His mother was frequently ill, he remembers that, but she always smiled, even in her worst moments. He was eight years old when he knelt beside her bed, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Her labored breathing was the only sound in the room.
She pressed something into his hands, her skin feverishly hot against his, made him promise to never part with it. He made to ask her why it mattered and why she was giving it to him, only there were suddenly screams outside and the noise of clashing metal.
The Ravagers had come.
The two of them huddled in their home, and Peter prayed to every god he knew to please, keep them safe, please, please, please. But the gods weren't listening, and a Ravager kicked down their door.
Peter wrenched himself out of his mother's weakened grasp, pushed her behind him (protect her, save her, help her); he lifted a knife in his small hands, screamed at the man to leave them alone. At first the man only smiled a wicked grin, his mouth filled with crooked, sharp teeth, and then he pursed his lips, whistling some sort of jaunty tune. Peter was so confused that he didn't see the flash of movement, couldn't shove his mother out of the way, didn't notice the magicked arrow until he heard his mother suddenly gurgling behind him, and then he was screaming.
He wakes with a start and a strangled gasp (somehow, he's learned to wake quietly from those dreams; it doesn't do to show weakness among Ravagers) and tries to control his breathing.
It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to remember where he is, why he's there, and for a while he just stares blankly at the cavern's ceiling. The pain has ebbed, and the pounding in his head has faded to a dull ache. He still feels stiff, though, still a little tender, but well enough to venture sitting up -- which he manages to do with a little difficulty, and he takes his victories where he can get them.
He worries a little when he doesn't see Maya, and he remembers-- no, he thinks he might have laid himself bare in a way, came just shy of admitting how weak and useless he was, what a liability he had become for her. He does remember her denial of his insecurities, though, remembers how convincing she had sounded, remembers how close he had come to believing it.
Stupid, he thinks, and he rubs his eyes to ward away his exhaustion. She felt indebted. She felt obligated. She was being kind.
And look how he had thanked her for her kindness: ignored her, turned away, went to sleep, because of his body's weakness and his own weakness and maybe the Ravagers had it right the first time when they threatened to eat him.
He spots her, then, silhouetted at the mouth of the cave by the first few rays of dawn. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to brace himself against the rough stone wall, pushes himself to stand. He uses the wall as a crutch as he moves to join her at the entrance.
Once there, though, words escape him, and he just stands there at the mouth of the den, one arm curling around his waist protectively.
Eventually, all he manages is a quiet, croaked, ] Morning.
[ He actually manages to startle her. She jumps slightly, cheeks going red when she realizes how lost she'd been in her own thoughts, and how he'd caught her off-guard.
She clears her throat, schooling her expression into something impassive ]
Are you sure you should be moving around like that?
[ He notices her surprise, but the only indication that he does is a slight frown. He wipes it from his face, though, and tries for a reassuring smile -- which, naturally, he belies with his next reply. ]
[ She doesn't return his smile, and her tone remains matter-of-fact. She's decided that it might be best to distance herself, to not get so attached. ]
You've been struck by lightning. I'd advise you to take it easy for the next day or two yet.
[ He frowns again -- and this time he doesn't hide it. She seems-- aloof. Distant.
And why shouldn't she be? Last night, she had shown him kindness, and he threw it back in her face -- and now, suddenly, he finds that he can't keep her gaze anymore.
Ah, yes, the ground is truly fascinating.
He breathes in slowly, ignores the soreness in his chest, and counts to three; the morning air is crisp and cool against his skin. Soothing, in a way.
He's run out of anything to say, so he tries for a rephrase: ] I feel better, now.
If you die on me, I don't get my payment, after all. [ She should not have said that, but it comes out anyway, bitter and cold and sharp. It's so very petty of her, but she wonders if that even bothers him at all. And if it does, she wonders if it hurts, if it cuts through him in the same way his indifference cut through her.
[ Forget the lightning -- the blow Maya deals hurts more than anything he's ever experienced.
