Chapter Text
Peter Nureyev is fairly sure he's dying.
The feeling doesn't surprise him, not really. He’s been expecting this for a while, now. Been wondering what was taking so long. Mags had always told him he’d die with his boots on. Right again, old man, Peter thinks distantly, noting the uncomfortable weight of them as he lays on his back, staring up at the endless Martian sky. He looks down at the hole in his abdomen, seeping blood steadily, and feels his heartbeat quicken with fear. He makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat and knocks his head back to the ground, connecting with a quiet thunk . If he has a choice - and in this case, he does - he won’t die in fear. He’s had enough already.
He notices, faintly, like remembering a dream, that he can’t feel his legs. The blood loss makes his head spin, and he giggles. If this is dying, it’s not so bad , he thinks. Only thing it’s missing is an angel.
“Nureyev!”
Peter’s head spins. He could’ve sworn he heard something.
“ Peter! ”
He manages an attempt at speech this time, a pleasant (if slurred) hum.
The next thing he knows, an angel’s shown up, and of course it looks like Juno. He kneels, one hand coming to rest under Peter’s head, the other pressing hard into the wound in Peter’s guts. Peter laughs, bitter but unsurprised. “It’s you,” he says, his eyes half-lidded. Of course it is. What was that story he’d heard from the lady on Titan? Something something guardian angels?... He can’t remember now, his head’s so fuzzy, but this makes sense. This much, at least, makes sense. The angel-Juno laughs, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. “Yeah, Nureyev, it’s me,” he says, and that voice sounds so like his Peter would cry if he had the presence of mind for it.
Peter stares up into the angel-Juno’s face, sees the tears making tracks down it, and, well, that won’t do. He frowns, his brow creasing, and raises his right hand. He can feel Juno’s week-old stubble, the grime and dirt of Hyperion City still clinging to his cheeks, and he smiles as his thumb traces out the shape of his lower eyelid. He can’t help but notice the red streaks his fingers leave behind, but the angel doesn’t seem to care. He’s got his inner right wrist held to his face, talking urgently into his comms. Peter tries to listen, but all he manages to pick out is “Rita” and “Now!” before his head is swimming so much he feels like he might pass out. The angel turns back to him. Peter’s hand shifts with the movement, his palm resting on Juno’s jaw. He’s saying something, but Peter can’t quite figure out what. He doesn’t mind, not really. He’s just glad he’s here, at the end of the world, letting Peter bleed out all over his nice coat.
Peter’s vision starts to blur. He feels like he’s floating, the sensation oddly nauseating. He tries to ignore it, grounds himself with his left hand twisted in this figment’s jacket.
“Would you like to hear a secret, detective?” Peter slurs, and he knows it’s a far cry from the voice Juno fell in love with, but it’s the best he can offer. He won’t mind, anyway. Juno - the real Juno - will never hear it.
He sniffs. “What’s that, huh?”
He holds Peter’s hand, presses it against his cheek, warm under Peter’s cold, numb fingers. They catch on Juno’s lips, and Peter smiles softly.
“You’re the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.”
The angel’s face crumples, fresh tears racing down his cheeks, and Peter only barely hears his next sentence. “Stole my line, Nureyev. Ain’t that just like you?”
Peter’s decides he’s had enough, then. He welcomes the ache in his bones, like sinking into a warm bath, and leans into the cheap fabric of Juno’s coat, and drifts off, comforting darkness enveloping him.
When he wakes up, he feels worse than he did when he was dying.
The first sound to escape his mouth is a deep groan, and he winces when the vibrations in his chest react with the gut-shot that is, evidently, still healing. He flops his head back against the - pillow? - he’s tucked up against, letting out a frustrated “ guh ” as he goes. On the other side of the room, the window is open, the sounds of passing cars whizzing by every few seconds. He can see the light of the street lamps flowing in, illuminating his surroundings.
He lifts his head, takes a look around. He’s certainly in someone’s bed; the soft sheets and carpet tell him it isn’t a hospital, so some poor soul must’ve taken him in. There are paintings on the walls, lit up in a orange haze, and Peter can’t quite make sense of them. Maybe it’s the post-death haze, but he’s certain that’s a painting of a cube with a nose. Why give the cube a nose? What could that possibly represent? It seems utterly ridiculous. Peter huffs a quiet laugh, then stops himself. Maybe he’s in purgatory. Is that what they do here? He wonders. Just leave you lying in a stranger’s bed with only terrible art to look at for the rest of eternity?
The quandary makes his head spin, so he closes his eyes. He keeps them that way for a fraction of a second, and the next thing he knows, it’s late afternoon. The blinds are open, now, and Peter sees something he missed the night before; an armchair, old but comfortable-looking, faced toward his bed at the far end of the room. On the table next to it, Peter sees a manilla envelope, spilling papers. That grabs his attention. He tries to read the text from his place on the bed, but the lack of glasses leaves his vision fuzzy. He sits up, gritting his teeth at the burning in his abdomen, and crawls to the end of the bed with some difficulty. He’s got one hand on the footrest, the other reaching out to grab the envelope, when the door swings open.
Peter’s eyebrows shoot a half-mile upwards. This can’t be right.
“Well, Mistah Glass, it certainly looks like you’re feeling better!”
There, in the doorway, stands… Juno’s secretary? He wracks his brain. Ronnie? Roberta? Rachel?
“Rita!”
Rita.
It dawns on Peter, moments before Juno arrives in the doorway, that Juno’s secretary means Juno can’t be far behind. In these moments, he feels a kind of anxiety that one can only feel when about to be faced again by the very complicated love of one’s life… while wearing borrowed pyjamas. He winces.
“Rita, did you get the floor plans for the Hephaestus building yet? I’m gonna need them by -”
Juno’s sentence stops in its tracks when he sees Peter. Peter realises he’s still in the awkward, stretched-out position he’d been in before Juno appeared, and elegantly sets himself back on his knees. He feels a wave of nausea at the pain that sears across his stomach as he stretches his wound, but holds a straight face regardless.
“Detective,” he says. “It’s been a while.”