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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years ago

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sweetheart, you look a little tired

Huge thanks to @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian for being such lovely betas!

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Peter Nureyev is in disguise once again, this time at a high end brothel. he has a clear goal, a clear head and voices haunting him from his past.

Until he meets his first client, Juno Steel.

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Please reblog and let me know what you think in the tags or leave a comment on this fic over at Ao3!

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Disguises were Peter Nureyev’s specialty. He didn’t like to think what a psychologist would say if they got their hands on that.

But he was something of a genius at them and, like all things he was unbelievably good at, he enjoyed doing it. He’d forged new faces out of wildly expensive materials only found on one planet in the entire known galaxy, he’d made them out of cheap stage paints and shoplifted supermarket make up. He’d spent close to a year making some of his most used, most dependable costumes and some he’d made in the handful of seconds he’d had between a door starting to open and the security guard behind it seeing him somewhere he definitely wasn’t supposed to be.

Nureyev had been counts and cardsharps, he’d been street urchins and fantastically rich multibillionaires, he’d been priests and strippers, he’d been ghosts and shadows and monsters right out of folklore, he’d been someone so painfully normal that you wouldn’t look once, let alone twice. He’d been everything under the sun, apart from himself.

And now he had a rather unusual challenge. Now he had to make a disguise out of absolutely nothing.

The five minute call was coming down the corridor, hollered by an assistant with a clipboard who looked like they’d completely transcended the concept of ‘stressed’ and was now utterly untouchable. As they walked by, they remembered Nureyev was new here and said it again, for his benefit, reminding him that ‘five minutes till showtime’ meant he needed to be dressed and in the bar area by the time the brothel opened.

Nureyev nodded, wearing the face of an anxious young man who was realising he’d maybe bitten off more than he could chew with this job.

It must have worked because the assistant’s expression of self preserving numbness shifted into something like sympathy, “It’s a weeknight, man, no one’s gonna be picking a new face. Just sit there, look pretty and keep your eyes open.”

The moment of unexpected kindness, from someone who clearly didn’t need to give any amount of their time to comfort someone like him but had anyway, in their own rough manner, Nureyev could remember a time when that would have thrown him. When it would have filled him with guilt at what he was here to do, regret that he’d lied with every breath since he’d arrived, wonder what might happen if he didn't have to have that disconnect between himself and everyone he met.

Nureyev could remember. And he could recognise how far he’d come since then.

The five minute call continued, bellowed further down the hall, bringing a flurry of activity in its wake. Nureyev could hear silk whispering over skin and heels clicking on the floor outside the doorway, giggles traded between his coworkers for the evening who knew each other better, light arguments break out over who’s turn it was to wear a certain sapphire necklace as if such extravagance could be traded and bantered over so playfully. But of course it could, even the tiny dressing room Nureyev had been given as the newest member of the brothel had a chest overflowing with jewels and a closet bursting with silks, any one of which would have kept him fed, clothed and safe for a year when he was a child.

The luxury of this place was staggering in a hundred little ways like that. It was a fine establishment, loudly and proudly touted as the best in Hyperion City. Nureyev had to knit together a sparkling resume at four other, lesser brothels to be even given an interview for the recently opened position. His charm had carried him the rest of the way, as if often did. First rule of thieving, always make sure your greatest asset is something that can’t be taken away from you.

There was a huge bar area downstairs with a stage and, upstairs, fifty rooms, some elaborately and cringe-inducingly themed to your more standard fetishes. Others were simply beautiful spaces for the workers to take their clients, filled with flowers genetically modified to never wilt or curl or lose their scent, soft furnishings with gold accents and dramatic hangings, beaded curtains and diffusers and immense marble bathtubs. And of course beds of every sort, small and soft and intimate or expansive and lush and built for as many partners as you were willing to pay for.

