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Thomas Nightingale is a simple man. It never fails to confuse him when people assume otherwise, as they so often do.
Oh, Thomas admires the way some people can think around corners. David, back then – back when he had really been young, not this farce, back when things actually made sense – David used to be like that. Full of ideas and sheer brilliance, with laughter in his eyes and fire in his soul, always expanding his knowledge and pushing boundaries. He used to tease Thomas for his rigid beliefs, his tendency to follow orders, to the point where Thomas wondered what David ever saw in him.
And yet, where had all that brilliance gotten them? It broke David, in the end, and Thomas – well.
Thomas did as he was told.
He was told to apply himself to his studies, to work on his focus. So he did. He was told to fight, and so he did. He was told to go to Ettersberg, he was told to guard the retreat, and so he did. And when they all left and died and gave up, and Thomas realized there was no one to tell him what to do anymore, at least he was able to fall back on the accumulated regime of custom and oaths and loyalty.
Sometimes he wishes there was someone left to tell him to give up.
“Sir?”
Thomas blinks, looking over at his apprentice. Peter is watching him across the breakfast table with what Thomas recognizes as his wary expression, the sort of wariness usually associated with ‘has my governor spaced out again or not’. It has been making frequent appearances lately.
Taking on Peter as an apprentice has certainly been educational. Peter’s mind is not linear. He thinks in ten directions at once, with cross-references and analyses of probabilities and possible outcomes, and Thomas has no idea how he can keep that up without collapsing. Sometimes it gets too much even to witness it second hand, making Thomas long for simpler times when things were clearer. Black and white – although Thomas suspects Peter would take offense to the phrase, should it ever come up.
Despite their differences, Thomas feels he has Peter figured out moderately well. The opposite is not necessarily true. There are times when Peter brainstorms about a case and he just throws a catchphrase at Thomas, looking at him all expectantly as if he assumes that of course Thomas will be able to follow his leaps in logic and wild implications.
Thomas wonders when Peter will notice.
“Sir? Inspector?”
Thomas blinks. He realizes he has been staring blankly at Peter, whose expression has changed from wary to outright concerned, and that will not do at all. He clears his throat. “Yes, Peter?”
His apprentice regards him in silence for a second, appraising, seeking for fault lines or cracks in his facade or maybe just waiting for him to fall apart completely, but in that case it will be a long wait. Finally, all Peter says is, “Pass the toast?”
“Of course.” Even as he hands over the bread basket Thomas feels the watching becoming too much. One day Peter really will notice him for who he is, and it will no doubt be a disappointment. So he gathers the newspaper spread out before him, nevertheless taking the time to fold it neatly. “I shall be in the magical library if you need anything. Do remember that translation you owe me.”
Peter’s eyebrows rise at this, but he simply nods. His surprise is understandable. There is no pressing case that would force Thomas to spend his Sunday researching obscure matters in languages Peter is not yet fluent in. So far, however, Peter has never worked up the courage to outright ask what it is Thomas spends so much time on.
This too, no doubt, would come as a bit of a disappointment.
He has only made it a few feet from the room when he hears Peter and Molly talk, or rather, hears Peter’s irritated voice: “What? I didn’t do anything. Why don’t you go ask him if it bothers you so much?”
Thomas suppresses a smile as he walks away. Watching Molly watch Peter has become a study in itself.
Time passes slowly in the magical library, especially when Thomas spends more time staring at the tabletop than at the book lying on it. In a way it is a blessing that Peter has not learned Greek yet, at least not well enough to tell that the tome Thomas currently pretends to pore over is a compilation of traditional recipes he thinks of translating for Molly one of these days. The camouflage is necessary, for of course Peter cannot help but sneak a glance at the pages when he comes in at some point.
Thomas looks up at his approach, simply raising his eyebrow in question.
“Sir, it’s past noon.” Peter’s voice is light, friendly, but Thomas can read in his eyes that he’s worried. “Why don’t you take a break? Come to the coach house. There should be a game on.”
You’re isolating yourself, is something he never says. You’re going places I can’t follow.
It may be only Thomas’ imagination that the words hang between them like a curtain these days, so he sighs and rises from his chair. “That would be agreeable.”
As he follows Peter through the halls of the Folly they pass Molly, who gives Thomas an understanding smirk. She is pleased, no doubt, not to bear the burden alone anymore. It certainly helps to have someone around to tell Thomas when to stop brooding.