Chapter Text
David levitated the wheelchair with a grumpy Thomas in it through the Folly’s front doors. The landing was perfectly smooth and didn’t disturbed Thomas at all, but he still grimaced. There is one thing he hated more than being shot, and that was feeling helplessly vulnerable. And more specifically, being seen in this state. But apparently, neither Abdul, nor his own dear husband of forty bloody years had ever got the memo.
Of course Abdul had insisted on the blasted wheelchair and the ride home in an ambulance, despite Thomas’s assurance that with his cane he would be fine to walk for seven minutes, thank you very much. Not for the first time in his life Thomas found himself wondering whether listening to the patients violated the teaching of some dogmatic scripture all medical professionals diligently abided to and had been keeping secret from the general public.
Molly took charge of wheeling him across the atrium with a barely concealed eagerness. It was less than a thirty metres ride, before David had to step in to levitate him over the first flight of the Eastern stairs, but Molly had done her bit with a solemn dutifulness and stayed beside him, as if not trusting David with the spell.
Good Lord, they’re enjoying it! Thomas groaned in the privacy of his head. Tomorrow they will be fighting each other for the honour to feed me. Well, not while he was still alive and more or less capable.
When the chair landed again, he sighed and announced, “Right, I’ve indulged you lot for long enough, I can walk the rest of the way up. Thank you.” He made a move to stand up, but Abdul’s hand put on his shoulder gently pushed him down.
“You promised to behave, Thomas,” Abdul reminded him in his “I’m your physician, I know better” voice. Molly hissed in agreement with the traitorous doctor. David wisely kept his mouth shut, as he seemed to be the only one who’d noticed a low, threatening growl escape Thomas.
“For the record,” Thomas said sternly, “this is utterly ridiculous and bordering on an intentional emotional torture. I shall ask Peter to look for the legal cases.” As he mentioned Peter he looked around the empty atrium. “Where is Peter, anyway?”
“Walking Toby,” David answered. And then added a touch hesitantly, “He… wanted to give you some privacy.”
Thomas chuckled sardonically. “Well, at least someone in this house respects my privacy… and dignity. Good to know.”
He didn’t see that behind him the three of his torturers exchanged an amused look. The Drama Queen was definitely a sign of improvement.
After a long lecture about the importance of the sling wearing, bandages changing and painkillers taking (twice a day), Abdul had finally left them with a promise to visit every other day and a list of instructions for Molly as long as Thomas’s forearm. Of course he would consider Molly a more diligent proxy warden than David. Being the husband, David would have to maintain the peace for the sake of their mental health at the very least. And that could definitely lead to a few compromises along the way, in order to avoid fighting. And Molly… Well… Thomas stopped himself. It was certainly unfair and rather ungrateful of him to blame Molly for choosing to obey the doctors’ orders instead of his petulant whimsies. Surely, her no-nonsense efficiency when it came to the medical care was hard to endure, but the number of times it had stopped him from seriously re-injuring himself was suggesting that the approach had a point. Not that this would make him happy and look forward to experiencing it again.
A screech of metal distracted him from his gloomy thoughts. David had folded up the wheelchair and instead of stuffing it into the closet, he tucked it into the corner next to the en-suite door. Thomas huffed quietly. That was at least a suitable compromise. And so were the two staves propped against his bedside table. One of them was his usual, silver-topped, fancy one, which, frankly, hadn’t been designed as a mobility aid. The other one was from his old days, as in when he was literally old. A thick, robust, monolith stick with a leather-covered handle, which had been shaped specifically with the arthritis-damaged joints in mind. You didn’t have to clench to it for it to support your weight. And since it’d been made from a solid oak, it could be a rather sufficient melee weapon, if a situation calls for it. Despite it being comfortable and perfect for its main purpose, he didn’t like this cane. He remembered using it during his recuperation from the magic poisoning, and with every damn step it’d made him feel old again, reminded him how truly terrifying the slow decay of muscles, the rapid progression of arthritis and the overall lack of control over your body was. Generally, he considered his functional immortality a curse. But if pinned to the wall, he would have to admit that some perks of the unexpected rejuvenation he truly enjoyed. That’s why being turned into a pile of aching bones once again, by his own fault, no less, irritated him so much. Still, David's thoughtfulness of giving him a choice, however small that was in case of the staves, was genuinely heart-warming.