And these clients were willing to pay. Being the best and most lavish brothel, it drew the best and most lavish customers. When a high ranking politician or stream star or oligarch wanted to indulge in some fun away from polite society, though the line was getting increasingly blurred, they came here. They came to The Fly-By Night.

And it stood to reason that the best customers would draw the best thieves.

Nureyev wasn’t here to rob anyone, not outright. If that was his only goal, he would just fill the pockets of the see through robe he wore over shorts that were barely there, he’d stuff them with the jewels and expensive aphrodisiacs left around this place like decorative potpourri and leave by the nearest window. No, he was here for something else. He was here for information. First rule of thieving, the most valuable items are never what is in plain sight.

So Nureyev had no intention at all of going down to the bar area to lounge and look pretty and flirt with the bar patrons who either hadn’t made an appointment or couldn’t afford one but could afford the ridiculous drinks prices. He’d nodded earnestly all through the floor manager’s careful instructions on what to do and how to present himself, letting his facial muscles do the work while knowing all the while that he would be here for a handful of hours, no more. The hard part had been getting through the door, earning the freedom to move through the building that only an employee would be afforded. Sure, posing as a client would have been simpler in execution but Nureyev had never been afraid of over preparing.

First rule of thieving, take the safest route, never just the easiest.

Nureyev set his jaw and finished smudging gold eyeshadow over one eyelid. He wondered when he would stop hearing that voice in his head. He always told himself one more job, one more planet, and the distance would be great enough that it would fade into nothing. Something less than a memory even. He’d forget the face that had ever been attached to that voice, he’d stop feeling the ghostly stickiness on his palms that came with those whispers.

Next time, perhaps.

He left Peter Nureyev in the dressing room and emerged as Freyr Zirconia, a ridiculous name to walk down the street with but perfect to wear as a sex worker in glossy, completely transparent samite. He made his smile a little false around the edges, clearly hiding nervousness, someone who knew their trade but hadn’t quite settled into their environment yet. He chose accessories that were far from the finest on offer, making him look low in the pecking order, hesitant to appear flashy or perhaps he just didn’t know where the good stuff was kept and was too shy to ask. Rather galling to Nureyev, who knew he’d look exquisite in the thick rope of black pearls he’d passed over.

Maybe he would find himself back in the dressing room before his exit, snagging them as a present for himself. Maybe. If he did well.

There was already a pleasant buzz of conversation and soft music audible from halfway down the stairs, all emanating from the bar area. It hadn’t been hard to feign Freyr’s impressed expression when he’d been given his tour of the brothel after his successful interview. The bar was done in a classic style you didn’t see often in the bigger planets further out in the solar system. It was all leather and oak panelling, faux of course because the trees necessary had gone extinct a century ago but the imitation was flawless. The lights were low and richly golden, encased in red coloured glass in some areas so certain booths and alcoves would be awash in a red you could practically taste, giving the impression that whoever sat inside it was in their own little world. And to help them get there, behind the bar was what looked like every alcoholic drink in the known galaxy, wildly expensive wines from Earth, flavoured vodkas from Saturn, heady rums from Jupiter, even liqueurs brewed only on the furthest outer rim planets.

Freyr almost wished he could be part of it. It would be nice to be bought extravagant drinks, to have people fawn over him, to have rich men smile at him and feel like they owned him for an hour. There were things a man who was not Freyr had been neglecting recently, pleasures beyond those that could be found in a brilliantly planned and flawlessly executed job. Simpler pleasures of lips and hands and sweat that wasn’t yours drying on your skin.

But Freyr could wish all he liked. A man who wasn’t Freyr had an elusive mark to locate the personal phone number of.

He’d memorised the floor plan at his interview and confirmed it for himself with some illegally acquired schematics. First rule of thieving, always double check. The administration office was in the basement so the acrid numbers and figures didn’t shatter the fantasy, meaning the easiest way to get to it was to cut across just one corner of the bar. He couldn’t exactly go around the outside of the building, dressed as he was. It was raining, after all.

