Turn off the Light ch.30

Once he's in the cab, the silence is seductive; he wants to break it (his thoughts are too fucking loud).

He almost—just almost—calls Leight. But then he keeps thinking (can't stop, it's so loud, and he feels like Leight).

So he keeps thinking, thinking, thinking. He thinks about ends and means and whether the former justifies the latter. He has never believed that they do.

Leight, however, does. So his motives were pure. So he didn't (just) sleep with Saffron because he wanted to.

So he was only trying to keep Peter safe. So what? No matter his motives, he fucked Saffron and hit Peter's heart with a sledgehammer.

He doesn't call Leight. He doesn't think about forgiving Leight. He doesn't give up on meeting Charlie. He doesn't drown in the silence.

He asks the cab driver to turn up the radio.

The Fury is not intimidating in the light of day. It's still dilapidated and industrial (and everything else that can't change), but it isn't frightening.

He takes a moment to just stare up at the building before he goes inside. The sky is, for the moment, more blue than gray, so he isn't about to be rained on.

Everything is still.

So still.

Too still.

He wants to scream. But he doesn't. He pulls out his cell phone, texts Sam to say he made it to the club, then returns the phone to the messenger bag.

He takes a deep breath, waits for the oxygen to calm him down, and then he heads toward the door. It's metal, and his knuckles hurt when he knocks against it.

After a few minutes, a small slit slides open, and two eyes peer at him. "We ain't open," a muffled voice gurgles.

Of course they're not open. He shouldn't be surprised. It's noon.

"I'm here to see Mr. Knightley."

"No one sees Mr. Knightley."

"Well," Peter shrugs, tone full of self-deprecation, "I'm not anyone."

Just a doctor without a reputation. Just a detective's assistant without the detective. Just a man in love without a lover.

"Just Peter Grayson."

The door slides open. "You shoulda said that sooner. Mr. Knightley's been waitin."

Peter sighs and follows the burly gurgling man into the Fury. It's one large room, and it's dark. He didn't notice from the outside, but the building seems to be windowless.

The walls are absurdly thick, and there are pillars for support on the inside. He thinks it may have been built to withstand a nuclear blast; it probably still could, as beat up as it is.

The fluorescent lights are harsh and dim. There are a number of other tracks of lights on the high ceiling, full of colored light bulbs, and it isn't difficult to imagine the pulsing rainbow lightshow they put on at night.

There are massive speakers everywhere, and the silence is odd, threatening, like you could go deaf at any moment. There's a bar by one wall, but nothing in the way of seating.

The room is endless; the dance floor goes on and on and on. Peter's footsteps echo through the bunker.

Finally, at the far end of the room, there's a wrought-iron spiral staircase. Peter's guide stops in front of it, gestures up. Peter assumes he's meant to go up alone.

So he steps up and up and up around the soft helix until he emerges into a room that is presumably some sort of VIP lounge.

The lighting is dim (cozy), the floors are carpeted (plush), the wall-to-wall sofas are abundantly cushioned (extravagant), and the color-scheme is purple and red (almost seductive). The wall that overlooks the dance floor is entirely glass.

There's a well-stocked liquor cabinet against one wall, and there are four men already in the room, all seated on the various sofas. Three of them are dressed entirely in black, wearing sunglasses, and sporting bulges in just the right places for holsters.

And then there's the fourth man, but it's clear he should really be first instead of last. He's in the middle, but he's apart.

He's wearing a seafoam blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with crimson red suspenders. It should clash, but for some reason, it doesn't. He looks tall (it's difficult to tell how tall because he's sitting), and strong, muscular, well-defined.

His arms are spread back against the top of the sofa, his legs are crossed, and he may as well not have a care in the world, the way he's grinning. His dark brown (almost black) hair is mussed, messy (no doubt on purpose).

His eyes are hazel, mostly blue-green, but flecked with brown; they're dozens of shades too light, too bright, too pure and it's unsettling. They're trained straight on Peter.

