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Neville had been on the island for a few months now, and it hadn’t been long since Florence had arrived. He liked Florence. She didn’t judge him like most people did. She listened, understood. It was easy to talk to her. He’d opened up about the death of his father, which was something he hadn’t even told the rest of the team about.
Madeleine couldn’t have been happier to go back to Paris, taking an excitable Ruby with her. Though it probably wasn’t the case, Neville couldn’t help but think that it was his fault. She probably was happy to get away from him. The Commissioner probably wished that he’d been the one to go back home instead, but he dare not say this thought out loud.
He smiles and laughs with his team on the quieter days, when they’re just dealing with a lost animal, a disagreement between the locals or fly tipping. They’re halfway through their week when they end up with a murder case, a particularly trying one. It had been a tough day and they were no closer into solving the case. The Commissioner had been hovering, commenting on his every move and thought and it was beginning to get to him. The Commissioner must think he’s stupid ‒ he’s not stupid. Deep down, Neville knows he’s good at what he does, solving cases, leading his team. Somehow it just hurts when his own boss doesn’t think he’s capable. Maybe it’s because of his tendency to order the same food. Or how he’s hypersensitive to the sun, or how he hasn’t really embraced island life, or his medical mishaps or maybe it’s because of another one of his idiosyncrasies.
He sat at his desk, reading through the files for what felt like the millionth time that day. Florence, JP, and Marlon were following up some leads; Florence was contacting the victim’s insurance lawyer back in the UK, and JP and Marlon were working on getting phone records. He’s about to leave with Florence to interview one of the suspects again but he hears the Commissioner's footsteps before he sees the man, and rises from his desk.
“Commissioner,” Neville addressed his boss politely, “everything alright?”
“I was just enquiring to see how far you’d gotten in the case.” He glanced at the pile of files on Neville’s desk. “I guess you haven’t been successful as of yet, Inspector.”
Neville shifted uncomfortably, “Err, not exactly sir. But myself and Florence are about to speak to a suspect.” The Commissioner nodded in response and Neville couldn’t tell what the other man was thinking. It suddenly dawned on him that he’s not exactly sure if he’d remembered to pack some extra sunscreen. “I’ll just need to check something in my backpack..” He moved to grab his backpack, opening it and finding what he needed, smiled. “Yep. Got it. Never can be too careful y’know, with the sun and all that.”
The Commissioner sighed, and Neville looked at him worriedly. “Must you always be consistently….pedantic?” He asked, and suddenly Neville had really had enough. He emptied his rucksack onto the desk, causing Florence to glance at him worriedly, and the others in confusion. He picked up the first thing that was closest to him.
“Inhaler. In case I have an asthma attack whilst I’m out.” He put it back into the backpack and repeated it with the rest of the items. “Epi-pen. In case I accidentally eat peanuts, or other foods I haven’t tried but turns out I'm allergic to. Afterbite, Mosquito repellent, Antihistamines.” He knew that the room had gone tense, but he didn’t care, and the Commissioner hadn't stopped him. “First aid kit. In case anyone’s hurt out on the field. Torch, if we get stranded in the dark. Spare batteries for the torch.” He finished putting the items back into the bag and he let out a shaky breath. He turned around to face the Commissioner.
“With all due respect sir, I’m not being pedantic. I’m looking after my team. I don’t want to have to say to their families that they were attacked and they died because first aid wasn’t given quick enough. I don’t want to be worried every time I go out to a scene but I have to be. I have to take precautions. I have to be ready for any eventuality, because who’s looking out for us?” He’s right. Who is protecting them? He cares about his team dearly and would hate to have to lose any of them that way. Maybe he still hadn’t gotten out of his mindset of being in Manchester, where he was constantly checking on his team, worrying about the officers, worrying about everyone’s safety.
“Florence, let’s get going, shall we?” He moved quickly, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes as he hightailed it to the jeep. Florence climbed in the drivers side, and Neville was happy to get in the passenger’s side. It was probably for the better, anyway. The ride to the suspect’s house was silent for some time. He could feel her worried glances as he tried to get his head straight.
“Sir..” Florence spoke carefully, kindly, “are you okay?” And he really wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“Yeah, Florence, I am.” His response was quiet, and didn’t carry the optimism it usually did. He paused before he found himself speaking again. “Is there anything wrong with me? Because whatever I do, I still can’t get the Commissioner to like me. This case,this week.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Since they’d taken the case, he really hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep, and generally just having a down week wasn’t helping.
“Sir, there’s nothing wrong with you,” Florence replied, “maybe the Commissioner just hasn’t gotten used to you yet.”
“But it’s been what? Nearly six months? Madeleine already hightailed it to get away from me, and who knows when the Commissioner is going to get rid of me.” He rubbed his knee, an anxious habit. “He’s going to get tired of my habits. It’s not my fault that I have asthma, or feel the need for routine, or have really bad allergies. I didn’t ask for it.” He let out a laugh, it’s slightly bitter, “Hell, I would love not to get anxious every time the Commissioner enters the room, even though he’s usually come to criticise me and tell me that I’ve done something wrong, or that I’m not good enough. I’d love to be able try something that’s not chicken and chips and not worry that I could die. But I can’t.”
Florence listened to him, not interrupting once. She was silent for a second, taking in what he said. “It’s not sir, and I know that you can tend to fixate on what you say are imperfections, but you’ve made so much progress. You entered the cook-off, didn’t you?” She smiled gently at him.
He smiled back, because, yeah, he had. He’d had fun too. It had been fun cooking with Florence. It had been fun when they went on the beach around Catherine’s after, looking for treasure. “Yeah, I did.” “There’s nothing wrong with you, sir,” she repeated. “You’ve helped me so much coming back, and I honestly can’t thank you enough.” She reached out her hand and placed it on his. Her touch was soft, everything Neville had thought it would be. “You’re a good man, and the Commissioner must be blind if he can’t see that.” His heart ached, for he loved Florence, but couldn’t dare tell her now. She was still not over the death of Patrice, and it would be selfish to do so whilst she was grieving.
“Thank you, Florence.” He spoke, and if she noticed that his voice had broken and his eyes were watery, she never mentioned it. They pulled up to the suspect’s house, and Florence gave his hand a gentle squeeze before getting out of the jeep. He followed suit, and the pair made their way towards the door. He’d be fine. He usually was. He had someone to stay for.