Work Text:
In the end, it isn’t too difficult to say goodbye to Bukovie. Obviously, the patrons that have become your friends aren’t the easiest to leave, but the prospect of starting a new life away from the place where everything went wrong is much more enticing.
Maria and Clara had been sweethearts, of course, and had wished you the best of luck on future endeavours. Maria had also promised to take care of Ilya once you’d left, and Ilya had eagerly informed you that she was Maria’s newest chess student. Clara had asked you for the recipe to her beloved Copper Bullet, so you’d scrawled it messily on a napkin and slid it over the bar when Vincent wasn’t looking.
Lucas and Bjorn had already long departed for their cottage on the border, but in your letters you’d mentioned moving away for good. They’d offered you the opportunity to stay with them for some time, but you’d once again declined the offer kindly.
John offers to pray to the Goddess for your peaceful journey, and laments the loss of your voice in the choir - Olivia is heartbroken when she hears the only other competent chorister is leaving. She gives you two free tickets to the opening night of her one-woman show, and Efia giggles as you impishly suggest giving them to Killian and Reece.
You never tell Hugo you’re leaving - he’d ask too many questions. He always does, now that the two of you are tentative friends. But you’ve thrown your lot in with Peter and Sandra, and an impenetrable wall stretches between you and the detective as a result.
So probably for the best he hears it second-hand, lest he try on a foolish whim to track you down. He’d agreed to give Sandra a couple of days to organise her affairs before formally attempting to make the arrest, and he’d no doubt be delighted to be rid of Peter for good. But part of you worries that he cares perhaps a little too much for you. It’s disconcerting.
That’s how you find yourself in the second-class carriage of a train, heading to wherever Peter thinks Sandra might have ended up at this stage. He’s bankrolling your entire search and rescue operation, so you don’t ask questions. You just mindlessly follow him, weaving through crowds as you clutch his gloved hand.
“Whale oil,” you murmur as the thawing Tsaran countryside rolls by. You swing your legs idly back and forth, pleased that you’ve remembered such an insignificant yet applicable detail. Peter hasn’t said a word this entire time, instead fiddling with the lighter he always carries. You’ve known that it’s significant to him for months, even before the revelation that it was a good-luck charm from Sandra. Now, however, he looks at you in confusion, his silence forgotten.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Peter asks you, his language criminally colourful as always.
“The, uh, pistol-driven accelerators of this type of Tsaran rolling stock are lubricated with whale oil. Just something to think about, I guess,” you shrug.
“I don’t wanna know how you know that, squirt.”
“So I’m back to being ‘squirt’ again? Really?” Peter stares at you intently as you scoff and fold your arms, turning away from him. Even as you look away, his gaze never wavers.
“That’s what happens if you’re getting all chummy with Officer Blue-eyes,” he grumbles.
“That’s it? You’re jealous of Hugo?” you guffaw.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And how well you work together.”
“You think I’m in love with a cop? The guy who hijacked my workplace? Threatened to have me thrown in jail?” you say, knowing your raised voice will draw attention to the two of you from the other passengers around you, but not having it in yourself to care. You’d finally thought the two of you were getting somewhere with your feelings, but Peter’s letting his fixation on the officer come between you and him. It’s driving you up the wall.
“I’ve seen what happens to people who trust that little shit.”
“I’m well aware of what happened to Sandra. You’re being stupid on purpose. I told you I wanted to be with you, more than anything. Hell, I’m here on this stupid train with you, leaving everything behind!”
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that for me, squirt.”
“When will you understand that you don’t have to ask me to? That I’m choosing you? That I’ve given it all up because I love you?”
“We don’t have time for any of this. We have to find Sandra. I promised to protect her, and instead you sent her away.”
“Kept her out of the slammer again, didn’t I? I’m not some dumb kid, Peter, I know what I’m doing and I know what I want.”
“You’re romanticising a life on the lam with two criminals. That’s not the life we want for you. We’ve made our mistakes, paid for ‘em a hundred times over. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, but you’re shackling yourself to us prematurely. You’ve got skills and an unblemished record.”
“I’m the bartender in an illegal speakeasy, Peter. I’m not totally squeaky clean, am I? Don’t forget the Lombardo affair either.”
“Don’t fool yourself, you were left out of those reports because Mertens is sweet on you.”
“Weren’t you, once? You said you could barely restrain yourself from jumping over the bar to have a taste of me, wasn’t that what you said? What happened, Peter?”
“Stupid Sandra Fischer happened! Showed up at my apartment offering to walk my dog, acting like she never left and making everything confusing.” Peter exclaims. “With Karla out of the picture, I was finally free. I could have made a life with you however I wanted. Then Fischer’s on my doorstep one night telling me she murdered that bastard Elliot Lynn and needs a place to stay, and I never could say no to her. I knew she didn’t love me the way I loved her, but I’m a hopeless fucking romantic.”
“But she does love you,” you admit. “She told me herself, before she left. I asked if she could ever love me, but she looked right at you before she answered. Sandra loved you, but she couldn’t have dragged you down with her, not knowing the things she’d done. I’d hazard a guess that you’re feeling a similar way about me. Am I wrong?”
“You rarely are, squirt.”
“So both of you insist you’re trying to protect one another, even though you still love each other, and you won’t let yourselves be together. Is that what’s happening? If I’m getting in the way, I’ll gladly step aside as long as the two of you actually communica-”
Your sentence is cut off mid word by Peter charging forward and kissing you. His right hand loosely caresses your neck as his left snakes around your waist. You’re lucky you’ve got the compartment to yourselves, because you very much wouldn’t want to be walked in on right now. You shove Peter off you, and his eyes pop open as he looks at you, terrified. You’ve never seen him so afraid, not when he’d admitted to having feelings for you, or for Sandra, or even when revealing the circumstances of Karla’s death.
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to tell you something, but the noise dies in his throat as you give him a taste of his own medicine. You grab his shoulders and flip the two of you around, so he’s pressed up against the rattling walls of the train compartment. You’ve never had the ability to take charge like this outside of your investigations, and you relish the opportunity.
His lips are rough, like you’d expected, textured from a lifetime of biting them with worry. You briefly wonder how different kissing Sandra might be. You’d seen the lipstick stains left on the rim of the Cold Winters you’d made for her. How wonderful it was, that both Sandra and Peter loved the same drinks. How many nights had they stood awkwardly with their drinks in the corner of the Nightcap, clinking their glasses in solidarity? How many shared Perfect Storms and Cold Winters had it taken for the forgotten closeness between them to thaw once more?
How long had it been before they’d realised they might want you as well?
You slowly pull away from Peter, with what you’re certain is a positively manic look in your eyes.
“Hey, love,” he says to you, dragging his gaze from your lips back to your eyes, as though he’s finally seeing you again.