Chapter Text
Peter Nureyev couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t that he was nervous. Peter Nureyev didn’t get nervous. Peter Nureyev was calm and collected, because even if the world was shattering to pieces around him he knew that he would make it out alive. Alive, though not necessarily well. Up to a certain point, that hadn’t mattered.
The issue at hand, though, was that he hadn’t been Peter Nureyev for quite some time. Nearly two years, in his estimation. That's a long time to forget (repress, but he was loathe to admit it) one’s true identity, on top of the years of denial before that one fleeting, glorious moment wherein he was allowed to be exactly himself.
At the moment, he was Ira Quill. Much like Peter Nureyev, Ira Quill was a master thief, suave and calculating, able to navigate even the stickiest of situations. What distinguished the two was a stark lack of emotional baggage. Quill had grown up with doting parents, poor though they were, and siblings both found and biological running around his home. He’d fallen into crime not because he had to, but because he wanted to; he’d had a Robin Hood complex from birth, it would seem. Though you wouldn’t know it to talk to him, Quill was devastatingly sentimental. He never forgot a name, face, or story. He never had to. There were no locked doors in his mind that would swing open at a moment’s provocation, reducing him to a sobbing, undignified mess at inopportune times. No one left Ira Quill, because he was good enough to make them want to stay.
Ira Quill had never met Juno Steel.
Of course, Peter had to dispense of that particular fact– repeated over and over in his mind whenever he felt particularly bowled over by emotion– when Buddy Aurinko recruited Quill for the mission.
The specifics of the mission went directly over his head–– something something, important, something something, dangerous–– it didn’t matter. Buddy’s mistake was beginning with the list of people she’d involved. As soon as he’d heard the name Juno Steel, he’d been sunk. Peter’s mistake was letting on he knew the dame in the first place.
In his defense, the noise that came out of him at the mention of the detective was entirely involuntary.
(It wasn’t a squeak. Peter Nureyev certainly did not squeak, and neither did Ira Quill.)
“You alright there, Quill? Not going to be a problem, is it?” She’d regarded him with measured suspicion.
“No, no. Of course not. I’ve… tangled with the dear detective before, but it’s nothing we can’t put behind us!” He replied, practically oozing false cheer and confidence.
“Good. I don’t want to say I have a soft spot for him, but he’s the kind of lady who’ll do right by you. In his own way. Angrily.” She didn’t quite believe him, he could tell, but trusted his word enough not to push the matter.
“Indeed.” Peter muttered to himself more than Buddy.
The kind of lady who will do right by you. Well, that’s one interpretation of events. He won’t do right by himself, that’s for certain. Of course, he might have changed in the years since their last meeting. The world-weary P.I. he knew would never have left Hyperion City–– of that much he was sure. Had to be. After all, Hyperion City was what had stolen Juno away from him. Peter had spent a good part of the first year or so after the incident in the hotel room hating the place. Every one of his aliases had been there, and had unequivocally hated the place; it brought him no small amount of joy when his marks shared that hatred. Around the beginning of the second year, he’d began to feel an odd sort of nostalgia. The burn of shame and self loathing had faded (at least, as much as it was going to) and he was left longing for a time when the shine of the city didn’t seem quite so menacing, the jagged skyline not so devastatingly lonely.
He’d been in denial about the whole affair, even as he boarded the spaceship he’d have to call home for the next who-knows-how-long. He tried–mostly in vain– not to picture a surly detective roaming the halls, trailed by his chattering secretary. He tried not to press his companions for details of their encounters with Juno, feigning the casual disinterest one ought to feel for an unpleasant acquaintance. He was quite proud of himself, really, for managing to keep up the façade until one particularly late night found him in the ship’s galley with Jet Siquliak. Food options on the ship were limited, as none of the assembled crew were particularly good chefs. As a result, the meal du jour was frequently some kind of sandwich with whatever one could scrape together from the meager offerings in the pantry.
“You don’t mind me sneaking past you for a midnight snack, do you Jet?” Peter tried to lean casually against the counter nearest to the refrigerator, but missed. He hoped beyond all hope that Jet was polite enough not to mention it.
“There is no need to sneak. This is a communal space.” Jet inclined his head slightly as he spoke, not wanting to turn his laser-intense focus away from his peanut butter & jelly sandwich.
“I suppose you’re right. A communal space for our little community. It’s sweet.” Peter opened the fridge, keeping the other man in his peripheral vision. Not that his face betrayed any reaction, as a rule. Still, old habits die hard.
“Indeed.”
“I’m interested in how the newer additions to the team will adjust to this living situation. They may not want to integrate themselves, you know.”
“That is true. I am confident that it will not have any bearing on the mission’s success.” Jet looked as thoughtful as his general aura of neutrality would allow, and took a bite of his sandwich. Peter closed the door, careful not to betray an ounce of irritation. He slid into the chair across from Siquliak, and took a breath to maintain his composure.
