaw before pulling away. “Interesting,” he repeated, his voice still low, but now with a certain coarse quality that I’d never noticed before.
“That felt nice,” I admitted, my eyes following his hand.
That hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth again that always gave me the urge to kiss it. “I’m sure it did.” Nightingale cleared his throat. “Peter, focus for a moment, will you? Look at me.”
It was insane, but that request made laughter rise in my chest. Amid giggles that even to my own ears sounded demented I fixed my gaze on somewhere above his left shoulder instead. “Can’t have both,” I explained. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that the future held serious mortification – but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Nightingale sighed, barely audible but incredibly weary. “Peter, listen to me.” I did try. It was that command voice again. “One of these days the Thames sisters are going to be the death of you.”
“No, that’ll be you,” I said without thinking, and thought I heard another sigh.
“I’m rather sure you’re under a spell, Peter. Can you tell me how you feel?”
I felt my mouth widen in a silly grin, and that, finally, let a spike of worry pierce my contemplation of Nightingale’s features. “Lightheaded,” I explained dutifully. “Drunk. Giddy. Could be the drinks, though. Rather horny, especially with you looking at me like that, like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle. Fuck.” At last, I was able to shut my mouth, about ten minutes too late in my estimation. There was something in his eyes that made me add: “Okay, the horny part is normal, but I really wasn’t planning on telling you. Which I guess I just did in sufficient detail.”
The latest confession startled a laugh out of Nightingale, sharp and surprised and a little wistful. “Quite.”
I could see him struggle and was about to say something that undoubtedly would’ve made things worse, but luckily he seemed to make up his mind before I could. Slowly, as if afraid I might bolt at a sudden movement he reached out and took my elbow in a firm, steady grip. “Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep this off.”
It was embarrassing how easily I let myself be led up the stairs.
“I hadn’t thought of you taking me to bed yet,” my traitorous mouth said as we moved up the stairs, Nightingale patiently catching my occasional stumble. “I suppose that’s now stuck in my brain too, damn it.”
Nightingale didn’t look at me, but his voice sounded almost affectionate. “Peter, for the sake of your own peace of mind, do us both a favour and shut up, will you?”
I managed not to embarrass myself further all the way up to my room, a journey mostly spent in silence except for Nightingale’s occasional comment of “easy now on the last step” and “come on now” and “keep that hand where I can see it,” the latter of which was totally unfair because I had only been trying to touch his waist and miscalculated. It could’ve happened to anyone.
Although now the thought of Nightingale’s rather firm behind was stuck in my brain as well, but thankfully I managed to keep that to myself.
In my room Nightingale deposited me on the edge of my bed with what I’d call practiced ease if I didn’t know better, regarded me for a second and then turned to leave, which was something I couldn’t let happen. Unthinking I stumbled back to my feet and caught up with him after only a few steps, blindly groping and finding his shoulder more by accident than anything else. “Sir, you can’t –“ I began, but a hand on my mouth made me shut up.
Nightingales bright, piercing eyes looked straight into mine. His face was suddenly very serious. “Do think twice if you really want to say anything else tonight.”
I exhaled shakily against his hand, and he pulled it away cautiously. I tried to gather my thoughts before speaking, but he had to see, had to understand – “I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry for all of it. I tried...” Nightingale closed his eyes at my words. Just before he did, I thought I saw pain in them, and that was just wrong. I raised my hands to rest them on his chest, taking a bit of comfort in the feel of his heartbeat under my palms, the slight rise and fall of his ribs in tune with his breathing, so very alive and still here even if the rest of the world had gone insane.
He didn’t push me away. If nothing else, I’ll always hang onto that.
“You don’t deserve any of this.” Despite everything, it was easier to talk to his chest. “You don’t – it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, and I’m sorry that taking on apprentices was a mistake, with one of them a traitor and the other... being me, I guess.” I felt him draw in a breath as if to speak and looked up, but he was hard to read. “That’s... that’s really all. You’re the best person I know and I never wanted to let you down, and I’m sorry.”
The silence after my confession stretched long enough to be more than awkward, painful almost, safe for Nightingales ragged breathing. I didn’t dare say anything else, really, for fear of making it even worse.
After a moment it became too much. I turned away – at last, like he seemed to have wanted me to from the start – and made my way over to the bed, suddenly tired beyond belief, tired of making a fool of myself, tired of another sleepless night to remind me of all my mistakes.
I did mention how sometimes I’m not the most observant person when it comes to obvious things in my life? Which is probably why I didn’t hear Nightingale move until suddenly strong arms encircled me from behind and I found myself pulled back against Nightingale’s chest. He is a bit smaller than me, but not by much, and as I felt him press his face to the back of my neck it was altogether rather perfect.
His breath on my skin made me shudder as he spoke. “Peter.” I swear, only Nightingale has this way of saying my name that makes me pay attention immediately, and now he spoke with a quiet intensity that made my heart race. “Peter, you are an extraordinary man. I do not regret your presence here, in the Folly, in my life.” A gust of hot breath tickling my ear, the ghost of a laugh. “As for everything else you cannot be held accountable for anything you say right now.”
I struggled at this point, but the arms around me tightened in a silent warning. Nightingale’s next words, however, were more effective in making me give up my half-hearted protest.
“Find me tomorrow and tell me again.”