It wouldn’t take a minute, just a handful of steps. And it wasn’t like he was noticeable, Freyr was just one of several nymph-like visions in samite and jewels and barely there underwear. The Fly By Nights became like celebrities of Hyperion’s underworld, their faces and names well known and often requested, their specific skills practically famous. The older hands had cultivated reputations that filled their schedules for months, sometimes half a year in advance. Someone new and unestablished like Freyr was unlikely to be chosen in the twenty paces it would take to get him to his goal. He almost felt lazy with how easy this would be.

Just in case anyone was watching, he took a moment before he walked into the bar, making sure his robe was lying just right across his chest, patting the seemingly effortless swoop of his dark hair, rubbing in the glitter on his chest to smooth it out better. Freyr would be nervous, eager to make a good impression, hungry to prove himself, a heady mix of emotions that the other man could understand on some level and didn’t need to work too hard to paint over his delicate, expertly made up features. A deep breath. Straighten the spine. Go to work.

Almost immediately Freyr was enveloped in the smells of dozens of different but somehow complimentary perfumes, the rhythmic clink of glasses and pouring drinks, light music played on simple instruments, a rich glow of light and luxury. Even the sharp sweat tang of the hungry clients coming in through the doors couldn’t ruin it. He put a sway in his hips, dropped the lids of his eyes just a little, leaned into it all. Twenty paces, that was all, so why not enjoy them?

There were conversations happening all around him, it was a bundle of coloured threads in a hopeless knot. But the man who wasn’t Freyr simply couldn’t help himself sometimes and began to listen to the snippets he walked through, just out of interest. First rule of thieving, after all, always keep your ears open, you never know when you might hear something that saves you later. It was mostly innocuous parlour talk, too early in the evening after all for tongues to be truly loosened. The workers pressed drinks on their clients, laughed and cooed at their bad attempts at flirting, old friends greeted each other, some light gossip was traded that Freyr already knew and didn’t concern him anyway. Nothing to snag his interest as another part of his mind counted down the steps left.

Until he skirted closer to the bar itself.

There was no reason why the voice should have stood out to him the way it did. It wasn’t even saying anything of interest, just one of many unfamiliar voices that didn’t relate to Freyr’s goal whatsoever, talking of nothing. But this one grabbed him, yanking him off his train of thought, spilling his focus on the floor like so many marbles.

“Yeah, I meant what I said,” the voice was harsh, snappish but it was like a thin crust over something deeper, “The full bottle, I have the creds and I’m damn well thirsty enough.”

It wasn’t hard to find the owner of the voice, there was only one person it could be. He looked as rough and worn down as his voice had sounded, clearly sober but not intending to stay that way with how determinedly he was gripping the edge of the counter, slumped into an aged trench coat shiny with wear and the rain from outside. It was in his hair too, droplets that now looked like diamonds under the bar lights. His jaw was strong and covered in the stubble of someone a good week into a string of bad decisions, his eyes hooded and bloodshot to match. His hands were covered in scars that could only come from the kickback of a blaster. Soldier? Too young. Bodyguard? Too wayn. Cop? Perhaps but whatever he was, he was clearly an ex.

First rule of thieving, observe. Always observe. Unless it’s a pretty boy, in which case, tear your eyes away Pete and focus, god damn it.

Freyr swallowed hard and stopped, sixteen paces in, trying to sink deeper into being someone who didn’t know that voice. That voice, light and joking and jolly but now he could name the undercurrent that he’d always sensed but never pinned down until after. Until after…

He took a breath. Clearly he was not in the right frame of mind. Clearly if he went into that administration office now he would make a foolish mistake. First rule of thieving, timing is everything, yes? So deviate, improvise, circle back around with your head on straight.

And until then, play the game.

“That looks like a two man job,” he reached out and snagged the rather large bottle of high end whiskey the bartender had reluctantly set in front of the tired eyed ex-probably cop.