The slightly pleasant expression he had forced in their brief exchange crumples away, leaving something raw and broken and hurt, and he sags against the den's mouth. And he knew it, knew she was trying to be kind with him last night, that she felt pity for him, because he was in pain and she probably wanted to prevent his mewling like a child. Of course she didn't really care. He was stupid to have hoped.
And now that he was better he knew, somehow, that the anger would rear its head, would make her realize that he was holding her back.
She was a goddamn Siren, powerful and dangerous, who had anchored herself to a useless idiot with a shitty sense of self-preservation.
He swallows and nods, knowing she won't see it with her back to him as it is. ]
... Right. Yeah. Your-- your payment. [ He can't help how thick and bitter his voice sounds, can't think of anything else to say, so he simply turns back around and uses his other arm to brace himself against the wall as he limps his way back inside. ]
[ The tone of his voice hurts her all over again in a different way. She clenches her fists, closing her eyes for a brief moment. Deep breath, and then, ]
[ He stops at her command and stamps down on that little flicker of hope.
Dangerous, he thinks. Leads men to their doom.
He's not sure what he's referring to this time.
Peter resolutely does not turn to face her, opting instead to lean against the stone; a sharp edge digs into his shoulder, and he uses the feel of it to ground himself.
He doesn't want her pity. He doesn't want to hear her empty assurances. He's sick of feeling like she's coddling him, being kind and-- and friendly out of some weird sort of servitude, and before, he ate it up, because he wanted so badly to have a friend for once in his fucking life. Stupid. Sentimental.
He bows his head. He can't stand to hear anymore empty words, so he speaks before she can. ]
I could terminate the contract. If that's what you want.
[ He shakes his head and resolutely does not look at her, because he really fucking likes her, he realizes, and if he looks at her, then whatever decision he tries to make in the next few seconds won't be the logical one. ]
... I don't know.
[ But when has he ever been logical, anyway? And he's sore and exhausted and a whole mess of other things, and sleeping didn't help anything, didn't help at all with getting his head on straight and made things even more muddled.
And he laughs, then, and it's more like a noise, empty and tired and mirthless, because how ridiculous is he being? Stupid. Sentimental. Weak. Burden. Childish. ]
[ He means for it to sound doubtful, accusatory, but he can't help it, can't help how stupidly hopeful he sounds, and gods above, he thinks it'd be nice if they let him have this one little win, just this once. ]
[ There are a whole lot of emotions in those two little words, and suddenly she's wondering if this whole situation isn't as black and white as she thought it to be. Have they each misinterpreted the other?
She moves, then, trying to get into his line of sight. ]
Maybe this started out as just a contract, but not anymore. With you, I don't feel lonely, I don't feel like a servant just going through the motions. You've set me free in more ways than one, and I-- I don't want to lose this.
[ Something in him cracks at her words, relief warring with nervousness at odds with happiness combating his annoyance at himself for being such an idiot.
He likes Maya.
He really, really, really fucking likes her.
... Oh.
And suddenly he's lost control of his muscles, and he's surging forward, and he doesn't know what he's doing until he has a hand at the nape of her neck and his lips meet hers. ]
[ There is a moment where she doesn't do anything aside from stand frozen and wide-eyed with surprise.
Despite her lack of knowledge about humans and their customs, she is well-aware of what this means, and it's a dangerous line for a Siren to walk. And she might care about the danger if something warm and wonderful wasn't singing through her veins, right alongside relief and sheer joy.
The moment passes, and she threads her fingers through his hair and kisses him back. ]
[ Thoughts like "complicated" and "dangerous" don't really occur to him at that moment--
(Actually, that's a lie. The millisecond directly after he kisses her, he has this thought: She's going to immolate me.)
--because this feels strangely right, and good, and oh thank goodness, she's kissing back and I'm not on fire.
It's a shame he's still recovering, though, because his legs suddenly buckle beneath him; the hand at her neck slips down to grip her shoulder as his other flies out to catch himself on the cave's wall.
