Immortality

Chapter Six - A New Case and Its Old Horrors

Author's note - sorry for the long wait on an update. This was a tough chapter to write, given that David is astonishingly difficult to work with. Also, this is an important chapter and I wanted to get it right! Oh, and did I just subtly quote Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock in this chapter? You bet I did. Literature expert level up if you can find it. 

It was three days later, and Nightingale had missed countless calls from Michael. Her comm rang at eight am and she picked it up, much to Robin's momentary relief. His relief vanished, however, when he found out it was David, calling her in to start work on a new case.

"Fine, fine," said Robin, who had just sat down to breakfast with tousled hair and sleepy eyes. "Off you run, Agent Brightley. Go save people. Be brilliant. You always are."

Nightingale had marvelled that Robin could be so charming so very offhandedly, kissed him for his kindness, given Colm a promise she would be home by four, and flown away in the hovercraft.

Her flight was a long one, harried by the morning snarl of commuters. She was not in the most serene of moods when she arrived at HQ, nor was she particularly thrilled when David greeted her with a customary grimace.

They were alone in the team's office. The sun, which had risen some time ago, had managed to find crevices between the huge buildings and shot a timorous ray through the huge windows, illuminating the scene with a warm glow.

David, standing with his back to her, staring out at the city, had turned when she had entered. He had said nothing to her but had curled his lip in disgust without her having said so much as a word. She went about settling herself in for a moment or two, humming and ignoring David, before the conspicuous absence of Caroline, Nicholas, and Pierce made her ask:

"You're briefing me before you brief the rest of the team?" She settled into a chair and watched David as he gave a soft snarl and rounded on her.

"No, I'm not. And try, Nightingale, just try not to take that tone with me for one moment of your fucking life-" he began. Nightingale waved her hand and was surprised when it earned her his momentary silence.

"I have a better suggestion, Detective," she suggested. 

"Let's hear it, then." It was a challenge, said in the worst possible tone - she was too stupid to have a good suggestion, the tone said. She was a silly woman with foolish ideas and she could not possibly measure up to the paragon of brilliance that was Detective David Beckett, the tone mocked her.

Nightingale did not believe for a second that David thought she was stupid, nor would she have particularly cared for the opinion had it been true. On the whole, it barely fazed her. The years of her association with David had not lead to her devaluing his opinions, but it had blunted her to his outright cruelty.

So, crossing her arms and regarding David with a level-headedness she knew drove him wild with frustration but which he admired, she asked him:

"Do you trust me?"

"No further than I could spit," he snarled back, his face twisted with anger. Another lie, which neither of them truly believed, said only in the hopes it would wound her. It did not.

"Liar," Nightingale rebuked him. The word was sedate but firm, and then followed with a command: "Answer me."

"Nightingale, for the love of-" he began. His eyes lost some of their fiery hatred when he said it. His tone was not calm, as hers was, but it was quiet. Deadly. Nightingale would have been frightened of it had she feared him.

"Just answer, David," she said. She was unable to keep some of the impatience from leaking into her voice.

There was a pause in which David's jaw ground with abject disgust, which was how Nightingale knew he was about to be truthful with her. His emotion was choking him in his attempt to let it master him, and he now spat it out as though it were a poison: