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Chapter Text

The plan had been perfect. Simon would never see it coming, too blinded by his trust in Peter — trust Peter had cultivated with the patience of a gardener tending to his prize rose. He had drawn the thorns away, let Simon grow soft beneath his care, made him believe that Peter was nothing more than a loyal friend, a fellow noble wanderer sharing the burdens of a harsh world. The moment Simon’s face twisted in pain, Peter… felt.

At first, it was satisfaction. A grim relief settled deep in his chest — finally, the plan was in motion. Simon staggered, and Peter let himself exhale, his mind already moving ahead. Now came the next part. Shock, confusion, horror — none of it real, of course, but convincing enough to play the role of a grieving friend. He had prepared for this, imagined it over and over until it felt almost routine. There was no room for hesitation.

Then Simon’s wide, glassy eyes found his.

“Peter…” His voice cracked as he stumbled, his hand pressing against his chest. “I don’t… I don’t feel right.”

The words barely touched him. Peter had expected them. There was always a moment of realization, the slow horror of understanding creeping in.

Peter took a slow breath. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said somewhat smoothly, though his voice wavered just a bit more than he intended. “Just lean back, catch your breath. You’re probably tired.”

Simon nodded weakly. Without hesitation, he turned as Peter had recommended, leaning against a nearby tree.

Peter felt his hand twitch.

‘This is what I planned. This is what I want.’

Simon’s death meant freedom. A clean, perfect ending to the life one dear Peter Wallis had lived so far. He had known from the start that Simon’s trust would be the noble’s undoing. That had perhaps been the cruelest part of it — how easy it had been to lead him to this moment.

So why did it suddenly start to feel… different?

His fingers curled tighter. He forced himself to watch, to observe Simon’s unsteady movements, the way his breath grew uneven. It was a fascinating thing, death. He had always thought so. He had never looked away from such suffering before.

Simon gritted his teeth and let out a low, pained breath. His fingers trembled as they clutched at his coat, reaching for something, anything.

Peter didn’t move. He needed to let this happen. It had to happen.

Simon turned back to him, just slightly, as though waiting for Peter to say something. To guide him through this. His expression flickered — uncertain, confused, but not afraid.

Peter’s breath hitched.

His heartbeat felt strange, too fast and too heavy. Something in his chest twisted, sharp and wrong, like a knife slipping between his ribs. This was hesitation, wasn’t it? A brief, fleeting moment of weakness.

That was all.

He just needed to hold still and let it pass.

Simon swayed, even against the tree. His lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came out. His body was betraying him now, slipping further into the inevitable, and soon, he would collapse. Peter should have felt relief. It was perfect — nothing left to stop.

And yet.

His fingers twitched again. He thought of pressing a hand to Simon’s back, steadying him. He thought of catching his arm before he could fall. He thought of how simple it would be to undo this, to turn back before it was too late.

And for the first time since he had put this plan into motion, Peter realized—

He didn’t want Simon to die.

“Peter,” Simon groaned quietly, his fingers trembling as they moved up to reach for Peter’s sleeve. “I—I…”

His hands were shaking before he even realized he had been reaching for Simon. “It’s—it’s okay,” Peter stammered, his voice finally cracking as he grabbed Simon’s arm to steady him. “I… I can fix this. Just— just stay with me, alright?”

Simon gave him a dazed nod, his knees buckling fully as Peter guided him to the ground. Peter’s mind raced, his thoughts colliding in a chaotic jumble. He had the tools; of course he did. An apprentice of Benedict Blackthorn wouldn’t travel without some means of remedying ailments — even ones he himself inflicted. Mistakes were inevitable, after all.

Peter fumbled with his satchel, fingers clumsy and frantic as he rummaged through the carefully organized contents. Every second that passed drove the knife in his ribs further in.

“Stay awake,” Peter urged, his voice unsure as he pulled out a small vial. His breath caught again as he glanced at Simon’s pallor, a sheen of sweat already on his brow. “You’ll be okay.”

The words sounded hollow, even to him. He unscrewed the vial and brought it to Simon’s lips, but the other man turned his head feebly, his confusion and discomfort evident.

“Drink,” Peter insisted, his voice sharpening, not out of anger, but panic. “Simon. Trust me.”

