Chapter Text
Juno Steel couldn’t always understand what Peter Nureyev said in his sleep. Not that it had to necessarily make sense, but the words just... weren’t. They were sounds he didn’t even know a person could make, mumbled sleepily into his chest as he lay awake.
Sleeping was never his strong suit. It had gotten better after his... experience when his Thea was removed, but occasionally a night terror would wake him with a start. He wouldn’t remember what he dreamed about, where he was, who the strange man clinging to him was, but within a second he would remember and take a deep breath. It was only a dream. Those things were far behind him now on a planet he hadn’t seen in months in a building in a district of Hyperion City that no longer existed. He would match his breath to Nureyev’s until his heart rate slowed, watching the man’s face, so peaceful with no mask. The thief’s dark eyelashes would twitch, and he’d mumble something in some language Juno had never heard before into his skin, and squeeze Juno a little tighter to him.
But, Juno realized, he’d never heard the man speak Brahmese. Juno didn’t know a lot of it - just stuff he’d picked up from Sasha’s when her parents would yell at her from the kitchen when they would go visit her at the end of her shifts in the restaurant, but he generally knew the cadence. He hadn’t actually heard Brahmese since he and Peter had been in the tomb, probing through Peter’s mind. He knew that Peter didn’t think in that language anymore, but he certainly knew it.
He didn’t know how many languages Nureyev could speak, though he knew it was likely several more then Brahmese and Solar. He knew he could just ask, but it was fun to try to figure it out from watching the thief alone. So far Juno had picked up on him speaking a language that he didn’t understand four times. Juno barely spoke Solar in his own opinion, and he was not nearly as well-spoken as the thief in even that.
Suddenly, Juno found himself in a dusty restaurant. Everything was weirdly high up - no - he was shorter. Newspaper clippings in an alphabet he didn’t recognize littered the wall and a strong smell of vinegar and chili’s filled his nose. Sasha was talking to him, he realized, her hair tied back with a blue bandana as she sat by the register, waiting and occasionally checking that the electric kettle was still hot in case any new customers walked in.
Nobody ever did; it was a weekday afternoon between lunch rush and dinner and even Sasha was due to get out of work in ten minutes. He saw her glance at the clock. There wouldn’t be much to do besides run around and try to avoid older kids on the street, but it was enough fun and if they could avoid the gangs for the afternoon, Sasha’s parents would always give them the leftovers from lunch. It was weird - sure - different than the food Benten or his mother would make, but weirdly delicious and comforting. The Wires’ restaurant always kept Annie and Sasha fed, at least. They would sometimes even Juno and Benten too, when Sarah hadn’t left her room in a few days and the cupboards were empty.
He couldn’t really communicate much with Sasha’s parents. Their Martian was broken and heavily accented, but he could feel the love they had for the kids anyway. Sasha and Annie were their pride and joy, and they would take in everyone else their daughters brought home with open arms, too. They were warm, kind people. You didn’t see people like them in Old Town very often.
Sasha was yelling something in Brahmese back into the kitchen as she took off her apron. It was time for them to go. Mick was rambling to Juno about some new place he’d discovered behind the abandoned warehouse that they to check out.
“Juno. Juno.” A stern voice came from somewhere and he could understand it. “Juno, wake up.”
He was back in his room aboard the Carte Blanche. Peter was sitting over him, his eyebrows furrowed and the back of his hand on Juno’s forehead. Juno blinked a few times. He rubbed his eye and found his cheek wet. Had he been crying.
“Juno, dear, are you alright?”
Juno cleared his throat. It was a lot drier than he’d expected. “Yeah. Just a flashback. I’m... I’m fine. Promise.”
“Juno, you keep having these. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Vespa about it? I’m sure she knows something about how to —“
“I’m fine, Nureyev. Seriously.” Juno took his hand and slipped it into Nureyev’s, pleading with his eyes to lay back down.
Peter looked down, leaning back onto his elbow. “You were just crying and shaking so much and you... you said something. Something I haven’t heard in a long time.”
Juno smiled a little. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
Peter said a word Juno didn’t know, but he’d definitely heard before. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but he knew the word. “You were holding me so tightly I couldn’t breathe and repeating it over and over. I was worried.” Peter let his chin rest on Juno’s chest, his fingers tracing down Juno’s left side. “I didn’t know you spoke Brahmese, detective.”
“I... I don’t.” Juno blinked, trying to size up whether Nureyev was amused or upset in the low light. He was amused. Worried, but amused. Thank god.
“Well then I guess it was a spectacular coincidence. Because no one’s called me that in years.”
“What does...” Juno thinks about saying the word like Peter did, but he can’t even imagine how to make the nasal sound of the middle syllable. “What does it mean?”
Peter smiles as he leans down to kiss Juno’s chest. His teeth barely visible for a second. Juno realizes that his breathing and heart rate are back to normal now. He doesn’t want to admit it, but sleeping with someone else always helped with the night terrors. He could ground himself much more easily, especially if he trusted them enough to touch him.
Nureyev lays his ear to Juno’s chest. “It’s just a pet name, darling. Like honey or peanut in Solar.” He chuckles, and Juno puts his arms around the thief once more. “It was a little weird to wake up to. I haven’t woken up to someone calling me that in nearly a decade, and it certainly wasn’t under these circumstances.”
Juno wanted to explain. He wanted to tell Peter about the restaurant, about Sasha and Mick... and Annie. He wanted to tell him about the stews and the warmth and the weird, sweet smells that didn’t exist anywhere else in Old Town. He wanted to tell him about the nights he would go into the sewers, and about when he would come back from the sewers just before sunrise and Mrs. Wire would open the door into the alley and scold him in increasingly-less-broken Martian about “what was he doing out there so late” and “get inside before something happens to you” and “you know what happens out here after dark”. How she would give him a cup of tea as she made the bread for the day, sizing him up to make sure he was ok. It was an almost-angry, concerned, parental look. One Sarah hadn’t given him or Benzaiten in years at that point. About how she didn’t ask any questions, but made sure he wasn’t hurt and sent him on his way once the sun was up so he could get to school on time. How Mr. Wire stopped looking shocked to see Juno by his thirteenth birthday as he came down the stairs to start prepping vegetables. How it was the one place in Old Town safe enough to let your guard down.
That is, until Annie died and they were robbed at gunpoint. How they tried to continue on like normal, but never could. How he could suddenly see the lines etched into their faces by time and how they almost stopped speaking Martian altogether. How concerned they were when Sasha was in the academy. How relieved they were when Dark Matters moved them off-planet when Sasha finally got into the organization. How he missed them. But his voice was caught in his throat. He focused on his breathing, pulling himself back into the present by force.
“You don’t have to explain, Juno.” Juno sighed. Nureyev gave him a little squeeze, rubbing his cheek into Juno’s chest hair. “You don’t have to tell me now, or ever if you don’t want to. I know how certain... times in the past can be hard to talk about. They can stay private.”
Though it meant craning his neck, Juno kissed Nureyev’s head. They both relaxed a little more, closer to drifting back off to sleep. Peter mumbled something in a language Juno was pretty sure was Brahmese. Juno closed his eyes. Maybe he should ask Rita to call up Sasha. Maybe he should ask her how her parents were doing. Maybe he’d ask for their bread recipe, or the name of that tea. Maybe...
He drifted off to sleep, more peacefully than he had in years. He was warm. He was aboard the Carte Blanche, far away from any of the people or things who had hurt him. And he was safe. He still had to get used to that one.