Turn off the Light ch.27

As he rushes from the station back to the apartment, Peter is filled with one singular thought.

He wants Leight.

He needs Leight.

He wants Leight to take him in his arms. He needs Leight to tell him it's okay.

He wants reassurance. He needs this nightmare to end. Wants, needs, and it has never taken so long to get home.

He slams the door to their building shut behind him. He runs up the stairs two at a time, and he hates that they live on the third fucking floor. He fumbles with his key like he always does when he's nervous or aroused or scared shitless.

His hand shakes as he thrusts it in the lock, turns, opens the door, stumbles in. He doesn't know why this is so urgent; all he knows is that, for some inexplicable reason, it is.

"Mal," he calls out as he shuts the door and careens through the apartment. "Mal, I want—I need—" He stops when he's in view of the bed, when he looks, when he sees. And what he sees—it breaks his heart.

There's Leight, naked, straddling another man.

A man who is smaller, thinner, paler, prettier than Peter is.

A man with flushed skin and fiery red hair just longer than is proper.

A man whose eyes are shut and whose head is thrown back (in ecstasy).

A man who writhes and moans at just the right times.

Peter stops; he stares. His lungs cease to breathe. His heart ceases to beat. His brain ceases to think.

His eyes burn, but he doesn't—can't, won't—cry.

Not here, not now, not like this, when he's in front of the man who has betrayed him, and it's so much (too much) like Rachel except that he cares so much (too much) more about Leight than he did about her.

Slowly, Leight slides off of that lithe body. He turns around to stare (so fucking calmly) at Peter. His face is impassive; he isn't betraying the slightest expression.

"Peter," he says, eyes clear, voice like steel, "I'd like you to meet Saffron."

He can't. He won't. His eyes are burning, but he isn't going to let this happen.

Not here.

Not now.

Not like this.

He clenches his keys tightly in one fist while holding the messenger bag tightly against his other side.

He forces his eyes away from Saffron (who is so insufferably wanton, even in a situation as awkward as this) and rests his gaze (for the last time, he promises himself with a pang) on Malcolm Leight.

He wants to say something. He wants to proclaim his hatred. He wants to place a curse. He wants to hit. He wants to kiss. He wants to wake up.

He wants to hear a string of whispered "I love you's".

But more than anything, he wants to cry, to sob, to absolve his foolishness with tears. He takes a moment (no more than a moment) to memorize Leight.

His lean, muscular, light tan frame. His gently tousled blonde hair. His volatile blue eyes. The walls he builds around himself.

Peter nods sharply and returns his thoughts to the present. He whispers, "Goodbye, Mal," and then he turns and walks out the door.

He makes it outside the building before he breaks down. It's as he walks into the light of day, breathes in the humid summer air, and stares up at the stormy gray sky that a fresh wave of grief ripples through him.

His legs aren't stable. He clutches at the brick façade to support himself, but it doesn't work. He feels himself sinking to the ground, just as he feels tears breaking through his own (inferior) defenses.

He can't do this. He can't. He can't. He can't. He just fucking can't.

He shoves his keys into a pocket of the messenger bag. He searches blindly through the same pocket for his cell phone. When he finds it, he has to blink back tears until his vision is clear enough to dial. He waits as it rings once, twice, three times.

Then, a geographically ambiguous accent says, "Hello?"

"Dad," he sobs, "it's Peter. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course." Then, fatherly concern infects Andrew Grayson's voice. "Peter, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head. It hurts. So does his heart and everything else. His nose is stuffy, and his eyes are puffy, but he can't stop crying to save his life.

"Mal and I," he stutters, "I think we," and he tries again, "we just broke up."

"Peter." There's so much pity and condolence in the way his father says his name. "What happened?"

"I was an idiot. I believed him. I really, truly, honest to god trusted him. He was right; I am a fool. I never should have believed that he was any different than Rachel, that he loved me, that he'd stopped seeing Saffron. I shouldn't have. I really. Truly. Honest to god. It's just, I wanted or needed to believe him because god, Dad, I just—" He laughs, a little manic.

"I love him so fucking much. And I don't—I just don't—I just can't believe I was such a fucking fool."

"Peter," Andrew cuts in as soon as Peter stops to catch his breath, "slow down. One sentence at a time. What happened?"

Peter shuts his eyes. The tears don't stop, but the hysteria ebbs with each slow, heaving breath he takes.

"I walked in on him with another man." At least part of his brain has the good sense not to tell his father that it was a prostitute.

"Peter," Andrew says after a long moment, "I'm so sorry."

He's calming down a little (almost against his will). The stream of tears is diminishing. He's not shaking with bone-shattering sobs anymore.

"It's not your fault," he replies, his voice starting to clear up.

"All the same, this isn't something you should have to go through. It isn't something anyone should have to go through, but especially not you." The unspoken words are clear: not again.

"I've been such a fool," Peter says, more to himself than to his father.

"I should have left the first time. I never should have believed him." His new favorite refrain.

"Wait a moment," and he can just hear Andrew's brow furrowing in concentration (or maybe consternation), "this happened before?"

"Well," Peter says, and he wants to laugh again because it just hurts so fucking much, "I guess we weren't technically together then. We were fucking, but it wasn't formal."

"Then there was this stupid case, and I found out about Saffron, and I threatened to leave. Then he tried to tell me that he needed me, that I was important to him, that he couldn't function without me, that I couldn't leave.."

"He promised things would be different. And honest to god, they were. We held hands and danced and kissed in public. We exchanged the l-word. We were—at least, I thought we were—brilliant. Not perfect, of course, never perfect, but brilliant together." And then the tears are back and he may as well just give the fuck up.

"If it counts for anything," Andrew tries after another long pause, "I could have sworn he loved you. I honestly thought you were brilliant together."

"So did I," Peter mutters, torn between bitterness and sobs and hurt and regret and wretched self-loathing. "So did I."

He stands on the front porch of the modest suburban home with nothing but his messenger bag and sighs. He knows he shouldn't be here, but honestly, he didn't know where else to go.

It's late afternoon. He can't just jump on a plane home. He doesn't have friends in this infernal city. He won't burden the Captain with his problems when the man has his own ghosts to exorcise.

This was the only place he could think to come. So, heart heavy, bordering on hopeless, he knocks on the door.

It opens, and there's Sam Jameson wearing the most flummoxed of expressions.

"Hi," he says quickly, "you may not remember me, but—"

"Of course I remember you," she recovers from her confusion quickly enough to cut him off and roll her eyes. "You're Peter Grayson. You're with that detective."

Something in his heart seizes up, and he almost—just almost—starts crying all over again. "I was. I'm not now. That's sort of why I'm here. You see, Mal cheated, and I left, but I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"I thought or hoped that given our conversation at the wedding, you might be willing to take in a stray. Just for tonight." He smiles weakly, brokenly, and looks up at her with his sad eyes.

"Of course," she murmurs, blinking rapidly. "Please. Come in. I. I'm really sorry, Peter. Make yourself at home. Please.. I... I'll go make you some tea, and then we'll—we'll talk."

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