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Peter was backed against a rocky outcropping, three feline creatures advancing on him. His gun was dropped behind them, and he had his hands pressed tightly against his abdomen—three parallel slashes and he was fairly certain he could feel at least one rib sticking out.
He knew he was going to die. He had come to peace with that idea, he’d tried to atone for everything. The Fallen One. Rora. Richard. Adam. The Cancerverse. The War. He’d done everything he could, and the only thing he would leave behind was his father’s empire. That could rot in the deepest depths of hell, for all he could care. Pete could die, he was ready. At this point, it was probably a relief from the metric fuck ton of shit he’d been through.
It always went back to trust. Whenever people trusted him, they got hurt. He could trace that back to before the Master, before everything. Trust, the word left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d grown bitter, self-depreciating, but he still slapped on enough humour to make people not question it any further.
The rocks raised welts on his back when he slid into a sitting position—his legs no longer able to support his weight. The feline growling increased in volume, seeming to come from every direction.
“Close your eyes, Peter.”
The voice was eerily familiar, something from the earliest depths of his memories, and he flinched on instinct. Of course, his death had to showcase the death of one of the two people whom he had loved. He briefly wondered if Richard would make an appearance.
“Do it, Peter. I died for you once, I will not allow you to do the same.”
The voice turned to angry, an emotion Peter had never heard her use in all the time he knew her, and he obeyed mostly out of shock, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. All he could hear now was the growling, which was then offset by a thump, followed by an incredibly bright light that seemed as if it was burning into his soul itself.
A hand touched his shoulder before the light receded, and his eyes snapped open on reflex. The only thing he could see was a darkened silhouette, the brief impression that it was female. Peter kept his eyes on her, watching as she seemed to manipulate the light, it moving into her skin and out of her palm where she held his shoulder, flowing into him and healing him from the inside out. It was a curious feeling, uncomfortable in the same way you’d get into a bath that was too hot, he just needed to grit his teeth and bear it until it dissipated.
The light faded and Peter blinked rapidly, his vision blurring from the sudden loss of light. The woman was in sharper focus now, familiar but he couldn’t place her—something was off, her stature too small or her skin too dark.
“For someone who could never turn off their mind, you are certainly quiet. Did they mess with your voice box?” Rora’s tone held no anger anymore, merely concern, as she crouched in front of him, keeping her hand on his shoulder for balance.
She was here. She was real. Rora wasn’t dead, wasn’t floating amongst space, wasn’t dead anymore, but it was still his fault.
“You’re here.”
It was all Peter could say. The emotions swimming through his head were moving thick and fast. Relief. Confusion. Joy. Guilt. From somewhere came worry, but that wasn’t his feeling. It took his mind a few more seconds to settle upon the answer, the telepathic bond they used to share was reforming, through physical contact and decreased distance. That’s why he could feel Rora’s worry and her tiredness.
“I’m here. You’re not an easy hero to find.” There was an eerie lilt to her voice— the echo of a loud speaker in a small room, filled with countless objects for sound to reverberate off—but that wasn’t the most curious thing at current. Where she touched him, it wasn’t the cool metal of her hull, or the false material of Caryth’s body. It was skin and bone, flesh, tendons and blood.
Wordlessly, Rora shifted forwards and wrapped her arms around him in a soft hug, tucking her head against his chest. He wanted to protest, wanted to throw her off because he was dirty and messy and he didn’t deserve her to be here, but he stayed silent, dropping his chin to rest against her shoulder. His head was swimming, after flark knows how long of carrying the guilt of her death, of trying to repent and do anything he could to forget about the hole in his heart that losing her had created, she was here and in his arms. The first time he could hold her, and they had lost so much to get here.
“I thought you were dead. Rora—Ship, I flarking killed you, you were dead. How are you okay with this?” His voice was hoarse with repressed emotion, and he wasn’t sure if she could breath with how tightly he was holding her. Flark, she probably didn’t need to.
If anything, Rora just curled tighter against him. “For a long time, I thought I was dead. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think. But then I could. Energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred or transformed. In my case, I was disrupted with enough force to shatter my physical form and almost disintegrate my consciousness, I was stuck in limbo. Until I wasn’t. At one point, I could just do things again. And I spent it looking for you.”
There were cutting clean streaks down Peter’s face at this point. “But it was my fault, Rora. It was my fault. Why did you come looking for me?”
“It was your mistake, Peter. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t ready for the risks. I looked for you because I love you, and I know how reckless you become without a voice of reason.” The no-nonsense tone in which she spoke was offset by teasing, she said it so matter-of-factly that Peter began to believe it.
They sat there for a long while, wrapped in each others arms until dark began to fall, rejoicing in the company of a long lost love.
“I missed you.”