Freyr could see the decision whether or not to throw a punch cross the guy’s scarred face. Fortunately he came down on the side of non hostile resignation.

“Lady,'' he corrected, not arguing when Freyr reached over the bar and collected two crystal tumblrs, puring each half full with amber liquid that smelled of woodsmoke and expense, “Sorry, you’re gorgeous and all but you’re out of my price range. I’m just here to drink.”

“And drinking is all I spoke of, madam,” Freyr smiled sweetly, holding up his glass expectantly, “But I thank you for the compliment.”

After a pause, his stranger knocked his glass against his own and drank just a swallow. Freyr copied.

“You don’t have to pay to ask my name.”

That got a rough smile, not quite a true one but close, “Then what’s your name, handsome?”

“Freyr. Yours, handsome?”

Now a laugh, amber warm as the liquor they were drinking, “Juno Steel.”

“Pretty name for a pretty face,” that made him laugh again but there were patches of colour on his dark cheeks that didn’t have anything to do with the fine, mellow burn of the whiskey, “Can I ask, Juno Steel, why a lady with no money for a sex worker is sat in a brothel?”

Juno didn’t seem to know how to answer that, doing an awkward kind of one shouldered shrug, “It’s raining outside. The door was open. There’s alcohol.”

A simple formula for someone who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Freyr was good at his job, he knew how to read people and shift his gaze to bring into focus the words behind what they actually said. And Juno Steel wasn’t a hard lady to read. Grief and loneliness etched themselves on a person’s face in a way few other things did, leaving traces that were clear as words on a screen, especially if you were already familiar with them. Especially if you knew them from the mirror.

First rule of thieving, get back on the job, you useless, twitterpated young fool. First rule of thieving, you know better than this.

Behind Freyr’s face, the man who wasn’t Freyr set his jaw. He was sick of that voice. He was sick of still following it’s commands, sitting up to the snap of it’s fingers like a well trained dog. Hadn’t he proven that he didn’t need it? First rule of thieving, he’d do what he damn well pleased.

And right now, what he wanted to do was Juno Steel. He looked like he could use it.

Freyr leaned forward, knowing the light would be making his dark eyes glitter, “And there’s me.”

Juno smiled wryly, not moving back to reopen the distance between them, “Yeah. That part was a nice surprise.”

“Listen, Juno. I don’t need to know why you're here or why you have that brokenhearted look in your eyes you’re doing a rather poor job of concealing. I’d just like to try and do something about it. How does that sound?”

Juno caught his lower lip in his teeth, want flashing in his eyes like a distress signal on a ship lost in deepest space, “I...I don’t…”

“I know,” Freyr leant in a little more, until he couldn’t tell whose breath the smell of whiskey was coming from, “But, I’ll be honest, this is my first day. I have no appointments. So why don’t we call this...a practise run? Ex gratia on both our parts.”

Juno’s eyebrow lifted, “Can you do that?”

“Of course.” What did it matter when Freyr wouldn’t exist in a day’s time?

There was still some hesitation, something still lingering in his expression. Freyr wondered what had happened to this lady the last time someone had reached out to him, promising something for nothing. And then he remembered he didn’t care.

“Why me?” Juno eventually asked, his brow creasing with uncertainty.

Freyr smiled softly, showing where he’d smudged a little lipstick on his front tooth, almost as if it had been deliberately placed there to show his nervousness on his first day.

“Why not you, Juno Steel?”

It was quiet upstairs, too early in the evening for any appointments to have moved past the initial flirting in the bar stage. Freyr had the night’s schedule memorised, he knew which rooms would be free and would stay free for however long this wonderfully bad decision would take, he knew where he was going as he pulled Juno along.

There was a giddy lightness in his chest, a pounding exhilaration going through his veins. Freyr had a lifespan of three days, he’d never had the chance to be a reckless teenager, going against the path that had been laid out for him. The man he wasn’t had never experienced it either, for different reasons. But this is exactly how they’d both imagined it, how it had always looked in the streams and in stories. This was exactly what the fantasy had promised.