The irony of his plea wasn’t lost on him, and it made him feel like he might vomit, too. Simon had trusted him, trusted him more than anyone else, and Peter had certainly repaid it in a unique way.

Simon blinked at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused, but he parted his lips enough for Peter to pour the bitter liquid into his mouth. Simon grimaced, his body shuddering as the taste hit him, but Peter didn’t loosen his grip.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmured as Simon swallowed.

Not long after, Simon gagged, his body convulsing as he lurched forward, coughing violently. Peter caught him, holding him steady as he retched onto the ground. His free hand pressed against Simon’s back, rubbing slow circles as his stomach emptied itself of poison and bile.

Peter’s mind raced. ‘What am I going to tell him? How can I explain this? That he just ate something that didn’t agree with him? That wouldn’t exactly be a lie…’

Simon heaved again, his body trembling violently, but Peter didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

After what felt like an eternity, Simon slumped back against him, exhausted and half-conscious. Peter’s arms wrapped around him, holding him as tightly as he dared.

“You’re okay,” Peter murmured, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. “You’re going to be okay. I’m—” he let out a breath, and he pressed his forehead against Simon’s damp hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Simon’s breathing was shallow but steady, his head lolling against Peter’s shoulder. Peter stayed there, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The plan was ruined. But as Peter held Simon, feeling his heartbeat against his own, he realized he didn’t care. Let it be ruined. Let everything fall apart. Simon was alive, and for the first time, Peter felt something real — raw and terrifying and overwhelming.

Simon stirred weakly, his voice a rasp against the quiet night. “Peter…”

Peter’s heart jumped into his throat at his voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, his grip tightening further around Simon. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Simon’s head tilted back slightly, his glassy gaze trying and failing to focus on Peter’s face. “What… what happened?”

“You—” he started, his tone betraying him. “You must’ve eaten something bad. Or— or maybe it was the water.”

Even to his own ears, it sounded feeble, and Simon’s brow furrowed faintly; though he was too incoherent to press for clarity.

“Don’t think about it now,” Peter said, brushing away the hair stuck to Simon’s forehead with a gentleness that surprised even himself. “Just rest. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word felt like a cruel mockery of the truth. Safe from what? From whom?

Simon closed his eyes, his breathing shallow but steady. His new life had been so clean, so foolproof, and now it lay in tatters at his feet. Simon wasn’t just a target anymore, not a role to step into or a life to steal. He was… well, Peter didn’t even know. He only knew the thought of losing Simon now filled him with a fear he hadn’t felt a day in his life prior.

The night stretched on, heavy and silent, and Peter stayed where he was, holding Simon in a way he had never thought he needed.

Tomorrow, they’d get to the ship bound for France. Tomorrow, Simon would continue his recovery, and Peter would—

He didn’t know what he would do.

The dawn came reluctantly, the pale light seeping through the canopy of trees like a hesitant apology. Peter hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even tried. Instead, he’d stayed where he was, Simon’s head resting against his shoulder, his breathing the only sound that had kept Peter from spiraling completely into his own mind.

Simon shifted slightly as the light touched his face, his brow furrowing before his eyes fluttered open. Peter felt the movement before he saw it, and his entire body went tense, as though preparing for a blow he couldn’t see coming.

Simon blinked up at him, his expression groggy and confused. “Peter?” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Peter forced a smile, though it felt fragile on his face. “Morning,” he said, keeping his tone light.
Simon winced, trying to sit up from his limp state, but Peter’s hands immediately wrapped firmer around him, holding him down. “Easy,” he murmured. “You had… a rough night.”

Simon’s brow furrowed further as he glanced around, his gaze eventually landing on the dark stain in the dirt nearby where he’d vomited the night before. He paled slightly, though whether from memory or lingering nausea, Peter couldn’t tell.

“I… I don’t remember much,” Simon admitted, his voice faint. He looked back at Peter, his expression tinged with uncertainty. “What happened?”

“You got sick.”

Simon frowned, his eyes searching Peter’s face as though trying to piece together the gaps in his memory. Peter forced himself to meet that gaze.