He unzipped the hoodie, David had chosen for him, again touchingly mindful of his screwed, as it were, scapula. He tugged at the sling, attempting to unclasp it, and then groaned when said scapula vehemently protested against the sudden movement, erupting with a whole artillery bombardment of pain. It was like he could feel every damn screw, which was holding the bloody bone together.
David rushed to his help. “Allow me,” he said softly, and after Thomas nodded, carefully removed the sling and lowered Thomas’s right arm on the bed while holding his shoulder in a tight grip, so the manoeuvre didn’t cause any more pain. Then he quickly liberated Thomas’s left arm from the sleeve, and just rolled the right one down, without even touching the injured arm.
Underneath the hoodie Thomas was naked, since it had been impossible to pull on a T-shirt. The exposed skin got instantly covered with goosebumps. But it wasn’t the Folly’s usual draft, it was David’s fleeting gaze soaring over Thomas’s hollow chest, sliced with the prominent lines of ribs. He’d lost a lot of weight. A two-week stay in an ICU could do that to a fellow. Yet it was the first time David actually saw the changes. A nurse had helped Thomas to dress in the hospital. And now he felt a tad self-conscious. But not because of the lingering insecurity. David and he had seen each other in all shapes and forms, from the bony, gangly teenagers to the wrinkled and slightly bellied grandpas. There was no room between them for this kind of vain nonsense. He just didn’t want to add to David’s worries, that’s all. And judging by the way his husband’s brows twitched just a little, the worry-level had just increased.
David covered him with a gown. “I’m going to draw you a bath,” he said and took a step towards the en-suite. But Thomas’s tired sigh stopped him in his tracks. He turned around slowly and then kneel in-front of Thomas. “Hey,” he murmured, stroking Thomas’s knee soothingly. “I have no intention to worsen your misery, love. I am very well aware of how much you hate being slowed down by an injury or sickness. I’m not going to mother you. That’s Molly’s job.” A corner of Thomas’s mouth curved up just a tiny bit. “A world-class fretter she is truly,” David added with a smile, encouraged by the moment of levity. “It is humanly impossible to compete with her. But that being said, I don’t intend to let you run around and strain yourself unduly, either.” Thomas actually pouted. In different circumstances it would’ve been quite adorable. “Your body is still healing,” David continued patiently. “It’s using all its strength to repair itself faster. It is bound to have limitations. Yes, it seems like Abdul is blowing on water. And he is. I honestly doubt that any of us, yourself included, will be happy, if you have to go back to the hospital. And, yes, you can walk. But had you been allowed to do that, you would’ve used up all your body’s strength, slowing down your recovery. No one is intentionally torturing you, disrespecting your dignity or ignoring you. Well, I certainly am not. I can’t say for Abdul, he’s a doctor, after all, they tend to disregard their patients’ judgement. But we don’t need you to prove what you are capable of. The only person who does need that is you.”
Thomas gave him a sad, haunted look. “And you know why,” he whispered.
“I do,” David replied quietly. “I do know, love. But like I said, it’s not 1945 anymore. And I can’t promise you that Molly won’t fret or that Abdul will miraculously cease to be the annoying stickler he is. But I can promise that this time I will be here.” The plea in his husband’s eyes made Thomas feel slightly ashamed of himself. “And it’s not the dead, empty Folly anymore, either.” The next moment they heard Toby’s happy yelps coming from the outside, followed by Peter’s laughter. David smiled and pointed at the window. “Does that sound dead to you?” Thomas bit his lip and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. David took Thomas’s left hand in both of his. “So, this is my suggestion,” he announced, fiddling with his husband’s wedding ring. It had “Tempus fugit, amor manet” engraved in its platinum surface while David’s matching one had “Si vis amari, ama”. A pair of cliches from a popular book of Latin proverbs they’d found in Uncle Stanley’s library that summer. A true gentleman back in their days was required to learn at least a half of them in order to show off his erudition at a right occasion. And as cheesy as they were, David had always found them rather suiting. And in his case, inspiring. “I will not impose on your freedom,” David continued, “if you promise to assess your condition like a responsible one-hundred-eleven-year-old adult, who lives in a peaceful time of welfare and paid sick-leaves and not like a desperate forty-five-year-old soldier on the run from the werewolves.” Thomas swallowed nervously. David had got him with this one. “If something is too hard for you to do or too painful, please find the courage to admit it and ask for help. And for the sake of everything that is holy, don’t hide it. There is no shame in being in pain, Tom, nor in asking for help. Stiff-upper-lip is all good and proper when you have no other choice. But you do. And when it comes to the future functioning of your fighting arm you might want to listen to what said arm has to say about its needs. And whether it wants you to stop overdoing it. It doesn’t make you less of the Nightingale. Neither it makes you a burden. I might not have a chance to make the proper vows, in health and sickness and all of that, but trust me it was in the fine print.”