Both of them were giggling like they couldn’t help it, throwing wild grins back and forth, drunk on each other and a handful of swallows from the whiskey bottle now swinging in Juno’s lazy grip. By the time they reached one of the more modest rooms where they were minimally likely to be disturbed, Freyr was wearing Juno’s overcoat, Juno had marks of Freyr’s lipstick across his cheek and was gripping his narrow hips, whispering filth into his ear to make him fumble with the keys.

Freyr retaliated by turning and bending to kiss him full on the lips, the first time they’d done that since leaving the warmth of the bar for this new, uncharted dimness. Juno was shorter than he’d expected, he had to guide his jaw up a little after a moment to press their mouths together more fully. But it was a sweet kiss, all the same. Juno seemed to think so too, from how he shakily exhaled into Freyr’s mouth in a way that sounded almost relieved.

Once inside, Freyr didn’t need to do much to undress himself, letting the coat still heavy with rain and warm from Juno’s skin fall to the floor. His partner proved a little more hesitant, hands shaking as they went to the hem of his turtleneck. If Freyr had thought the tremors were anything but the aftershocks of something in the past, he would have called time then and there. But as it was, he took Juno’s large, scarred hands under his own and guided them, supporting them as the layer of damp wool and black trousers came away, showing dark hair, dark skin, more scars.

Freyr was new to The Fly By Night but he’d been in this trade a while. He knew how to make the right noises and pull the right faces, he knew how to give the clients what they paid for, no matter what was under their clothes. If there had been anything about Juno that disappointed, it wouldn’t have shown on his face.

But there was nothing to be done about the awe that softened his features when he saw all of Juno, wearing only the soft light from the window. There was no way to mask the quiet inhalation, the way his pupils flooded open, the way his hips tilted unconsciously forward. Showing too much was as dangerous as showing not enough and, in that moment, all of Freyr’s professionalism went out of the window.

But Juno didn’t seem to know any better, only blushing and giving a destroying self conscious smile. Perhaps it wasn’t just Freyr who was new to this.

“Can we just…” Juno gestured to the bed, a luxurious affair with black sheets that looked soft as butter and ready to sink into completely.

Freyr smiled indulgently and nodded, “Go make yourself comfortable, handsome.”

He told himself he didn’t care why Juno would find it so difficult to hear the words about to fall from his tongue. First rule of whatever the hell this is, we don’t care, we don’t think, we just act.

It did him good to see Juno sprawl out across the bed, to see his muscles unwind and his expression loosen at the softness, to see him let go of the weight of himself.

“What can I do for you?” his voice was honey, eyes hungrily roving over all of it, the limbs with their wiry strength, the old scars, the comforting softness of his gut, the lines of thick, dense body hair he wanted to follow and see where they led.

Juno’s gaze was suddenly quietly desperate, “Fuck me. Fuck me until I forget everything outisde this room.”

First rule of fucking Juno Steel, don’t ask.

Freyr nodded, scrambling to equip himself appropriately, suddenly feeling a mad fear that it would all be different if he looked away for too long. Each of the rooms had the basics of what two individuals, or even more than two, might need. Other things could be requested in advance, some other things that Freyr had to admit he was curious about were too large or elaborate to be moved from behind the stage. Perhaps now he’d still be around to catch one of the nightly shows and see for himself.

His hands were practised at straps, buckles and knots, it was nothing more than a few moments before he wore a rather beautiful black leather harness with gold metal accents, a middle of the road sized cock comfortably pressed against his own. Freyr wouldn’t like to assume, after all.

He turned to see Juno had watched the whole thing, now practically salivating, on his back with a hand between his legs, stroking himself into hardness.

“A little rude to start without me,” Freyr grinned teasingly, putting a hand on his hip.