He exhaled shakily, his grip on Simon hesitating for a moment before he let go. “You’re alright now,” he said softly, though the words felt heavy. “That’s what matters.”

Simon nodded hesitantly, though he still looked unsettled. He glanced down at himself, noting how his shirt was rumpled and damp from sweat, and gave Peter his best shot at a smile. “Seems like I owe you one,” he said, his tone attempting lightness. “I don’t remember much, but… thank you.”

Peter’s mouth tightened to a line.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly.

Simon gave him a puzzled look but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he pushed himself up a little straighter, his hand taking Peter’s arm voluntarily for support.

“We should get moving soon, shouldn’t we?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes lingering on Simon’s pale face, the bags under his eyes. “You’re still recovering,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. “We don’t need to rush.”

Simon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Okay, Dr. Wallis,” he teased, though the fondness in his voice was clear.

Peter frowned at the name, but he masked it quickly, busying himself with resting Simon back against the tree so he could begin gathering their scattered belongings. “Just rest for a little longer,” he said, not meeting Simon’s gaze. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Simon didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

Peter made Simon hold his hand for most of the remaining journey to the boat.

“In case your legs give out again. That’s all.”

Simon hadn’t argued. He had squeezed Peter’s hand lightly — just once, just enough to acknowledge the excuse for what it was.

It took Peter the whole trip to only begin to work through what he had experienced. Fear. Care. It was… new. He had been so focused his whole life on action, not reaction.

They eventually arrived in France, and things went about as smoothly as they could have. Simon wrote off the incident, believing it to be a simple case of food poisoning, and Peter grappled with his newfound need to have Simon in his sights as often as possible. Simon didn’t take the sudden clinginess as anything suspicious — in fact, he was ecstatic that it was happening at all. Peter followed him everywhere, meeting up with Simon’s old friends and family, and for once, he felt what he could only guess to be what others described as “at home.”

That solidified further when they took up a more permanent residence. Perhaps he had been pushing it when he denied his own bedroom, but Peter figured rooms apart could be a rather significant difference if something were to happen to Simon. Simon hadn't minded much — only a little surprised at his forwardness. It conserved heat, some resources... overall quite efficient, yes.

Peter no longer felt the need to act out. Find revenge. Even if he was hurt, that was the past… and now he had something more beautiful than that path going correctly ever could’ve brought.

Their days fell into an easy rhythm. Mornings were spent tangled in silk sheets, the golden light of the French sun spilling through the curtains. Peter woke first more often than not — though he never left the bed until Simon stirred.

He told himself it was because he didn’t want to wake him. That was logical, wasn’t it? No point in disrupting Simon’s rest when he would only have to wait for him later.

But sometimes, when he propped himself up on one elbow and watched Simon’s face slack with sleep, watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, he thought of how close he had come to ruining all of it. And sometimes, when Simon sighed and shifted, curling instinctively toward him, Peter would reach out and let his fingers ghost along his arm. Not to wake him. Just to confirm that he was there.

Simon always rose slow, stretching like a cat before blinking blearily at Peter with a soft, hazy smile. “Morning,” he would murmur, voice thick with sleep.

Peter had never cared much for mornings before, but something about them now felt good. Right.

Breakfasts were leisurely, thought often interrupted by banter of varying degrees.

“You can’t seriously be planning to eat that,” Peter had scoffed one morning, eyeing Simon’s attempt at cooking eggs with barely-contained horror — he had insisted that he could cook, and would be doing so. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Simon, still bleary-eyed from sleep, arched a brow. “It’s just eggs, Peter.”

“It’s just a catastrophe waiting to happen,” Peter corrected, already plucking the pan from his hands. “Sit down before you burn this place down.”

Simon had grinned, stepping back with an exaggerated bow. “By all means, my dear, rescue me from my own incompetence.”

Peter had muttered something under his breath but hadn’t protested further, focused on salvaging the mess Simon had made.

It was small, domestic things like this that settled into Peter’s bones in a way he never expected. The way Simon rested his chin on his shoulder while he worked, the way their elbows knocked together when they sat side by side at the table, the way Simon would reach for his wrist absentmindedly when they were out in the city.

It was easy. It was simple.

It was dangerous.