“It might make things… unpleasant. Tell me, you’ve seen this Juno Steel,” He paused, savoring the name involuntarily. “more recently than I. What is he like? Still petulant as ever?”
“He is trustworthy. His attitude is less than positive, but he should have no difficulty adjusting to life on this ship.”
“He didn’t seem particularly melancholy when you saw him last?”
“A man like Juno Steel has much to be melancholy about. However, his anger posed the bigger problem.”
Anger. Peter could deal with anger. He’d seen Juno’s anger before, even been on the receiving end of it. He’d felt plenty of anger of his own, too–– at Mag, at Juno, at himself. So, Juno was angry with him. That was fine. Understandable, even. If not for Peter, he’d never have gotten involved with Miasma in the first place. He’d still have his eye, and his skill as a sharpshooter.
“I see.” Peter tried to keep his tone neutral, but nonetheless Jet stopped chewing mid-bite.
“You are troubled by his involvement.” He said, mouth half-full of peanut butter and cloned strawberry jam.
“One might say I have certain reservations about working with the detective again.” Peter sighed. Jet resumed chewing, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No, thank you.”
“May I offer you some advice?”
“I think I’ll manage the situation on my own.”
“You should not worry about Juno Steel. He is a good man. Troubled, but good. He is on the path to healing. Whatever disagreement you had in the past, reconsider holding it against him.” Jet finished his sandwich, and stood from the table.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Peter attempted a smile, he really did.
“You are still troubled.” Jet placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder, and for once the thief didn’t flinch away from the contact.
“Is it that obvious?” He dropped his head onto the sticky linoleum tabletop. Someone really ought to clean soon. None of them were particularly good janitors, either.
“Are you sure you do not want to talk about it? I have been told my advice is very useful.”
“I don’t know if I can. Talking around it is difficult enough.”
“He is important to you?” At that, Peter let out a harsh laugh–– a single, rough note that conveyed more pain than mirth.
“I would’ve given him anything. I offered him everything. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”
“Quill. You have many positive qualities that I have expressed appreciation for in the past. The idea that you would not be enough for someone is not feasible. I assure you, the problem was not with you.”
“The old, ‘it’s-not-you-it’s-me’ excuse does little to soothe my hurt feelings, my friend. Though I do appreciate the effort. Your kindness, as always, means the world.”
“It is late. Staying up to ponder this will not solve anything. Get some sleep, and we will speak about this more when you awake.” Jet got up, and left Peter to his own devices.
Their conversation the next day had been similarly frustrating. Jet Siquliak, for all his brooding mystery, was unwavering in his insistence of Ira Quill’s inherent goodness. And, in a way, he was right–– Ira Quill deserved love and happiness. Ira Quill didn’t drag everyone he met down to his level with the force of a black hole. Ira Quill never murdered his father, never woke up in the night screaming for places and people he could never see again. Ira Quill was the kind of man who could save Juno Steel, keep him safe and whole and happy.
Peter Nureyev was a different matter entirely.
So there he lay, in his ridiculously small bed, curled into the fetal position so his feet didn’t dangle off the end. He had already spent hours preparing for the next day’s reunion: his clothes were laid out on the chair across from his bed, planned down to the lingerie. His makeup was sitting dutifully on the vanity table, the perfect shade of lipstick selected and prepared. His shoes had been polished, his hair washed and prepared for styling, and his cologne given pride of place so he wouldn’t forget. As if he ever could.
What do you say to the once-and-maybe-future love of your life, who told you he loved you and then unceremoniously abandoned you in the middle of the night? There was no textbook for this sort of thing, no precedent to go off of. A snappy line would dazzle the detective in the moment, but how cutting should it be? Peter didn’t want to eliminate any chance of reconciliation. He’d forgiven Juno as much as he could, given the lack of apology. He didn’t need groveling, even a renewed expression of interest would suffice. Then the game would be back on, everything would be easy again, and they could pretend the last two years had never happened.
Oh, what he would give to be Rex Glass once more.
What would Rex Glass do, in these circumstances. Be devastatingly charming, of course, but how? If Peter truly wanted to start over, to begin again, he’d need to channel some of that energy.
He sat up. That, that was it. Channel the Peter that met Juno in his apartment: poised, posed, and ready to embark on the next great adventure. He didn’t usually like to recycle lines, but in this case it would lend the situation a certain sense of flair. They’d be coming full circle, in a way. And so, he shifted his plans. He could be that Peter again. Less scarred, more confident. Someone who knew he deserved the love of one Juno Steel, damn the consequences.
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As the Martian dust settled, Peter perfected his pose against the hood of the Ruby 7. Knees up, back arched just so. He watched his brilliant, difficult, wonderful detective sputter with something like fondness. Something like love. He would play coy for as long as he could, he thought, but even the sight of Juno warmed his heart like nothing else. He leaned back on his sweat-slicked palms and delivered the line he’d been practicing in the mirror all morning:
“Hello, Juno. It’s been a while.”