For a few breathless moments, he just stares at the floor and he thinks, Fuck, what did I do? ]
[ He nods slowly, trying to ignore the way his cheeks are burning and the feeling of mortification growing in his gut. Convalescence seems like a good enough topic change from him making a fool of himself just then. Still, he's stubborn and doesn't let her take his weight when they move; he just keeps his hand hesitantly on her shoulder as he walks.
He also adamantly does not look at her. Or speak. Clearly it's because he's so focused on putting one foot in front of the other. ]
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His mother was frequently ill, he remembers that, but she always smiled, even in her worst moments. He was eight years old when he knelt beside her bed, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Her labored breathing was the only sound in the room.
She pressed something into his hands, her skin feverishly hot against his, made him promise to never part with it. He made to ask her why it mattered and why she was giving it to him, only there were suddenly screams outside and the noise of clashing metal.
The Ravagers had come.
The two of them huddled in their home, and Peter prayed to every god he knew to please, keep them safe, please, please, please. But the gods weren't listening, and a Ravager kicked down their door.
Peter wrenched himself out of his mother's weakened grasp, pushed her behind him (protect her, save her, help her); he lifted a knife in his small hands, screamed at the man to leave them alone. At first the man only smiled a wicked grin, his mouth filled with crooked, sharp teeth, and then he pursed his lips, whistling some sort of jaunty tune. Peter was so confused that he didn't see the flash of movement, couldn't shove his mother out of the way, didn't notice the magicked arrow until he heard his mother suddenly gurgling behind him, and then he was screaming.
He wakes with a start and a strangled gasp (somehow, he's learned to wake quietly from those dreams; it doesn't do to show weakness among Ravagers) and tries to control his breathing.
It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to remember where he is, why he's there, and for a while he just stares blankly at the cavern's ceiling. The pain has ebbed, and the pounding in his head has faded to a dull ache. He still feels stiff, though, still a little tender, but well enough to venture sitting up -- which he manages to do with a little difficulty, and he takes his victories where he can get them.
He worries a little when he doesn't see Maya, and he remembers-- no, he thinks he might have laid himself bare in a way, came just shy of admitting how weak and useless he was, what a liability he had become for her. He does remember her denial of his insecurities, though, remembers how convincing she had sounded, remembers how close he had come to believing it.
Stupid, he thinks, and he rubs his eyes to ward away his exhaustion. She felt indebted. She felt obligated. She was being kind.
And look how he had thanked her for her kindness: ignored her, turned away, went to sleep, because of his body's weakness and his own weakness and maybe the Ravagers had it right the first time when they threatened to eat him.
He spots her, then, silhouetted at the mouth of the cave by the first few rays of dawn. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to brace himself against the rough stone wall, pushes himself to stand. He uses the wall as a crutch as he moves to join her at the entrance.
Once there, though, words escape him, and he just stands there at the mouth of the den, one arm curling around his waist protectively.
Eventually, all he manages is a quiet, croaked, ] Morning.
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She clears her throat, schooling her expression into something impassive ]
Are you sure you should be moving around like that?
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I have no idea. You're the healer, here.
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You've been struck by lightning. I'd advise you to take it easy for the next day or two yet.
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[ He frowns again -- and this time he doesn't hide it. She seems-- aloof. Distant.
And why shouldn't she be? Last night, she had shown him kindness, and he threw it back in her face -- and now, suddenly, he finds that he can't keep her gaze anymore.
Ah, yes, the ground is truly fascinating.
He breathes in slowly, ignores the soreness in his chest, and counts to three; the morning air is crisp and cool against his skin. Soothing, in a way.
He's run out of anything to say, so he tries for a rephrase: ] I feel better, now.
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If you die on me, I don't get my payment, after all. [ She should not have said that, but it comes out anyway, bitter and cold and sharp. It's so very petty of her, but she wonders if that even bothers him at all. And if it does, she wonders if it hurts, if it cuts through him in the same way his indifference cut through her.