Peter had never allowed himself the luxury of ease. Of comfort. He had spent his life watching his own back, calculating every move, expecting betrayal at every turn. He had somehow convinced himself that nothing good was permanent.

And yet, every time Simon laughed, every time he leaned into Peter’s space without hesitation, every time Peter caught himself smiling without thinking — he found himself wanting, hoping, that maybe this could be.

Maybe this could be the one thing he didn’t ruin.

On the other side of the coin that Peter was on, another was praying that ruin wouldn’t befall him.

In fact, Christopher Rowe hadn’t slept well in nearly a week.

The news was spreading faster than wildfire — apothecaries were being murdered. Respected men, skilled men. Their deaths weren’t random. They were being hunted. And despite it all, Master Benedict remained as composed as ever, grinding herbs at a desk as though nothing was wrong.

Christopher shifted anxiously where he stood, hands clasped behind his back. “Master,” he began carefully, “I know you said not to panic, but… we must acknowledge the pattern.”

Benedict hummed, still not looking up. “I acknowledge it, Christopher.”

Christopher hesitated before continuing. “Then shouldn’t we consider… relocating?”

That earned him a glance. Benedict set down the mortar and pestle, folding his hands together. “And go where?”

Christopher swallowed. “Anywhere?”

“We discussed this already.” Benedict’s voice was even, but firm. “Running will not make a difference. If they mean to find us, they will.”

How reassuring. Christopher lowered his head slightly. He had overheard his master speaking with Hugh before — Hugh, ever the pragmatist, had argued that they should leave while they still could. Benedict had dismissed the idea outright. “They’ll find us anyway,” he had said.

But surely they could do something. Right?

“I understand, Master,” Christopher said, steadying his voice. “But—if nothing else—perhaps we could reach out for help…?”

Benedict exhaled through his nose. “And who would you suggest?”

Christopher hesitated. “I, um…”

Benedict was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he reached for some parchment at the corner of his desk, running a finger over it slowly.

“To sate your concerns, I’ll write to a friend,” Benedict conceded. “He resides in Paris. If he can offer us shelter, we will consider our options.”

Christopher felt some of the tension in his chest ease. “Thank you, Master.”

Benedict waved a hand dismissively and returned to his work. “In the meantime, there is still much to do. We won’t last long if we let fear cloud our judgment.”

“Yes, Master,” Christopher said, bowing his head slightly. He knew deep down that it made little difference. The time for the letter to travel, let alone to get a response? If the killer(s) were determined, it’d change nothing. But at some level, the fact that Master Benedict had at least humored him eased some of his woe.

However meaningless it was, the letter was sent. And Simon Chastellain received it.

When Simon received the letter, he read it idly over breakfast, his expression shifting from mild interest to deepening concern. Peter, sitting beside him and spreading honey over a slice of bread, didn’t think much of it — until Simon exhaled sharply and muttered to himself.

“He’s in trouble.”

Peter’s hand stilled.

He?

Simon’s eyes scanned the page again, his brow furrowed as he mumbled. “Asking for help. Says apothecaries are being murdered. He fears he and his apprentice may be next.”

The words hit Peter like a blow to the chest.

Simon set the letter down, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve written sooner,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We hadn’t spoken in some time — I assumed he was fine. But if it’s bad enough that he’s reaching out now…” His fingers tightened around the parchment as he picked it up again. “If someone’s hunting apothecaries, he won’t be safe. Whoever’s behind this — they won’t stop until—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Peter forced himself to swallow. “And… who is this?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.

Simon glanced at him. “Benedict Blackthorn,” he sighed. “And his apprentice.”

Peter nearly dropped the bread from his fingers.

He has a replacement.

He’s desperate enough to ask for help.

Simon was still speaking, oblivious to the storm in Peter’s head. “If he’s truly considering leaving London, then he must be desperate. I can’t imagine him abandoning his work otherwise.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “If I don’t respond quickly — if we don’t do something…”

The thought made something sharp twist in Peter’s chest. He didn’t know how he felt. He barely heard the rest of Simon’s words. The world had narrowed into two points: the name on that letter and the pounding of his own pulse.

“I should draft a response. If they need to leave, I want them here as soon as possible.” He glanced at Peter. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Peter forced himself to move, to keep his face calm. “Why would I mind?” His voice was smooth, practiced, almost convincing.