“Then get over here,” Juno’s voice was already thin and gasping.

Freyr did just as he was told, snagging a bottle of lube as he passed, tumbling gladly into the bed. Juno rose to catch him, kissing him eagerly, now unhurried and lazy seeing as they’d reached their destination. If he wondered why Freyr’s hands could still deftly open the bottle and soak their fingers, all while the rest of him was devotedly kissing him, licking into his mouth, sucking marks on his neck while he gasped for breath, then Juno didn’t voice it.

There was some force in his hands as he yanked Juno’s legs apart, like a pouncing cat with prey suddenly deciding to stop playing and make an end of it. Juno let out a ragged gasp, clearly into it. His eyes fixed on Freyr’s as he sank two long, clever fingers into him, the first breach of his body. Neither could make a sound.

They’d neglected to turn any lights on as they’d staggered in so the colours of the room shifted and melted through half a hundred shades as, outside and unnoticed by either of them, the late evening melted into dusk, into night. As he opened him up and carved a space for himself inside the other body, Freyr saw Juno Steel as a gold bathed god, as a drowned sailor glimpsed through the surface of an indigo lake, as a constellation mapped out in dark stars. And always as a person, just another person he was sharing a bed with, who was starting to gasp and moan and whimper, eyes never leaving his face.

“Ready for me?” Freyr whispered, realising he’d been doing nothing but fingering him lazily for a good long while.

Juno nodded, voice raspy, “God, yeah.”

The sheets whispered underneath them as Freyr drew back from between his legs, now settling his hands on either side of Juno’s face. They didn’t stay there for long, as soon as Freyr started to move into him, slowly at first, Juno bit his lip and tipped his head back in such an expression of pained bliss that there was nothing for Freyr to do but hold his face gently. As he began to speed up, moving deeper and with more momentum, Juno took Freyr’s thumb in his mouth and sucked and in that moment, Freyr could have died happy.

It didn’t take long, they were both already halfway there. But it could have taken a year and it would have felt too soon, before the gasps and cries that were now indistinguishable grew to a peak, before there was a strangled cry, the thump of a headboard against the wall, a rise in their bodies into a perfect arch and it was done.

When Nureyev came, he gasped out Juno Steel.

There was something delicate about the seconds after, something shy and awkward as Freyr pulled out, as Juno winced at the stickiness on his stomach, as the bedsprings creaked, as they mumbled vague apologies while Freyr settled on his back so they now lay side by side, both staring up at the ceiling.

Juno was the first to clear his throat, clearly not a fan of awkward silences, “So...thank you. I mean, that was...I needed that.”

“I could tell,” Freyr’s voice was weak as he caught his breath. He hadn’t realised just how long it had been since the man he wasn’t had done that. His heart was hammering in his chest like a caged hummingbird.

Juno turned, sitting up on one elbow. In the dark, his expression was unreadable.

“Um...if I came back another night, could I...could I ask for you? I’d pay, I know this time was, y’know, a gimme.”

Freyr froze. Another night, he wouldn’t exist. Another night, he would be off somewhere with a new face and a new name, he’d be someone who had never heard of Juno Steel. Another night, Mars would be a collection of trivia the man he wasn’t had collected and collated and filed away for any future jobs.

First rule of thieving, stick to the plan. First rule of thieving, make no promises. First rule of thieving, no distractions.

First rule of thieving, just keep going, keep running, keep working and then...and then…

Nureyev turned to Juno and smiled, reaching out and stroking his cheek softly, “For you, Juno Steel? I’ll stick around.”

#tpp #the penumbra podcast #jupeter #juniverse #junoverse #juno steel #peter nureyv #smut #cw: sex work

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stillpartofthisworld · 4 years ago

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say warmth of love to our tears of winter-NanoWrimo 11/03

for @northisnotup.

Peter Nureyev does not want to hold Juno Steel’s hand.

