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The soft knock on the door woke him.
He reached sleepily for the switch on the lamp that stood on his night stand, finding it on the second try, and blinked as its warm light illuminated his room.
‘Come in’, he called, voice still a bit hoarse from the sleep, while simultaneously glancing at the clock beside the lamp; 3 a.m., too early to yet start the day but never too early for crime, as he knew well from experience.
The door opened with a soft click and Molly stepped in, making no sound at all. If it weren’t for the light he probably wouldn’t have even known that she was there. He levered himself into a sitting position as Molly reached his bed, conveying through a silent stare that the phone downstairs was ringing.
Inwardly sighing, he got out of bed, shrugged one of his dressing gowns on against the chill, and made his way downstairs. The phone was indeed ringing — sometimes Molly’s inability to speak could result in the most interesting miscommunications — so he picked it up and held it to his ear. ‘Yes?’ he said, not bothering with names, since everyone who dialled this number and endured Molly’s unnerving silence mostly knew who they were calling (except for that one very insistent young man from an insurance company a few years ago).
‘Nightingale? It’s Peter. I— um, sorry for calling so late, but I… might need some help.’
‘Help?’ Nightingale repeated carefully, mentally going through the reasons Peter might need his help. He didn’t come up with much — the sum total of his knowledge was merely that his apprentice had told him he’d be out the night with a few other people from the Met.
‘Yes. Help. Would be very much appreciated—‘
‘Peter, if you want me to help you I need you to tell me what sort of help you are expecting,’ Nightingale interrupted him with as much patience as one can possibly muster when they are woken up in the middle of the night.
‘Weelll,’ Peter said, dragging the word out, ‘It’s a bit… complicated. Also embarrassing. Probably. And not my fault! At least not completely. I might be held accountable on the count of being a poor judge of character.’
‘What did you do? Peter, are you drunk?’ Nightingale asked, frowning.
‘Maybe?’
Nightingale took a deep breath.
‘Okay, okay, I’m drunk. I’m also stuck somewhere in suburban London with the Asbo and in no condition to drive. Please come and pick me up?’
With a tired sigh he abandoned the hope of just falling asleep again.
‘Could you narrow ‘somewhere in suburban London’ down?’
Nightingale arrived in a taxi as Peter had assured him that the Asbo itself was fine and working, and he’d rather not leave either the Jaguar or the Asbo in this kind of area.
He paid the driver and exited the cab, having already spotted the Asbo standing on the concrete slipway that led down to a small river. He frowned at that, because rivers and drunken people never seemed to mix well, especially if the river in question had a manifestation and the drunken people were wizards.
He approached the car with a few long steps. Peter was sitting inside in the front passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. He looked up when Nightingale knocked on the window and pointed to the steering wheel as Nightingale walked around and got into the car.
Inside it smelled of alcohol, sex, and Toby — the latter smell being one that never really seemed to leave a car once it had settled in. A smudge of pink lipstick decorated the dashboard and the windows were slightly foggy from the temperature difference and the thick air inside. However it was also warm, which was probably the reason why Peter hadn’t opened a window, given the chilly December night.
‘Hey,’ Peter greeted him sheepishly, turning off of the radio. ‘Sorry, again, for calling. I would have phoned Lesley but she’s in hospital and there wasn’t anyone else I could have asked, so…’
‘It’s fine,’ Nightingale said, turning the ignition key and bringing the car to life. ‘Better than you driving drunk around London.’
‘Hmm,’ Peter hummed in response, leaning back into his seat.
‘Would you mind telling me how exactly you ended up in this situation?’ Nightingale asked as he pulled the Asbo up on the street, setting off into the direction of the Folly.
‘Erm, it’s a bit of a long story, I guess…?’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage to give me a short version.’