Simon studied him for a moment. “I mean, they’d be in our usual living space.”

Peter let out a quiet, short laugh to cover up how he felt. “As long as they don’t disrupt my peace, I can tolerate them well enough.”

Simon shook his head, exhaling in faint amusement before turning back to the letter. “With any luck, they’ll be fine, then.” But the crease in his brow remained.

Peter only nodded, returning his attention to his breakfast.

But inside, his mind was racing.

Benedict Blackthorn.

And a new apprentice.

And soon, they may be here.

Chapter Text

Peter had begun a habit of cleaning when he was irritated.

He hadn’t always — there had never been a point to it before. Why scrub floors that weren’t his? Why waste effort polishing a space he’d never stay in long enough to claim? For years, cleaning had been a chore, something done out of obligation rather than instinct.

But now, it was different. He was different. Somewhere along the way, he had found something that resembled permanence. A home. A space that belonged to him, even if the thought still unsettled him.

And yet, the habit wasn’t really about keeping things tidy. It was a distraction. A way to force his hands to move when his thoughts spiraled too fast for him to grasp.

A day had passed since Simon got that letter, and it wasn’t as if Peter had no reason to be nervous. Sure — he had worn masks before, played roles without hesitation. No one had ever looked past the performance. No one had ever questioned him. But Benedict was different, for obvious and simple reasons. It’s hard to lie to a man who knew your face, who had chosen it, who had seen you as something useful before you even understood what that meant; and even less to one who also thought you were, well, dead.

And that was infuriating.

Benedict would take one look at him and know.

He would know, and Simon would ask, and Peter would have to explain that, actually, I did not die — yes, dear, I lied about my identity and previously faked my own death — I simply fled, grew sick of the life I was forced in, forged a new self, and proceeded to spend the latest leg of my life gallivanting around France under a false name while engaging in light criminal activity.

It was fine. It was fine.

Would Benedict be furious? Disappointed? Would he see Peter as some ungrateful wretch who had thrown away a perfectly good life for nothing?

No, not nothing. Maybe to Benedict, but not to himself.

He had rehearsed the moment over and over in his mind, running through every possible reaction. Outrage. Cold indifference. Relief? He wasn’t sure he had the audacity to bank on that one.

Not that Benedict had truly cared, of course. Peter knew better than to hope for that. This new bout of potential grief was over losing a resource, not a loved one.

Peter ground his teeth, wiping at a stain on the table with more force than necessary. The cloth caught on the wood, snagging against an imperfection he hadn’t noticed before.

Of course it wasn’t coming out. Nothing ever did, not really. You could scrub a stain as hard as you liked, but the memory of it remained, just beneath the surface.

He pressed harder.

“Peter.”

Simon’s voice was light, amused, but when Peter didn’t respond, he stepped closer. “Peter, mon cœur, you’ve been attacking that table for the past ten minutes. Did it offend you?”

Peter forced his grip to loosen. “It was dirty.”

Simon hummed, leaning against the counter beside him. “It was clean enough for you earlier this morning.”

Peter didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

Simon gently nudged Peter’s arm with his elbow, tilting his head toward the window. “Come sit with me,” he said. “We’ll have tea. You can tell me what’s bothering you or we can sit in silence. Either way, I’d rather not watch you wear a hole through the table.”

Peter hesitated, looking down at the cloth in his hands. There was still more to clean. More to do. The thought of stopping, of sitting still—

But Simon was looking at him with that quiet patience that made his chest ache.

“…Fine,” Peter sighed, setting the cloth down.

Simon smiled, and just like that, the air shifted. The tension in Peter’s shoulders remained, but something in his chest felt marginally less tight.

He followed Simon, settling into a seat as the other man soon poured their tea. Simon handed him a cup without a word.

Peter curled his fingers around the warmth of it, staring down into the dark liquid. Simon didn’t offer any sugar as he sprinkled his own cup with it — he knew how Peter took his tea.

For a long moment, Peter only held the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. His thoughts still ran sharp, still twisted themselves into knots, but Simon’s quiet presence was something solid in the otherwise haze of his mind.

