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The door to the gym’s creaky and slams loudly, which is why Juno nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes that Peter Nureyev’s standing near the dumbbell rack, just watching him. When had he come in? Had he been there a minute ago? Juno can’t remember, and he scowls as Nureyev breaks into a grin at Juno’s confusion.
“Hello, detective,” says Nureyev. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your regimen, but with Rita planetside, everyone on the ship’s being terribly boring.”
Juno grunts. “So you came here for a show, huh? Nothing good streaming?” He pulls himself up again, chin flush with the bar, exaggerating the motion a little in hopes to get a reaction out of Nureyev, who’s currently leaning languidly against a rack of weights. It works, and the thief’s grin gets a little sharper, his cheeks a little redder. Juno would put up a fight against being ogled, but the truth is that he’s enjoying this. Enjoying being watched like something— like someone… desirable .
“So quick to assume that you’re a show , darling,” says Peter, his eyes betraying his mouth as he watches Juno’s arms flex. “Though I won’t deny that I enjoy watching you at work, I actually— and this might strike you as a surprise— came down here to do a bit of training.”
Juno barks out a laugh, a quick, harsh thing. Lowering himself slowly down to the ground, he raises his eyebrows. “You? Training? No offense, Peter, but you’d think a master thief like you would get better at lying. Unless you’re planning on moonlighting in stand-up comedy next time we land planetside.”
If Juno didn’t know Peter so well by now, didn’t know what was telegraphed in every quirk of his eye and curl of his lip, he would have backtracked immediately at the offended expression on his face. Even so, he can tell that the face isn’t entirely a facade. Nureyev’s eyes narrow, glinting, and he flexes his fingers slightly as though absently playing with his knife.
“Why, Juno,” he says. Juno’s only half-focusing on what he’s saying, now, because Nureyev seems to be deliberately baring his teeth, and Juno can’t help paying more attention to his pointed smile than his pointed comments. “Are you calling me weak? I know I’m not built like you or Jet, detective, but I daresay you’re underestimating me.”
Juno wipes the back of his hand against his forehead and returns to the bar, raising himself up again. “Course you’re not weak, Ransom,” he says, “I’ve seen you with a knife. I wouldn’t want to, uh, underestimate you if I was on the wrong end of it. But training? Working out? ” He’s trying to be placating, but he can’t deny that the idea is seriously funny to him. Nureyev’s, well… he’s a beanpole, is what he is. A beautiful beanpole, magic, maybe, all sharp angles and sweeping lines, every motion as fluid as water.
Still, though. Juno can’t exactly imagine him pumping iron.
The beanpole in question breathes out sharply, apparently not feeling like dignifying Juno’s attitude with a response. Juno watches as he stalks over to a mat in the far corner, places both hands against the wall, and slowly raises one long leg up to his chest, straightening it at the knee until it extends far above his head. He raises his eyebrows, part of him captivated as usual by Peter’s elegance, part of him trying not to laugh as he pictures a flamingo. When Peter lowers his leg and drops gracefully into a squat, bending back slightly and rolling his shoulders, Juno’s unable to stop a snort of laughter.
Peter glares at him, then looks away, apparently unfazed. He tucks his head in and somersaults forwards, standing up as soon as he lands, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling like he’s being drawn upwards by a magnet. Juno is, deep down, amazed at the fluidity of Peter’s motions, at how he seems to move without any regards for the laws of physics or the limits of human flexibility or anything other than this clearly well-practiced routine. He’s beautiful, he really is, and Juno feels like a little bit of a hypocrite for having teased him earlier about watching him train, because he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the evening in here watching his— well, watching Nureyev. He considers telling him this, knows how favorably the thief responds to compliments, knows how much he deserves it right now.
But if there’s one thing Juno takes pride in, it’s knowing exactly how to push Peter’s buttons. Being the only one who can ruffle flirty, egotistical Rex Glass’s feathers, or make cool, compartmentalizing Peter Ransom scowl and blush. So instead he says-
“Getting into character?”
“What?” Peter says, looking back at him in the middle of a perfectly executed turn on his heel.
“Buddy’s got you playing someone for the next heist, right? That’s gotta be it. What, a pole dancer?”
Peter turns bright red, and Juno can practically see as his little bubble of concentration pops. He’s glaring for real, now, not coldly and damp-eyed like right after the two have a proper fight, but like he’s a teapot about to explode and splash boiling water everywhere. If Juno thinks of their constant back-and-forth bickering as a game of rile-’em-up, Peter seems to think of it as a scene, and he’s sure playing his part well. He sputters— Juno knows how rare it is that Peter’s lost for words, so either Juno’s hitting all the right buttons or Peter’s playing along very well— and mutters something in a pointy language Juno recognizes but doesn’t quite understand.
