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Juno Steel was muttering something under his breath. If Peter listened in a bit closer, he would have probably heard curses so creative they could give Outer Rim pirates a run for their money. Mostly, he tried to tune it out.
This was not the first time Juno had issued a complaint, and if Peter knew him the way he thought he did, it would not be the last. Within only half a day of partnership, he had managed to find issue with Nureyev, Nureyev’s plans, his clothes, the dome-regulated temperature of the Oasis being a couple degrees lower than Hyperion City, Rangian Street Poker, cards in general, and Nureyev again. Likely other things as well, although Peter preferred to mute the intricacies of Juno’s words when he got himself worked up like that. He was so much prettier when he wasn’t threatening to make another arrest.
Now it was the hotel room’s turn. Room 1113 was modest but no less lavish than the rest of the resort: with an en suite bathroom and a small balcony overlooking the rest of the casino. It had a holoscreen, completely customizable lighting and heat, as well as incredible room service.
Oh, and only one bed. That was most likely the root of Juno’s protests.
“...goddamn snake, couldn’t spare a lady’s decency, probably did this on purpose too, just to push my buttons…”
Peter Nureyev found the grumbling endearing, he really did, but he liked his beauty rest the way it was and Juno did not seem to be tiring himself out. He had returned after making his mysterious call, and wasn’t that exciting? A secret for Peter to turn over in his mind as he drifted off. The expectation was for Juno to stomp away, take his anger out on some poor soul on the other end of the comms line, and come back with his spirits soothed. Instead, he stood in the entryway and glared daggers at the king-size mattress like it had personally offended him.
Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid not everything is about you, my dear detective. Is it not strange for a married couple to book a hotel room with two beds?”
“Oh come on,” said Juno, still whining. He circled the room, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. “Nobody would check.”
“Disguises must be airtight.”
“And you already knew Engstrom was gonna blow my cover.”
“I suspected, yes.”
Juno jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. “So you did plan this, I knew it, you—”
Peter heaved a great sigh. “Even then, Duke and Dahlia Rose needed to draw as little attention from the waitstaff as possible. I had thought you'd be more professional than this, Juno, but you’re free to sleep on the floor if you wish. So long as you sleep.”
Juno’s mouth fell open and closed, not unlike a Plutonian Angler that Peter had once seen floating through an atmospheric dust cloud. “Like hell I am. Floor’s gonna murder my back before you can stab a knife in it.”
Peter wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh again. He settled for a mix of both, the comforter slipping off his torso as he sat up. “You know, you’re rather staunchly opposed to the idea of sleeping with me.” He paused, just to watch Juno’s face go red. “In the same bed, I mean. Perhaps you’d be less tightly wound if you weren’t kicking up such a fuss.”
“I—you—” Juno groaned, Dahlia’s red suit jacket sliding from his shoulders in one smooth motion and his pants yanked down in the next. He kept the dress shirt on, undoing the first two buttons. “Fine. Fine. I’m only doing this because I don’t trust you not to leave me behind if I wake up paralyzed on the ground tomorrow.” He threw the comforter back, and Peter tried not to grin. The more his lips twitched upward, the more Juno's twisted into a frown. “Whatever. Shut up.”
“Pick up your suit.”
Juno’s scowl deepened. “No.” He shimmied underneath the blanket.
“You have no idea how much that jacket alone cost.” They were only bickering for the sake of bickering now; if Juno wanted to walk around in clothes that had been chewed up and spat back out again, that was his prerogative. Peter moved to dim the lights, stifling a yawn.
“S’only expensive if you actually paid for...hang on, you’re not wearing that to bed, are you?”
Peter glanced down and glanced back up. Took him long enough to notice. “Oh, this little thing? It’s what I usually wear. Is there a problem, detective?”
Juno snorted. “First of all: you’re a liar. Nobody wears lace and whatever sheer bullshit that is.”
“A camisole.”
“Sheer bullshit. And second of all, yeah, I do have a problem. Mostly with that spit in the face of dignity you’re ‘wearing’ and I say that in quotes because really it looks like—”
“You’re blushing.”
Juno’s mouth snapped closed. He tossed himself onto his side, facing away from Peter. “Turn the damn lights off, Nureyev. And no funny business, you hear? Stick to your side of the bed and I’ll stick to mine.
“If my nightwear truly bothers you that much, Juno, I would be more than happy to alleviate your distress. Although I should warn you, I did not pack alternative clothes.” Although Peter couldn't see Juno’s face, it was incredibly gratifying to imagine it.
“ You… ” Juno trailed off with a sigh. “Lights out, Nureyev. And if you move any closer, I’ll go for my blaster.”
Peter chuckled, and a moment later, the lamps above them faded out, leaving them in darkness.
This was, objectively, worse.
Worse than staring at Juno, his face sculpted by the Martian sunrise filtered through the cracked window of his car. Worse than feeling those warm, calloused fingertips barely brushing his shoulder during the game. Worse than catching Juno’s reflection in the bathroom mirrors, the single-minded focus in his dark eyes doubling and tripling with every refraction of light. Peter felt hopelessly pinned by that gaze then, enamored by someone who could muster up moral outrage at the idea of two criminals cheating each other in poker.
There was no light in the room now, nothing but the sound of Juno’s uneven breathing, the knowledge that although the sheets around Peter were cold, if he were to reach out, he would find the most searing warmth to welcome him. To give him a home where there was once none.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them slept. Every nerve in Peter’s body was wound up tight, heartbeat thundering in the silence.
Then came the trademarked Juno Steel complaint.
“Oh, just say it,” he groused. “I can feel your smug smirk all the way over here.”
Peter giggled, the anxiety in his chest turning light. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Shut up and sleep. Giving my insomnia insomnia. Just stay right where you’re at and I’ll do the same.”
And if Peter was being completely honest, neither of them quite did. Chalk that up to one too many nights alone and the Oasis dome temperature being just a little colder than Hyperion. Sleeping minds and resting bodies did what they refused to do while conscious and alert. In any case, it was good Juno disposed of the assassin come morning.
Peter did have a reputation to uphold, after all.