Across from him, Simon stirred his tea, the soft clink of the spoon against porcelain the only sound between them. He didn’t pry. He didn’t ask. He simply waited, content to sit in silence.

Peter wasn’t used to this.

He had spent his life drowning in noisy expectations — people demanding explanations, reactions, answers. His parents, his master, his peers. They all wanted something from him. A confession. An apology. A promise that he would be better, that he would be what they needed him to be.

But Simon only sat there, turning his cup idly between his fingers, watching the steam curl into the air. As if Peter’s silence was as natural as breathing.

Peter breathed out slowly, staring into the depths of his tea as if it might offer clarity. He had no idea how to do this — how to sit with his thoughts instead of acting precisely as they dictated, or instead of smothering them in layers of distraction.

“Does it help?” Simon asked suddenly, voice gentle.

Peter glanced up, brow furrowing. “What?”

Simon gestured vaguely toward the cloth still sitting abandoned on the counter. “Cleaning, when you’re like this.”

Peter bristled. “I’m not—”

Simon raised a brow.

Peter exhaled sharply, gaze dropping. “…It’s something to do.”

Simon nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “And it helps?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was, he didn’t know. It wasn’t helping now, not really. He had scoured the table raw and it hadn’t fixed anything.

But it had given him control. It was an action. A force he could exert on something, anything, when his thoughts became too loud.

Simon hummed as if he understood without words anyway. “You could try something else, you know.”

Peter tensed. “Like what?”

Simon smiled, resting his chin in his hand. “Well, for starters, drinking your tea instead of glaring at it might be a step in the right direction.”

Peter huffed but took a sip, if only to shut him up.

Simon tilted his head. “You could also talk to me.”

Peter stilled.

“I don’t mean you have to,” Simon added quickly, sensing his resistance. “But… it’s an option. If you wanted.”

Peter inhaled slowly. He wasn’t ready to talk. Not about this. Not yet. He hadn’t even begun to think through how he would properly explain anything to Simon, if he ever would, and the time for that reconciliation was nearing much sooner than he’d like. But he supposed he could sit here. He could drink his tea. He could exist… in the moment.

“…Fine,” he muttered, taking another sip.

Simon smiled. He leaned back in his chair, watching the world outside the window, perfectly at ease.

It was odd to have someone who didn’t want anything from him.

Relationships were transactions.

His parents had supposedly cared — but not for him, not really. They cared for what he represented. A rainbow after the storm, a son to carry on the family name, a chance to make things right after so much had slipped through their fingers. They never told him that. He had figured it out on his own.

Master Benedict had kept him—but not because he was special. He had been chosen for his face, not his mind. Not for his talent or his potential, but because he resembled someone else. He was never valued for being Peter. He was valued for being almost Simon.

And then, when Peter had pushed the boundaries of his agency — when he had tested just how much control he had over his own actions, over anything — Benedict had threatened to turn him in.

And that had told Peter everything he needed to know.

He only wanted me when I was useful. When I was good. And as soon as his dear fruit was poisoned, he wanted to toss it out.

It was the same everywhere.

Under the cover of Wallis, his relationships had been transactional in an even more literal sense. The glitter of gold far outweighed morality in every encounter. Oh, you saw something suspicious? No, I don’t think you did, actually, not with this convenient purse in your hand. And perhaps you’d be interested in ignoring a few more details for an additional one…?

He had grown used to it. Every word, every gesture, every flicker of kindness came at a price.

But Simon…

Simon didn’t ask for anything. He never had.

He was content to sit here, to sip his tea, to watch the world pass by, as if simply existing in Peter’s presence was enough.

And Peter had treated Simon the same. Waking up beside him wasn’t something he needed to be paid to do.

Peter still didn’t know how to reconcile that.

He tapped his fingers against the porcelain of his cup, gaze drifting toward Simon’s profile. The other man looked utterly relaxed, head tilted slightly, his free hand tracing idle patterns. Peter had seen him like this countless times, but it still left him unmoored.

Simon would let him be. If Peter wanted to stew in his own thoughts, if he wanted to deflect and retreat and build his walls higher, Simon wouldn’t stop him.

But he was offering something else, too. A choice.