"Dr. Peter Grayson, I presume?" he asks, and there's funny something in his voice, like he's laughing, even though he clearly isn't.

Maybe there's just some joke that only makes sense to him. Maybe life itself is a joke to him. (It's difficult to tell.)

Peter nods. He can't find words. He doesn't want to. He wants to turn around and run run run far away from here (into the past, into Leight's arms, into happy days), but he isn't going to.

He's here; he's stuck (in more ways than one).

The mysterious(ly captivating) man nods to the three bodyguards, and without a word, they get up and file down the staircase.

"Charlie Knightley," he says once they're alone. He thrusts out his hand, waiting for Peter to shake it. His grip is firm and unrelenting. When he finally lets go, his grin is as wide and white and perfect as ever.

"Please," he gestures around him, "do sit."

Peter sits, stiff, straight-backed, and thoroughly uncomfortable in spite of the cushions, keeping a generous foot between them.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with Charlie this morning, when the man promised he wouldn't bite (unless Peter asked for it). It taxes his control not to shiver.

"Peter," Charlie offers him a warm smile, "I can assure you I'm not the Big Bad Wolf."

Peter stares at him and tries to reconcile what he sees with what he knows to be true. This man is a murderer, and a vengeful, deranged one at that.

He doesn't look, doesn't talk, doesn't act like the Big Bad Wolf, but that doesn't mean he isn't.

He's a wolf in sheep's clothing, and Peter needs to be vigilant. He takes a breath to steady himself, and then he pushes onward. "Why exactly did you want to meet with me, Mr. Knightley?"

"Please, call me Charlie. Mr. Knightley was my father." Something dark flashes through his eyes, but it's gone in an instant. "And don't worry, we'll get down to business soon enough. But for the moment, can I offer you something to drink? Scotch, perhaps?"

Peter doesn't have a chance to respond because Charlie is already up and moving to the liquor cabinet. Warily, he asks, "Isn't it a little early in the day for hard liquor?"

"It's never too early when you have a reason—be it celebration or emotional distress." His back is to Peter as he fetches two small glasses, fills them with ice, and then pours in the dark amber scotch.

He comes back a moment later, sits down, hands Peter a glass. He's still smiling.

"A toast," he meets Peter's eyes, "to symbiosis."

He doesn't wait (maybe he never waits, not for anyone, not for anything); he taps his own glass against Peter's. They chink as the glass collides, the liquid swishes, the ice floats.

Peter stares at his scotch. There's nothing visibly wrong with it. He knows Charlie poured both glasses from the same bottle. Charlie has promised that he isn't about to do anything murderous.

Peter has no reason (except everything Leight and the Captain told him) to believe that he is any danger.

And yet, he's wary (not to mention weary), and no matter how many deep breaths he takes or how many times he commands his arm to raise the glass to his lips, it doesn't work.

He can't (or won't) drink. He won't (or can't) trust Charlie Knightley.

(He wants Leight.)

And really, truly, honest to god, he has lost track of how to rationally respond to this situation. There's nothing reasonable about it, and maybe rational response is impossible.

He can't (or won't) get past the irrational mental blocks.

(It's too early for scotch. He doesn't trust Charlie. He wants Leight.)

He won't (or can't) change his own nature.

And he wants to laugh even though there is nothing funny because how many times has Leight told him that people don't change—can't or won't, doesn't matter—just don't? The irony hurts.

"Still worried that I'm trying to kill you?" Charlie asks, lounging back oh so casual.

Peter frowns. There's no right way to answer that question.

"Perfectly safe, I assure you." Charlie raises his own glass and swallows it all in one large gulp. "See?"

Peter takes a small sip. It does taste fine. He takes another sip, and then he rests the glass on his knee.

Charlie is still staring at him. "You don't talk much, do you, Peter?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Why," Charlie frowns, just a little, "I don't want you to say anything in particular."

"Then why am I here?"

The frown morphs back into a smile. The vertigo is nauseating. "All in due time, Peter. Now, I'd rather assumed that you would have other questions for me?"

Peter just stares.

.

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