Turn off the Light C.33

Leight loosens his grip, and rests his hands on Peter's shoulders. Calmly, he says, "I deserve that."

Peter raises his eyes to meet Leight's; they're sad, sincere, more gray than blue. He isn't angry. He's still hurt, but not angry.

He nods.

"You did."

He doesn't step away; he steps closer, back into Leight's embrace, and rests his head against Leight's chest. He shivers. He sighs. The night is quiet, and the stars are bright.

Against the rough fabric of Leight's trench coat, he murmurs, "I hate you."

Leight smiles as he pulls him closer. "I love you too."

"You can ask me anything you want, and I promise I'll answer," Leight stares at Peter steadily across the table of their late night / early morning Indian restaurant.

"I don't expect anything from you. I certainly don't expect you to forgive me. I do, however, want you to understand."

Peter nods. His eyes fall to his chai. (He inhales; it's thick, nutmeg, heavy, sweet, milk-diluted, and far too familiar).

He should be tired, but he's running on adrenaline. He won't sleep until he has answers, until he knows what he's going to do, until he fucking understands this.

"First things first," his voice sounds funny, ragged, raw in his own ears. "Sam and the Captain are okay, right?"

"Perfectly safe."

"Where did the gun come from?"

Leight touches the front bill of his deerstalker. "Funny thing about frisking," he offers the smallest of smiles, "they never check the hat."

"You and Charlie," he starts, and he stops.

He doesn't know where to start. He shakes his head.

Softly, Leight asks, "What did he tell you?"

"You grew up together." Peter swallows around the lump in his throat. "You were best friends. You had adventures in forests."

"All true." Leight lets out a quiet laugh. His eyes go to the ceiling; he stares at the bare light bulb above them.

"You know, the summer before second grade, we started catching butterflies. We kept one of those large leather albums; we were planning to bring it to show-and-tell. One day, we caught this funny brown butterfly. Eleanor helped us look it up. It was a Tisiphone abeona. We were so impressed with ourselves for having an authentic Australian butterfly in our collection."

"You dated," Peter says it without inflection, without accusation.

"We did."

He nods.

"He was different, then. Well, he was always charming, brilliant, cryptic, and morally ambiguous, but he wasn't like this. He changed." Leight takes a sip of his own chai. "We both changed, in our own ways."

He nods again. "Charlie said something else, too. About a case—a triple homicide, I think. There was a code? You solved it."

"The Tennyson case," it's Leight's turn to nod. "There were letters found with the bodies. I managed to obtain copies, and I solved the case. It was messy—the mob, dirty cops—basically the worst possible case to get involved with.."

"I told Charlie everything that I'd figured out, and he told me not to tell anyone. To stay out of it because it wasn't safe. He made me swear." He takes another draught of tea.

"I broke that promise. I went to the police. The fire—I take it you know about the fire?" He waits for Peter's confirmation.

He nods. "The fire was retaliatory. Charlie and I were supposed to be at the house. If we hadn't gone to pick up ice cream for everyone—" He breaks off.

"Mal," Peter murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," Leight snaps, too abrupt, too harsh.

He shuts his eyes, sips his tea, breathes deep. "Sorry. What else do you want to know?"

"What was Charlie's promise?"

"I always thought it was about revenge for breaking my promise, but I guess it never was. Right after the fire, before we stopped talking, he had these arguments with me.."

"He yelled at me about how I didn't seem upset, wasn't feeling it, wasn't grieving, didn't care. He was wrong, of course—I did care, so much more than he knew—but that didn't matter." He shakes himself. "He swore he'd make me feel it."

Peter nods to himself, thinking it over. The waiter delivers their rice, curry, and naan. Peter keeps thinking as he spoons food onto his plate.

He doesn't have any further questions about Charlie or the case. He understands (as much as he wishes he didn't).

There's another obvious topic, but he doesn't want to breach it. So, he does what he always does and goes for the non sequitur.

"The Captain and the Lieutenant," he says gruffly. "Do you know if they were—"

"Peter," Leight gives him the look. Leight knows him too well.

"Okay," the word comes out shaky. "I know."

He can't possibly look at Leight. "I just." His voice is too small. "It hurt, Mal."

"I know. I'm sorry. It had to."

Peter looks up from his food. "Why? Of all the things you could have done, why did you have to pick the absolute worst? Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't you have played the trust card?"

"Peter," and there's that look again, "trust was the problem. You said that the safest place to be was by my side. You trusted me with your life. I needed to break that trust.."

"The surest way to do that was to play to your insecurities. Between the Wilson case and your history with Rachel, Saffron was the logical choice." He smiles wryly.

"Of course, I didn't consider the consequences. I didn't think about what you would do after you left. I didn't realize you wouldn't want to give up the case. I didn't anticipate you'd agree to meet with Charlie. I just—I didn't think."

"You didn't." Peter puts down his utensils. He has given up all hope of eating.

"It isn't that I don't understand why you did it. I do. I just." He sighs. "I shouldn't."

"You know I didn't fuck him, right?"

"What?"

"Saffron," Leight supplies. "I didn't fuck him."

He waits a beat. "It was all staged, just for that thirty seconds when you came in. I swear I would never, could never—"

"Mal." Peter shuts his eyes.

He has seen the images too many times in the past day and a half, but how much was derived from his own imagination?

What did he actually see? He thinks back. Naked straddling, not fucking. Does it make a difference?

He shakes his head, sighs, whispers, "Don't."

Leight looks miserable. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"You probably don't," Peter agrees. "I understand. It's just."

He sighs. "You hurt me, Mal. You hurt me intentionally. You had the best of intentions, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that you broke my heart."

He should leave. He should leave this city, this man, this life, and never look back. He should, but he hasn't. Not yet.

"I know," Leight nods.

"And I'm so sorry, Peter. I." His voice cracks.

"I love you." When he says those three words, Leight's eyes shift back to blue. The emotion is so bright, so pure.

And in an instant, Peter remembers how long he has waited to see just that. He can't turn off that light.

"You know I love you," he sighs. The only purpose leaving would serve is to break both their hearts, and he refuses to be responsible for that. "I love you more than I love myself. I shouldn't, but I do."

Leight seizes his hand from across the table.

"I love you too much to leave." Peter smiles softly.

They'll be okay. He knows they will. It may take time, but they'll get back to what they were, and the world will turn right-side up again.

"There it is."

.

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