Suddenly feeling extremely childish, Thomas looked down and cleared his throat. “What about Peter?” he asked. “And the lessons.”
David shrugged. “If and when you’re up for this. I will help him in the meantime, of course. But I’d rather you were his prime teacher.” Thomas arched a confused eyebrow. “He’s in his formative stage. He’s got to have your signare. For his own safety.” Thomas nodded in understanding. That was a really good point.
David leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and rose to his feet. “And now I am going to draw you a bath. And I will be watching you. Because I googled these,” he motioned at the bottles of painkillers on the bedside table. “They are not opioids, but they are still rather strong. Surviving a perforated lung and then drowning in your own bath will be quite a bummer.”
Thomas laughed. “You and your undying optimism.”
David smirked knowingly. “I thought you loved that about me.” And before Thomas could answer, he hurried to the bathroom.
Peter joined them at the afternoon tea, which Molly had served in the master parlour, bringing an additional chair from the study. With the fireplace lit up, the gathering didn’t hold much difference from their traditional meetings in the reading room. Except for Thomas’s rather Byronic attire, consisting of a pair of slacks, a shirt and a dressing gown, on which Peter wisely and quite pointedly didn’t comment.
The lad had already given him the run-around of the rest of the case and some vague conclusions during his visits to the hospital. So, Thomas was aware that Lesley was still in a bad shape and her prognosis wasn't very optimistic, either. The scaffolding system Abdul had come up with, regretfully, wasn’t as helpful as everyone had hoped. And while the good doctor had been desperately trying to brainstorm his way to a solution, David sought a consultation from his Oxford branch of The Society of the Rose contact, who, after hearing “dissimulo”, “possession” and “an evil spirit” in one sentence, quickly informed him that Newtonian magic couldn’t repair the damage caused by the Non-Newtonian interference, let alone a possession, which was bound to leave a mark on a possessee. Since neither David, nor Peter, had felt anything suspicious off Lesley after Pyke’s/Punch’s disappearance, they talked Miss Brook into dragging her mother to the hospital to confirm the healer’s theory. And indeed, The Goddess of the River found the presence of the spirit’s magic still lingering to Lesley’s bones, despite his own definite absence. She suggested that it might just be a temporary aftertaste, and it would disperse with time. But no one knew how much time. After two weeks of Lesley spending in a medically induced coma, her parents, having dealt with the initial shock, understandably began to express impatience. And so did the parents of the poor Mr Pottsley, who was also still awaiting the doctors’ verdict. So, as of right now, Abdul was gathering the courage to have the talk with both sets of relatives. David had offered his help with all the uncanny explanations and Peter was drafting an air-tight NDA agreement.
In the meantime, Seawoll had been discharged from the hospital with a more or less clean bill of health, but took Abdul up on his offer of a prolonged sick-leave and buggered off somewhere North, leaving Stephanopoulos in charge of the Murder Team, which didn’t make her the happiest female officer in the Met. Surely, the Folly’s and Belgravia’s inter-department relationship was in desperate need of some quick fixing.