Peter let out a quiet breath. He set his cup down with a soft clink.

“…You’re too patient.”

Simon’s lips quirked. “You say that as if it’s a flaw.”

“It is,” Peter said flatly.

Simon chuckled, setting his cup down as well. “And yet, you seem to benefit from it quite a bit.”

The silence stretched between them again, this time lighter, not so thick with Peter’s restless tension. Simon shifted in his seat, stretching his arms over his head before settling back down.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Simon said eventually. “But if something is bothering you, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Peter looked down.

That wasn’t how things worked.

You relied on yourself. You controlled what people saw, what they knew, what they could use against you. Trust was just another gamble, and Peter had never been one to wager on something he couldn’t control. Keep people exactly where you want them, steer their perceptions until they see only what you want them to see.

Because no one was kind for no reason. No one offered something without expecting something in return.

And yet, here they were together.

Peter exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine.”

Simon gave him a knowing look but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for Peter’s hand — slow and deliberate, leaving room for retreat.

Peter didn’t pull away.

Simon’s fingers curled around his own, warm and steady. “Alright,” he said simply.

No expectations. No conditions. Just that quiet, steady presence. Genuine support.

Peter curled his fingers in response, just slightly, barely enough to be noticed.

For once, Peter let himself believe that was enough.

Chapter Text

Benedict Blackthorn was not a violent man.

That being said, he had very little patience for anyone who tried to kill him in his own home.

The boy was young, but he knew him when he saw him. With a heavy heart, he sent Christopher out with more force than he wanted to. It was harsh, sure, but if things went awry, then his life would be safe — and that mattered most.

It might have worked. It might have been a tragic story of how the apothecary was found slumped over on the ground, corpse marinating in its own blood, another name on the ever-growing list of victims.

But unfortunately for young Wat, Benedict had been expecting something like this. The Archangel's Fire was too volatile, too dangerous, to be kept secret for long. He knew this would be to the displeasure of some.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to see Wat’s hand twitch toward the knife at his side. What had surprised him was the speed with which the young apprentice had moved — no hesitation, no warning, as if he were already prepared for a fight. Benedict’s eyes narrowed, and he didn't waste a second.

The young man lunged, but Benedict was faster.

How, you ask?

He knew karate.

Wat did not.

With a swift motion, Benedict sidestepped the attack, his hands gripping Wat’s wrist in one fluid motion. In a blur, his free hand delivered a sharp strike to the boy’s throat, a chop that sent Wat stumbling backward and gasping for air. Benedict didn’t pause, his expression grim as he watched the apprentice crumple to the floor, hands clutching at his throat in a desperate attempt to breathe.

“Sixteen years old,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You should have stayed in schoo, been productive—”

Wat spat at him, eyes burning with defiance.

Benedict rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.” He made quick work of securing and binding the boy’s hands, his movements precise and methodical. Wat struggled, but eventually the realization dawned on him that he was well and truly outmatched. By a senior citizen.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling so charitable today,” Benedict murmured, tying the last knot and straightening up. “Another man might have snapped your neck for less.”

Wat sneered. “You don’t have it in you.”

Benedict only raised a brow. “No?”

Something in his tone must have unsettled the boy, because he stopped fighting the bindings after he replied.

"You think I’ll talk?" Wat tried to assert himself, his voice thick with some anger and just a hint of panic. "You’ve got nothing on me, old man."

“I hope you will, at least. Tell me all you know about this operation, young man, and I’ll consider your fate. If not... well, I don’t think the King’s Warden will be quite as forgiving.”

Wat stiffened at the mention of Lord Ashcombe’s title, a brief flicker of fear in his eyes before a mask of defiance returned. “I don’t know anything,” he spat, “and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re bluffing. You think that brute cares about you? Just some— some old guy—”

Benedict started dragging him to the door, which made him stiffen in panic.

“Wait—”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Benedict scoffed, dragging him further. “How unfortunate. I suddenly find myself rather disinterested in what you have to say.”

—

Christopher was very confused when he later returned to the shop. He was worried about how he’d be received with no natron in tow, but those concerns quickly fled to be replaced with new ones at the sight of Lord Ashcombe in the living room with his master.

He froze.