If he was being absolutely, completely, and undeniably true to himself, he did not want to be standing in line with Juno Steel, wearing a tux to compliment his golden gown. He did not want to be attending a party with Juno Steel, managing his obvious moral dilemma and guiding his first baby steps into crime. Most importantly, he did not want to be at the receiving end of Juno Steel’s soft, puppy-dog stare as he moves closer to Nureyev, hooking his arm into Peter’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on, honey,” he hisses. “People are starting to stare.”

“Nervous, Juno?” he whispers back, not hiding his frustration. “You’re overreacting. They’re staring at our outfits, not our relationship.”

“Have you been listening to what people have been saying?” Juno snaps, his tone still hushed. “Half of the waiters and staff are already talking about how to seduce you. And a quarter of the partygoers.”

“An exaggeration as usual, detective,” Nuryev sighs, trying not to roll his eyes. He did, however, start scanning the crowd, noting the glances being made towards them-towards him. His body language was a disaster, angled away from Juno as they wait in line. He scowled inwardly-this wasn’t like him at all. His modus operandi was rooted in projected warmth, wit and honesty. First rule of thieving; Your charm is your shield.

And he could see his shield cracking under the weight that was Detective Juno Steel.

He takes a moment to correct his posture, turning towards Juno and putting on a smile that makes the detective wince a little. “Apologies, dearest,” he says. “I must have been distracted.” And promptly slips his hand into his.

The effect is immediate. Juno gasps and draws his hand away quickly without thinking. “Goddamn that’s cold.”

“Circulation problems, dear. You always forget.” He says cordially. There’s a part of him- small, non-existent, really-that misses the shot of warmth that flooded him when he touched Juno’s hand. He squashes that thought, sticks this feeling neatly in a folder and files it away. He’s nearly closed that certain file cabinet when he feels Juno’s hand intertwine in his own, suffusing him with warmth again.

He looks at Juno again. He’s staring ahead, pointedly ignoring Nureyev as he brings up their joined hands and covers them with his other hand.

“What are you doing?” He chokes out.

“Um. Warming your hands?” Juno says, and rubs Nureyv’s hand in between his own. “Bad circulation, right? Don’t you need warm hands for pickpocketing or something?”

“I’m surprised you know,” Nureyev mutters, still focused on the warm seeping into him. His cold hands hadn’t been a problem for years; he’d kept heated gloves on him during heists. He learned that from the best. First rule of thieving; Your hands should be as warm as the pockets you dip them in. Your hands are as cold as ice, Pete! Come here, let me warm them for you-

File. that. away.

Gloves had been banned at this particular gala; the lack of fingerprints made security uneasy. He had been hoping to grab a warm drink inside, curl his hands around the warm mug and wait for the feeling to return to his palms. But here was Juno Steel, squeezing warmth into his hand, and he couldn’t bear to be cold again.

“Dauphin? Honey? You in there?”

“Hm?” Nureyev snaps back to himself, looking down once again at the detective. “Your other hand,” Juno says, and Nureyev gives it freely. He flexes his newly warmed right hand as Juno breathes life into his left. He can’t bring himself to look too long at the detective, with his warm eye and now warmer body, while Nureyev had stayed cold and stagnant for the last year.

So he stands, letting the warmth of the sun that was Juno Steel permeate him to his very bones.

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Nureyev presses his cold hands into the side of Juno’s neck and tries not to scream.

There’s blood dripping down the side of Juno’s head, tracing bloody lines into his skin and being absorbed into his now ripped and burnt gown. He was still as radiant as the sun as far as Nureyev was concerned, still warm as a furnace even as he was bleeding out.

“What happened?” Jet asks from the driver’s seat. The Ruby 7 had been waiting for them behind Zolotovna’s estate, peeling through the woods to escape any pursuers.