But what neither his husband, nor his apprentice had even mentioned to him while he was still in the hospital, was their cunning plan to put in some temporary fix on the Rivers diplomacy. And although in his experience hostage exchanges tended to work, it still seemed unpleasantly medieval to him. So he was surprised to find out that David had not only agreed to that, but also taken it upon himself to convince Beverley and gone to her university to persuade them to allow her continue her education via the Internet. And they’d done all of that without even consulting him, which should’ve irritated him… but somehow it didn’t. If anything, he felt strangely relieved. Seeing Peter gaining his diplomatic weight among the Rivers, and David willingly participating in the serious Folly’s matters was a balm to his soul, tired of doing everything on his own. And not simply in the way of “if anything happens to me”. He knew very well that if anything did happen to him, David would summon his ghost and kill him all over again. But in the way of realising himself a part of a capable team. His and David’s previous ventures into danger had been just occasional dire situations Thomas wouldn’t have been able to resolve alone. And every time it had left him with the guilt of exploiting David’s worries. But something had changed in his husband. And now Thomas felt like he could finally learn how to delegate. It was a refreshing and rather inspiring discovery.
Their afternoon tea turned into five o’clock. Having covered all the work-related themes, they ended up just chatting idly. It felt good to be home, and judging by the suspiciously energised babbling of his interlocutors, to be missed.
Peter was particularly excited to talk about the stuff-bracelets, they had apparently tried out and got some controversial results. David’s burn had healed rather nicely, leaving only a tiny scar on his wrist, which Thomas could find only after David illuminated it with a werelight. And before the sight of the small patch of marred skin could sour Thomas’s mood, Peter bombarded him with suggestions for the design improvement. Some of them were quite good. He’d been thinking about the insulating casing for some time himself. But Peter had gone further and interrogated Frank on every mass available heat-reducing material the firefighters used these days. While staring at a smugly grinning Peter, out the corner of his eyes he caught David smirking softly at him. Oh, yes, he had chosen right.
The conversation was so pleasant and engaging that it didn’t wear Thomas out as much as he’d expected. They could talk for hours more, if it wasn’t for Molly, who in a few disapproving hisses let him know very clearly that she would be serving dinner in bed or not at all. It took Thomas a great effort not to whine in-front of his apprentice.
Despite a large portion of Covent Garden and the garden of St Paul’s church being practically ruined, no one had even thought about cancelling the annual May Fayre and Puppet Festival. On the contrary, the event was prolonged to three days instead of one, so every Punch and Judy affectionado around the country had a chance to participate in the festivities and donate to the noble cause of restoring the church’s garden, their sacred place of worshipping. Considering that during the festival it was Mr Punch himself doing the noon service, the slightly cultish vibe was not easy to conceal.
Peter watched the colourful procession, led by a brass band, go around the scorched market building, heading for St Paul’s portico, where a few hundreds of guests toasted the fucker while the puppeteers were setting up their mobile stages. Wearing his working suit in the sea of brightly dressed people Peter was looking like a lost bodyguard, which wasn’t that further from the truth. He was indeed on a guard duty, self-assigned, no less, looking for any sign of Punch.
He wasn’t entirely convinced that him pinning the bastard to the London Bridge in the ghost world could prevent him from reappearing in the world of the living again. Both Nightingale and Mellenby had tried to reassure him on the matter. But the truth was, they didn’t actually know how the ghost world worked and whether it was connected to the real one. So, Peter decided that it was better safe than sorry and volunteered to attend the fayre. All three days of it.
He had sat through three services and watched the bloody play at least twelve times. And by the end of the day three, despite the promising lack of suspicious vestigia, he felt like Punch had managed to possess him after all.
When the final screeching laughter of a very talented puppeteer had died down, the crowd started to disperse. A small shiver ran down Peter’s spine as he noticed a bunch of kids wearing Punch papier-mache masks, with a prominently crooked nose and all. Soon, the performers gathered up their gear and everything was over.
Peter let out a sigh of relief, plugged Bluetooth earphones into his ears and hit ‘play’ on his phone.
“Audio Renaissance and Bloomsbury Publishing present,” announced a low, fatherly voice with a proper BBC pronunciation, “‘Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell’ by Susanna Clarke. Read for you by Simon Prebble.”
Peter smiled and strolled back home. To the Folly.