The man was seated stiffly, hands resting like iron weights atop his knees. His face looked as though it had been carved from granite, with jagged scars that ran down from temple to chin like lightning branching across the sky. Ashcombe didn’t make eye contact, but even still, Christopher felt pinned beneath his presence.

Benedict looked entirely unbothered by the presence.

“Oh, there you are,” he said lightly when he noticed Christopher. “Didn’t think you'd be back so soon.”

Christopher swallowed, eyes flicking between them. “Master— I— the merchant said it wouldn’t be in stock until Wednesday. I tried—”

“That’s fine,” Benedict said, waving him off with an easy gesture. “Not your fault. That’s the world of commerce for you — unpredictable and terribly inconvenient, no?”

Ashcombe finally turned his head. His eyes were dark and flat, not quite cruel, but seemingly devoid of warmth. “This your apprentice?”

“Yes,” Benedict replied. “His name is Christopher.”

Christopher blinked rapidly, immediately stumbling over himself and his words. “I— I, ah, it’s an honor to— your presence— and— I, the—”

Ashcombe raised a brow and Benedict gave a small smile before gently stopping the boy.

“You’re alright, Christopher. Just… stay there for a minute.”

Ashcombe ignored the tangent altogether and addressed Benedict. “The boy you delivered has been taken into custody by my men by now. He’ll be interrogated thoroughly. I expect your report of what occurred within the next day.”

“You’ll have it,” Benedict said simply.

Without another word, Ashcombe brushed past Christopher on his way out. His cloak barely swayed as he walked, as if gravity itself knew better than to get in his way.

The door shut with a soft click.

Silence settled over the room.

Christopher turned to Benedict, wide-eyed. “Master, what— what happened while I was gone?”

Benedict stood and reached into a cabinet, pulled out two cups, and began to bring some water to boil. “Oh, not much. Bit of an incident. But we’re alright.”

“An incident?”

“Yes, yes. Nothing to panic about. The important thing is that you’re back, safe and in one piece.”

Christopher stared at him.

After a while, Benedict handed him a cup of tea.

“…they came, didn’t they? The cult—”

Benedict took a slow sip and cut Christopher off again. “Let’s focus on your breathing, hm? Deep, even. In through the nose…”

Christopher’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You knew something was going to happen. That’s why you sent me out.”

“I would never send you into danger knowingly,” Benedict said mildly.

“That’s not what I—! You sent me away on an errand just so I wouldn’t be here?”

Benedict finally looked up, expression softening just slightly. “Yes. I did.”

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’d have stayed,” he said simply. “And I’d rather be stabbed than bury another apprentice.”

Christopher went very quiet.

The tea was warm in his hands.

“…Did he hurt you?”

Benedict shook his head. “Only my pride. He called me ‘old man.’ I thought I still looked fine for my age.”

Christopher only blinked.

They sat for a while in quiet. The threat was gone — for now — and the fire Benedict had started crackled low in the hearth.

Christopher eventually leaned back into a chair, his shoulders finally relaxing, if only a touch. He finally took a long sip from his cup. It was much stronger than he was used to.

Benedict looked down at the cup in the boy’s hands, then back up at his face, as if waiting for something.

Christopher blinked once. Then again. “Is this…?”

“Poppy,” Benedict said mildly. “Just, ah, a little.”

Christopher lowered the cup, brows drawing together, voice quiet. “You drugged me?”

“I eased you,” Benedict corrected, taking a sip of his own mug. “You were on the verge of vibrating out of your skin.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I could have,” Benedict agreed, taking another sip from his own cup, which Christopher now suspected to just be warm water. “But you wouldn’t have drunk it.”

Christopher opened his mouth to argue—and failed. The warmth was already spreading through him, soft and numbing. The panic had faded, his thoughts turning a little slow around the edges.

“…not fair,” he mumbled quietly, slumping slightly in the chair.

“No,” Benedict said softly, watching the fire. “I suppose not.”

Christopher’s head dipped, breath slowing. Benedict stayed beside him until the mug began to slip from his hands. When it did, he caught it and set it aside before gently draping a blanket over Christopher.

There would be time for more answers later, for more than only temporary solutions for the boy’s fear. Tonight was for rest.