‘Fair point. Okay, short version, I was at this bar, had been drinking, but I did have this one guy who’d said he’d drive me over later, so, all well and everything, and then suddenly there was this woman, gorgeous, waaay too short outfit for such cold night and we sorta… ended up here? It’s a bit of a blur, honestly.’ He waved around with his hand. ‘Whatever, we’re here, in the car, making out, and she was a fantastic kisser and this is probably really TMI, sorry about that—‘ He was tempted to ask what exactly ‘TMI’ was, but then decided that he might not necessarily want to know, given the context. ‘—anyway, we’re… doing stuff, when she suddenly suggests that we should go swimming.’
‘You managed to find and… become acquainted… with a River spirit,’ Nightingale said, less of a question and more of statement as he was resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands.
‘In my defence it’s more that she found me, but… yeah…’
‘How did you not notice that, Peter?’
‘I was a bit inebriated!’
Nightingale sighed. ‘And how does the story end?’
‘Well, obviously I didn’t go swimming with her as, luckily, I apparently wasn't drunk enough for that yet—‘
‘Very luckily.’
‘—yeah, she wasn’t so happy about it, we argued, she stormed off and disappeared into the river. Ta-daaa. Enough embarrassment to last me through the winter. I’m really hoping I’m drunk enough to not remember anything of this in the morning.’
By the time they arrived at the Folly Peter was asleep, face half-mashed against the car window. Nightingale tried to wake him, gently shaking his shoulder, but earned nothing more than a murmur and Peter curling in on himself.
Molly stood in the doorway of the garage, quietly watching him as he exited the car and opened the door to Peter’s side. His apprentice fell half out, but he managed to catch him in time, unclipping the seat belt and gathering him up in his arms. When he looked towards the doorway Molly had already disappeared again, obviously not going to help him carry his sleeping burden.
He was already halfway through the Folly when Peter stirred, blinking drowsily.
‘Am I dreaming, or are you currently carrying me bridal style up the stairs?’ he murmured.
‘You’re not dreaming,’ Nightingale supplied and Peter groaned quietly.
‘Well, there goes my remaining dignity. Tumbling down the stairs. See you later, dignity. Tomorrow morning hopefully.’
‘Would you prefer if I put you down?’ Nightingale asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Damage is already done now. Besides I’m not sure I can currently manage stairs. Or walking in general. Also, you’re warm. How come you didn’t get Molly to carry me?’
‘I don’t think she likes the way you smell of River spirit, and has thus made herself scarce.’
‘Probably better this way. I’m not sure I would have survived the shock if I had woken up to her carrying me.’
‘She’s not that scary, Peter.’
‘Says the one who’s been living with her for the past eighty years. Give me some time here.’
The door to Peter’s room was already slightly ajar, courtesy of Molly, probably, and swung open when he nudged it with his elbow, the room behind only lit by the light from the hallway.
‘Bed! Finally!’ Peter exclaimed with obvious joy and half climbed, half fell out of Nightingale’s arms onto the mattress. Nightingale hovered awkwardly at the bedside as Peter shucked off his shoes, unsure whether he should just leave or make sure that Peter actually stayed where he left him.
Before he could come to a decision Peter was already climbing under the covers, clothes — except for the shoes that lay discarded next to the bed — still on.
‘Are you really going to sleep like that?’ Nightingale asked before he could stop himself.
‘Yes,’ Peter replied stubbornly, drawing the covers up to his nose and closing his eyes. A few seconds later he had already dozed off, breathing slow and regular.
As quietly as possible, Nightingale made his way back to the door, looking behind him one last time.
Sleeping, Peter looked unguarded and vulnerable, his normally so openly displayed energy missing and leaving a foreign calmness. Nightingale felt a sudden surge of protectiveness well inside him and he quickly quenched down on it, tearing his gaze away and stepping out of the room. This kind of attachment wasn’t healthy in his line of business, and he doubted that Peter would appreciate it.
‘Goodnight,’ he said quietly, even though he knew that Peter couldn’t hear him, and closed the door.