“I got shot, obviously,” Juno says, flicking blood from his hands towards Jet. It lands on the upholstery, and Jet winces but says nothing. Many people have bled in this car; Juno would not be the last. “The guards didn’t have blasters in the ballroom,” Nureyev explains instead. “But they were truly armed outside the mansion. We didn’t know.”

He tries not to think about how his heart leapt to his throat when he started to hear blaster fire behind him. And how it nearly stopped when he saw Juno stumble beside him, a splatter of blood coating the left side of his face.

It’s just a graze, Juno had assured him immediately afterwards, still running ahead of him even as his blood coloured his dress a rose gold. Come on, Dauphin, keep up.

He can still feel Juno’s hand in his, pulling him forward through the halls and into the yard.

Juno was much more lethargic now, focusing on taking deep breaths as he grits his teeth in pain. The injury wasn’t life threatening; the blast had taken off his earlobe and a centimeter of flesh from his neck. Head injuries always bled more than what they were worth. Still didn’t stop Nureyev from getting dizzy when he looked at his hands, covered in blood as he tried to put pressure on the wound.

“Nearly there,” Jet says, and Nureyev nods. He moves to take his hands away from Juno’s neck, looking for a new cloth to use, but Juno tugs his hands back. “Your hand’s cold,” He mutters. “ ‘s nice.”

“And they’re covered in blood, dear,” He says softly.

“Sorry.” He sounds like he means it. “Rita’s gonna think I tried to do something dumb.”

“I’ll tell her it was an accident.”

“Thanks, Ransom.” A flicker of a smile that sinks back into a grimace. Nureyev keeps his hands on the detectives’ neck.

Even now, Juno warms him.

---

They have their family meeting in the medbay.

Juno’s laying down on a cot, an arm over his eyes as Buddy rips into him. He does fight back at times, but five minutes in he looks so tired that he takes the rest of the tirade sitting down. Vespa had already said her piece as she finished patching up his neck, and Jet had simply stated that their teamwork needed to be better in the Ruby 7. Rita is sitting at the edge of Juno’s cot, holding his hand. Her own hand is so small by comparison, but he sees Juno squeeze it gently, smiling slightly at his former secretary.

If he closes his eyes, Nureyev can feel that same ghost of a squeeze in his own palms.

---

Juno comes to him that night.

They talk about what happened, as well as they can. They’ve changed, both of them; Juno’s gotten a little warmer, Nureyev a little colder. They talk, and they talk, and in the end they’re on Nureyev’s bed, whispering as to not wake up the rest of the crew. Juno tells him about Hyperion, about Ramses O'Flaherty and the Old Town Solution. He tells him about Theia. He tells him about Ben.

What has Nureyev done in the past year? It feels silly to compare. But Nureyev tries to cast the tears from his detective’s eyes by regaling him with tales of beautiful planets and beautiful heists. He tells him his cons, his near escapades, his witty remarks to his clients. He tries to make Juno Steel smile again, and when he gets one, unsure and fleeting, he feels a warmth from his own heart. It’s enough to make him stop short, cutting himself off from his story about a Venusian trillionaire and Valencian coffee.

“Nureyev?” Juno says. “Are you alright?” He reaches tentatively towards him, placing a warm hand on his cold cheek. Feeling the chill, Juno places his other hand on Nureyev’s cheek as well, swiping his thumbs across the thief’s face.

Stars above, he missed this.

“Nureyev?” Juno says, again, and in response Nureyev pulls Juno closer, their bodies flush against each other as he rests his forehead on Juno’s own. “I’m alright, Juno,” He whispers softly. “I’ve just missed you. So much.”

He hadn’t noticed the tears threatening to spill over his lashes, but Juno’s thumbs catch them, wiping them away with a gentleness that threatens to bring more tears to the surface. “I know,” he replies, just as softly. “I missed you, too.”

The kisses come later, soft and tentative and warm.

#layla writes #the penumbra fanfic #the penumbra podcast #juno steel #peter nureyev #jupeter #jupeter fanfic

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