Juno’s the one grinning now, unashamedly eyeing Peter’s legs. “Or a ballerina, maybe. You’ve got that… high-class air about you now. Like you think you and your body are really something special.”
“One more comment, darling , and I think I’ll have to teach you a bit of a lesson.” Peter returns to his stretching, balancing on one leg now, eyes closed like a monk searching desperately for inner peace.
Juno lets his eyes fall closed as well, still holding himself up on the bar despite his protesting biceps. “A lesson, huh? It’s tempting, but I don’t think I’ve got the thighs for that kinda work. I’d show you how to fight if you let me watch you some more, though.”
Peter’s laugh rings across the gym, and Juno thinks that he could live on that laugh alone. “Detective, I think it’s rather funny that you think you have anything to teach me on that front. I’ve watched you on heists, you know. Excellent muscle, truly excellent, but god, Juno, that form!”
“What the hell’s wrong with my form?” Juno asks, just a little genuinely offended. Sure, he’s not as light on his feet as some charming, insufferable thieves, but he likes to think of himself as a capable fighter! He’s never died in a fight, at least, or even lost any limbs, which has to count for something.
“You rely too much on brute strength, darling, strength and that blaster of yours. If you ever wound up in a weaponless fight— well, dear, I won’t say I have no faith in you, but I wouldn’t put any money on it.”
Juno can hear the self-satisfied smirk in Nureyev’s voice, as unmistakable and alluring as the slight scent of the glamorous bandit’s cologne, as— he catches himself getting fond and cuts it off immediately. His pride has been wounded, goddamn it.
“You’re one to talk, Ransom,” he growls, “you and that knife you carry everywhere. You’d be useless without it and you know it. Talking to me about fights like— you’re lucky I love you so much, Nureyev, ‘cuz I could snap you in half and you know it.”
Peter lets out a startled little laugh at this, and Juno knows he’s going to be replaying that sound in his head for the rest of the week at least . He regains his composure quickly, though, which irks Juno just a little— he thought he might have thrown him off with that one. “If you’re so certain about that, detective,” he says, and Juno hears light footsteps, “why don’t we find out. I’ll put my knife aside-” a slight clattering sound— “and I know you wouldn’t think to bring any weapons down to the gym, unless your feud with Vespa has gotten serious recently.”
“If you came down here looking for a fair fight that you’re gonna lose,” says Juno, “you could’ve just asked Jet to knock you out or something. Fine, let’s do it. But you know I’m not going to go easy on-”
A cool hand against his shoulder startles him out of speaking, and he belatedly realizes that Peter’s been out of his field of view for a while. He manages to suppress the reflex to flail his elbow backwards, but loses his grip on the pull-up bar, stumbling ungracefully. Peter laughs, bolstering him back upright.
“I really shouldn’t be helping you out, detective,” he says, “seeing as you weren’t listening to a thing I said when I was offering you advice.” His hand runs gently over Juno’s bicep, caressing the muscle, nails leaving the faintest of scratches against Juno’s dark skin. “But it’s very important not to let yourself get caught off guard. You’re so… distractible.”
“Neat trick, Ransom,” says Juno, holding back a shudder at the sensation of Nureyev’s practiced fingers against his skin. “I’ll remember that when I’ve got you pinned, sound good?”
“Oh, Juno,” Peter says, inches from his ear, “I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors.”
Then he releases his grip on Juno’s arm, spins him around so the two are face to face, and nods slightly.
Juno takes that as a signal to lunge towards him, aiming a stage punch at Nureyev’s shoulder. He’s careful to hold back— despite their bickering and posturing, he hates the thought of seriously hurting the one person he cares about the most in the world ( again, a little voice in his head says, but he reminds the voice that he’s done thinking that way, and also he’s kinda busy right now, would you mind.) Apparently, though, he hadn’t needed to worry— Nureyev almost effortlessly dodges out of the way, leaving Juno off-balance and reeling to stay on his feet.
All right, then. If Nureyev wants a real fight, well, Juno’s never been the one to back down. He tries to conjure up the blood-rushing, head-pounding feeling of a barfight, hoping that a burst of adrenaline’ll be all he needs to get Nureyev in a nice headlock, maybe kiss him a little, and get back to his chin-ups.
