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Juno Steel struggled with letting go. Kind of came with the career choice. Whether it was a case, an argument, or a person, once he got his teeth in something, he would clench his jaw and dig his heels in before budging an inch. Stubborn as all hell and too attached for his own good, even to things he knew weren’t good for him.
Especially to things he knew weren’t good for him.
Hyperion City was a particularly cruel mistress, and Juno was nothing if not devoted. Truth was, he’d gotten pretty good at taking punches. Could put it down as a hobby at this point, or a fashion statement, considering how many shiners he’d worn in to work. A kick in the ribs felt like home, a bloody nose was a comfort. Vaguely, he knew he should probably get that checked out one day. A shrink would have a lot to say. Hell, maybe he’d get credited in a paper.
Point was, he knew what a sucker punch felt like. And although he might not have been in any physical danger, that didn’t stop all the air from rushing out of his lungs, a heavy weight settling on his solar plexus when he smelled that cologne. Faint, but there. It had clung to his couch, to his coat, to the stained throw pillows Rita had gotten him in an attempt at decor. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve suspected his apartment had been broken into and that damn scent sprayed everywhere it would stick. The smell of spices and a life spent hopping from planet to planet, always running, never looking back.
And just like that, something wound itself around his chest and pulled. Suddenly he was helpless, as pathetic as he was six months ago, swooning over a mysterious suit with a pretty face. A leash around his heart was being tightened to its limit, and nothing else mattered. Not the case, not the pill, not Alessandra Strong, who was beside him trying to get his attention.
A red light illuminated the hallway to the left, and the shadow it cast…
No. No way. Quit kidding yourself, Steel, he said he was done with Mars. You had your chance and you screwed it up, and there’s no way that—
Spidery limbs, all long, lithe lines that were made for draping, for artful, elegant movements like the unsheathing of a knife or the picking of a pocket. And that was just his shadow. Juno could imagine his grin, the cat with the synth-cream, the plush cupid’s bow of his lips pulling back to reveal those sharp teeth. An angel who could tear him apart with a smile, who appeared and disappeared like it was nothing, like existing was just a helpful hint.
Juno barely even heard himself talk. Alessandra was pressing him now, her hand on his wrist, trying to pull him back to where he’d stepped, almost involuntarily, towards that hallway. Just a few minutes. Less than half an hour. God help him, he didn’t even know what he was supposed to do. He just knew that if he waited another second, whatever feeling had seized him would crush his sternum, and then where would he be?
He turned back, only for a moment. “Good luck, Alessandra. See you soon.” And then came the realization that if she got hurt because of Juno, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
That was the last cohesive thought he’d had before he started running. The red light was gone, but the smell still lingered. Every desperate breath brought more of it into his lungs, and Juno couldn’t help but inhale deeper. If it was some kind of toxin, then what a way to go. He turned the corner into the hallway the shadow had come from. It was almost empty, save for the footsteps, faint and steady, up ahead. Juno pushed himself to go faster, dizzy with anticipation.
He was right there. The realization was more terrifying than exhilarating, like driving a car off a hovertrack and going into freefall. And then, those footsteps picked up, and just as Juno skidded to a near full stop to turn right, he saw him.
Peter Nureyev.
Or, more accurately, Peter Nureyev’s back as he sprinted away from Juno, down flights of stairs.
Juno gave chase, acutely aware of his shorter legs and hatred of cardio. Like this, there were no complications, no room for quiet contemplation of his emotions. There was just the pursuit. The perp getting away, the good guy after him. Good guys always win, right?
Against all odds, he was hot on Nureyev’s literal heels—how did he run in those goddamn things—and quickly gaining. He propelled himself forward, careful not to trip down the steps as he descended each set of stairs, every breathless gasp bridging the distance between them. Growing ever closer to the man who had stolen Juno’s case right out from under his nose and gave him a name as a consolation prize.
What was Juno going to do with him? What did he even expect to get out of this? Did he expect to get anything at all, or was this just another thing he couldn’t quit, something that’d chew him up and spit him out and still be able to pull him in every time?
Juno didn’t have time to get too philosophical, because then they reached the bottom floor, the staircase leveling out. C’mon, Steel. Now or never.
He lunged, throwing himself forward with all the energy he could muster, arms outstretched. His palms hit home, twisting in the billowing fabric of Nureyev’s shirt. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite able to halt his momentum, and they were both sent crashing forward. Fortunately, Nureyev hit the wall first, with a muffled grunt. When he tried to make a break for it, Juno simply fell forward and let his status as an immovable object do the wrestling for him. Nureyev squirmed until he was twisted around enough so that he could look at Juno, and oh fuck off.
Juno processed everything in small chunks, set to the rhythm of his pulse rushing in his ears. Nureyev’s eyes, clear and bright. His cheeks, flushed from exertion. Lips that looked soft even now, even after Juno knew everything he knew. The smell of him, close enough to make Juno cough, the spices he had been on his way to forgetting embedding themselves in his mind. And Nureyev’s heart, racing at a frantic pace that matched Juno’s own.
What the hell was Juno thinking?
They stared at each other for a very long, very silent moment.
Juno had no idea. He was so caught up in his need to see Peter Nureyev, that when he finally had him, he had no idea what to do. What to say, how to act. He didn’t even know why he was here, why Nureyev even mattered for this case, or why Juno’s stomach had decided to enact a gymnastics routine that would put Vicky’s Vixens to shame. What now?
They kept staring, each as shocked as the other.
And then, a slow smirk crept over Nureyev’s face. His cutting teeth glinted even through the dull overhead lamps of the room. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as silk, the lilting tone both familiar and brand new. “Most sincere apologies, my dear detective.”
Juno opened his mouth to respond, and then he saw it. Nureyev had pulled what looked like a remote, although it only had two buttons, out of his pocket. His gaze never leaving Juno’s, he pressed the leftmost one, and a bright red light began to shine. It only took a second. Everything had become blinding, and when the crimson faded and Juno could see...
Nureyev was gone and Juno was stumbling forward and hitting the wall, face first. He barely caught himself before he tripped and fell. The cologne still lingered in the air, but more of a recollection than a reminder of his presence.
Smug bastard. Smug fucking bastard.
“Goddamnit,” Juno muttered, and because that didn’t seem to express his true state enough, he tried again, this time considerably louder.
“Goddamnit!”