Chapter Text
I've always suspected that Nightingale suffers from nightmares, what with his age and all he's experienced, and that’s not even mentioning the fact that he didn't just fight in the Second World War but also lost nearly every friend he'd ever had to it. That on its own would be enough to mess up anyone's sleep. But I didn’t actually know for sure until one morning in mid-January, when he came down to breakfast looking like he hadn't slept for days.
Nightingale gets really pale when he’s exhausted, something I’d first learned when he was recovering from being shot, and that was the thing I noticed immediately, followed closely by the heavy purple smudges under his eyes that I got a good look at when he sat down a little heavily in his habitual chair. He looked sufficiently terrible that I decided to say something, even though I knew the concern would almost certainly just make him irritable. (The other big thing I’d learned while he was recovering from that gunshot wound being that he’s a terrible, terrible patient.)
“Did you sleep alright, sir?” I asked. “You look exhausted.” He pulled a face, and rubbed at his eyes with a hand.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Hardly slept a wink.” His voice was clipped and irritated, like I'd expected, but not really at me. I waited to see if he was going to elaborate, but he didn’t.
“Something keeping you up?” I asked, prodding. He sighed, sharply.
“You could say that.” I kept waiting. He didn’t continue, and when I didn’t say anything either he lowered his hand from his face and regarded me with eyes that were actually a little bit bloodshot with tiredness. I returned his gaze, using the same look of friendly curiosity that I use in interviews. He frowned at me, recognising the expression, and sighed again. “It was nightmares, if you must know,” he said, confirming my suspicions, as if he needed to. “Blasted things kept waking me up.” I grimaced in sympathy.
“The war?” I asked, knowing I was probably pushing things a little but deciding that I’d rather push than not ask. Nightingale nodded.
“Among other things,” he said. “I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.” I took that as the order to change the subject that it was, and didn’t bring it up again all day, not even when I caught him yawning more than a few times. But I did make sure he stayed supplied with plenty of coffee.