She regrets it instantly, and turns away. ]
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The slightly pleasant expression he had forced in their brief exchange crumples away, leaving something raw and broken and hurt, and he sags against the den's mouth. And he knew it, knew she was trying to be kind with him last night, that she felt pity for him, because he was in pain and she probably wanted to prevent his mewling like a child. Of course she didn't really care. He was stupid to have hoped.
And now that he was better he knew, somehow, that the anger would rear its head, would make her realize that he was holding her back.
She was a goddamn Siren, powerful and dangerous, who had anchored herself to a useless idiot with a shitty sense of self-preservation.
He swallows and nods, knowing she won't see it with her back to him as it is. ]
... Right. Yeah. Your-- your payment. [ He can't help how thick and bitter his voice sounds, can't think of anything else to say, so he simply turns back around and uses his other arm to brace himself against the wall as he limps his way back inside. ]
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Peter, wait. Please.
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Dangerous, he thinks. Leads men to their doom.
He's not sure what he's referring to this time.
Peter resolutely does not turn to face her, opting instead to lean against the stone; a sharp edge digs into his shoulder, and he uses the feel of it to ground himself.
He doesn't want her pity. He doesn't want to hear her empty assurances. He's sick of feeling like she's coddling him, being kind and-- and friendly out of some weird sort of servitude, and before, he ate it up, because he wanted so badly to have a friend for once in his fucking life. Stupid. Sentimental.
He bows his head. He can't stand to hear anymore empty words, so he speaks before she can. ]
I could terminate the contract. If that's what you want.
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... What do you want?
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... I don't know.
[ But when has he ever been logical, anyway? And he's sore and exhausted and a whole mess of other things, and sleeping didn't help anything, didn't help at all with getting his head on straight and made things even more muddled.
And he laughs, then, and it's more like a noise, empty and tired and mirthless, because how ridiculous is he being? Stupid. Sentimental. Weak. Burden. Childish. ]
Fuck. I don't know.
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Goddammit Maya, say something. ]
What I said back there, I didn't mean it. I just--
I thought we were friends.
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[ He means for it to sound doubtful, accusatory, but he can't help it, can't help how stupidly hopeful he sounds, and gods above, he thinks it'd be nice if they let him have this one little win, just this once. ]
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She moves, then, trying to get into his line of sight. ]
Maybe this started out as just a contract, but not anymore. With you, I don't feel lonely, I don't feel like a servant just going through the motions. You've set me free in more ways than one, and I-- I don't want to lose this.
I need you.
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He likes Maya.
He really, really, really fucking likes her.
... Oh.
And suddenly he's lost control of his muscles, and he's surging forward, and he doesn't know what he's doing until he has a hand at the nape of her neck and his lips meet hers. ]
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Despite her lack of knowledge about humans and their customs, she is well-aware of what this means, and it's a dangerous line for a Siren to walk. And she might care about the danger if something warm and wonderful wasn't singing through her veins, right alongside relief and sheer joy.
The moment passes, and she threads her fingers through his hair and kisses him back. ]
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(Actually, that's a lie. The millisecond directly after he kisses her, he has this thought: She's going to immolate me.)
--because this feels strangely right, and good, and oh thank goodness, she's kissing back and I'm not on fire.
It's a shame he's still recovering, though, because his legs suddenly buckle beneath him; the hand at her neck slips down to grip her shoulder as his other flies out to catch himself on the cave's wall.
For a few breathless moments, he just stares at the floor and he thinks, Fuck, what did I do? ]
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... You really should be resting.
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He also adamantly does not look at her. Or speak. Clearly it's because he's so focused on putting one foot in front of the other. ]
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[ it's hard to miss the way he avoids looking at her, and she frowns. ]
Are you all right?
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[ But he trails off, and after thinking for a moment, he shakes his head and risks a sideways glance at her. ]
What I did just then. Bad idea, right?
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It's in both of their best interests that she does.
Funny how when she tells herself that, she never quite believes it. ]
I... I wouldn't have let you kiss me if I didn't want you to.
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I definitely believe that. You could probably get me on breach of contract at me and light me on fire.
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At this point, we're both in breach of contract.
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