When he looks up and over at where Nureyev was a second ago, though, nobody’s there. He curses under his breath— Peter would never use his blind side against him, and plus Juno’s been training with Buddy to be able to fight around it. He’s just gotten distracted again, just like Nureyev warned him about a minute ago. Before Juno even gets the chance to turn around, Nureyev’s leg is arcing over his head, his heel coming dizzyingly close to Juno’s temple, a warning. An unspoken see, I could’ve brained you right there, petulant detective. He lands lightly as though he hasn’t just pulled off a goddamn combat ballet move.
Juno knows, logically, when he’s been licked. He doesn’t need to be an ex-detective to realize that his ex-ex-lover’s been holding out on him, that he’s an aging back-alley brawler up against a razor-sharp, whip-quick whirling dervish. He’s learned well enough in the past few years that despite his reputation as Hyperion City’s most stubbornest girl detective, it’s all right to cut his losses and admit defeat sometimes.
Then he thinks about how many years it’ll be before he hears the end of it from Nureyev, if he gives up now. He doesn’t have much of a head for numbers, but Rita’s thrown the word googol around before, and Juno thinks that might be about right.
All right. No more mister nice lady. He grunts as he looks back at Nureyev, who’s been just watching him, amused. The thief starts to open his mouth, but Juno shuts him up with a surprisingly well-timed palm to the side of his neck, and they’re off again.
Juno’s wise to Nureyev’s tricks now. (Well, in this case, at least. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand what’s really going on in that well-combed dome.) He makes sure to pay attention to where the smug thief is at all times (and shouldn’t he have learned that lesson a while ago), and he’s even managing to get in some decent hits. After a few minutes at it, he starts to wonder whether Nureyev is letting him win, but he’s starting to get a little winded, and he doesn’t want to waste any breath asking. Still, the thought makes him bristle, and when Nureyev starts towards him again, he pushes him away a little more roughly than he intends to.
Nureyev chuckles at this, the asshole. “What’s wrong, Juno?” he asks in that voice of his, the one that makes it sound like he’s the one doing the mind-inspecting. Juno doesn’t even dignify him with a response.
A few more minutes in, and Juno’s legs are burning. Not to mention, he’s dizzy as hell, from following Nureyev through every spin and dodge. He’s holding his own, though, mostly by catching Peter’s arm or leg with his forearm every time it gets too close to him. And then—
He makes the mistake of looking up at Nureyev’s face. Sweat beading on his brow, hairs sticking to the side of his face where they’ve escaped his ponytail. Teeth bared, glinting, like a wild animal’s, over his full, smooth lower lip. And his eyes. Half-shut, pupils blown ( familiar, supplies a little part of his brain that should really be turned off during a fight like this), staring straight into Juno’s own. The whole effect is dangerous, striking, almost predatory, and Juno’s getting better but god, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t still as much of a sucker for a guy who could just. Tear him to shreds.
Looking at him, he feels— well, dizzy, but he’s got that covered already. Breathless— ditto. Weak in the knees—
No, that’s not from staring too much at his stupidly attractive opponent. He’s let himself get caught off guard again, he realizes belatedly, and Nureyev’s taken the advantage to swipe his leg at the backs of his knees, sending him tumbling forwards. He tries to catch his balance, but his brain’s still stuck on one of Peter’s canines, and he’s already falling pretty gracelessly. He prepares himself for the fall, gets ready to catch himself with his shoulder instead of breaking a wrist, closes his eye on instinct.
Which is why he’s a little confused when instead of a cold floor and familiar pain, he finds himself stopped at a sharp angle, strong hands below his shoulder blades. He opens his eye and sees that face again, still just as concentrated, just as beautiful. Even smugger, now, if that’s possible, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin like everything in the world has gone exactly as he orchestrated it.
“Hello, Juno,” says Nureyev. Juno’s pleased to hear that he sounds a little short of breath too, though whether it’s from the actual fight he’s not sure. They’ve gone long past friendly sparring and obnoxious needling now, and Juno knows that Peter knows that they both are very aware of that. “Looks like you’ve—“
“Can it, Ransom,” replies Juno. “Thanks for, uh, thanks for catching me, I guess. No need to make a dumb pun to rub it in.”
“Oh, dear heart, it’s a horrible habit, isn’t it,” says Nureyev. “One I picked up from an old acquaintance who just wouldn’t get off my case. But anyways, I was only going to say that it looked like you’ve tired yourself out.”
Juno’s got five or six snarky retorts battling for dominance in his mind, but they’re all cut down in the prime of their lives when Peter digs the pads of his fingers into Juno’s back. He lets out a small breathy sound, then immediately scowls. Goddamnit, he’s not usually so… sensitive, so wound-up, but there’s something about the adrenaline and endorphins and the way Nureyev’s still just looking at him, like a conquest, like a prize. Well. It’s getting to him.
He braces for a barrage of teasing, and is met instead with Nureyev’s forehead, chilled with cooling sweat, pressed against his. The touch is surprisingly gentle, which is why Juno’s taken off guard when a second later, Nureyev kisses him with such fervor that his head spins. Ravishes, they say in those trashy romance novels Rita reads, and Juno doesn’t think he understood what the word meant until now.
He realizes a second belatedly that he’s kind of being a dead fish right now, and parts his lips, pressing his tongue into Nureyev’s mouth and running it along the back of those incredible teeth. Nureyev bites at his lower lip, gently at first, then harder when Juno makes a soft, needy sound in response. His eye falls closed, his head falls back. He lets himself just sink into Nureyev’s surprisingly strong arms, relishes the heady thrill of being so vulnerable.
A needy whine finds its way from his throat before he can stop it when Nureyev pulls away, but then the tip of his tongue is tracing its way down Juno’s jaw, down to his neck. Nureyev’s got a good memory, or they’ve just done this enough that it’s become second nature, because he latches onto just the right spot even though Juno knows that the bruise there’s faded away. His leg twitches and he brings up a hand to tangle it in Nureyev’s hair as he sets to work creating a fresh one.
Juno feels. Well. Juno feels a lot right now, Nureyev’s sharpened grin sucking all the coherent thoughts from his head like some kind of psychic vampire. His teeth nipping at his pulse point. His clever fingers tugging at the back of his ratty workout shirt. It all comes to a head when Nureyev bites down hard, hard enough that Juno thinks he might have drawn blood, and Juno yanks at his hair.
Nureyev pulls away instantly, staring down at him as though Juno’s done something reprehensible. He’s never had a problem with a little tugging in the past, so Juno figures that Peter’s still in that in-between area, not quite playing a role but also not playing all the cards onto the table.
“Oh, my dear detective,” he practically purrs. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”
And before Juno even has a chance to think of a response (probably would’ve been something halfheartedly sarcastic, or maybe ‘kiss me again just like that’), he’s falling the last few inches to the ground, landing hard on his back. The wind’s knocked out of him, and he makes a stupid little gasping sound as Nureyev— as he just laughs at him, the smug bastard, laughs and brushes one of Juno’s stray curls out of his eyes.
He moves around a little, assesses the damage: spine still straight, ribs all intact, able to move his legs. No question, Nureyev’d probably studied something stupid like how to cause a scene falling without getting hurt . He can see, behind the mask of amusement and ruthlessness, a question, an unasked are you all right, darling? It’s not a scene, not quite. It’s a dance, a game, but Peter knows well enough to be able to call it off.
But Juno’s a big girl. He can take it. And more than that, he’s not done with Nureyev yet. He’s still pissed off, but moreso, he still… well.
Nureyev had wound him up, kissed him so sweet, and then left him hanging. Juno doesn’t plan on just letting that slide, humiliation be damned.
“What do you want from me, Ransom,” he says, defeated. And even like this, he’s a sucker for that beautiful, dangerous face.
“I think an apology for underestimating me is on the cards,” Peter replies, like he’s been rehearsing it.
Apologizing still might not be his strong suit. But this feels less like an ultimatum, and more like a practice. It’s easier, somehow, being guided through it like this. “Sorry, Nureyev. I dunno why I didn’t think you could take me. I’ve seen you fight and all, I guess I just—” He waves his hand in Nureyev’s general direction.
Nureyev takes a second to consider this, head tilted in a way that Juno finds obnoxiously adorable. Like so many things he does. “Incomplete, and I’d guess it’s more placating than genuine. But it’ll do. Now, if we’re done here, I suppose I’ll just go…” He makes like he’s about to turn and leave, just leave Juno here on the floor.
“Wait, Ransom,” he says. “Gimme a hand up first.” Gracelessly, he grabs Nureyev’s arm as soon as he reaches it out and, catching him off balance, pulls him down to the floor.
“Why, detective! ” Nureyev gasps, mock-scandalized. “What in—” The rest of the sentence is lost into Juno’s lips, the thief pinned to the ground by the detective. They fit together so nicely like this, pretense gone, just two petty, starstruck lovers. And as they return to their favorite pastime, Juno thinks of something he’s read once. Lose the battle, win the war.
He’s won it, hasn’t he. They both have.