Chapter Text
Juno Steel existed.
This was a fact.
Juno Steel existed, and he existed down the hall, currently. This, Peter could confirm from the muffled voice coming through the walls of the Carte Blanche— he was torn between wishing they were thicker so he couldn’t hear Juno’s voice at all, couldn’t be reminded that he was less than a few miniscule yards away, and wishing they were thinner, so he could hear it more clearly. Hear Juno more clearly. Wishing the walls weren’t there at all, wishing to hear, to see Juno— file it away. Those were— those were fleeting feelings, not fact , and facts were more important. Easier.
Try again. Start with the facts, the basic, objective truth. Juno Steel existed. He existed in the Carte Blanche, and so did Peter. So did Rita, Juno’s secretary— former secretary, for the former private eye— as did Jet Siquliak, and Buddy Aurinko, and Vespa Ilkay: a series of criminal legends.
The six of them existed in the same space, the same ship, and were on a long-term mission to steal a series of objects, valuable to Buddy. What monetary value they had, Peter couldn’t quite recall at the moment. It wasn’t the type of mission that would normally attract Peter, but.
But then Buddy Aurinko said Juno Steel’s name, and Peter’s hand refused to touch the ‘end call’ button.
And, well, that led him here.
Because the facts were— Peter was here because Juno was. And Juno was not here because of Peter. As far as Juno knew, Peter was never part of the equation when he signed up to be a part of this.
Peter had long since gotten used to seeing Juno’s face burned onto the back of his eyelids. His brows knitted in mild annoyance when he first laid eyes on Rex Glass, one leg already slung out the window. His head cocked to the side in smug victory as he broke open the mechanical cigar, as Duke Rose’s wife. His hand trembling as his shots missed by yards and his eye bled by liters, as Peter Nureyev screamed —
His absence, the bedsheets laid smoothed around the nameless thief as if Juno Steel was never there.
As cliche as it seemed, it was an unfortunate fact that Peter saw Juno every time he closed his eyes.
The point of the matter was, well, Peter had taken up the practice of keeping longer nights to avoid shutting his eyes. Avoid thinking about any memories that no longer matter.
It was harder, when Juno was still there, whether or not Peter had his eyes open.
But it was fine. Peter was fine. He was Peter Ransom, now, and he could deal with Juno Steel just as well as anyone else could, because—
Because—
Juno Steel existed on the Carte Blanche, and Peter Nureyev did not. Peter Ransom did. Peter Ransom would work on the same ship as Juno Steel, because he was a professional and would not let Nureyev’s past get in his way.
Even if Juno left Nureyev behind. Even if Nureyev was the one to follow him here. Even if the reason Juno hadn’t left again was likely because they were stuck in outer space , or because Rita was here, or because Jet and Buddy and Vespa were here.
Even if Juno was Peter’s reason to come, and Peter was never Juno’s reason to stay.
Peter felt his stomach clench. He tried to convince himself it was just out of hunger.
Juno, Peter decided, would not be his reason to skip dinner.
Clenching, then unclenching his jaw, forcibly relaxing his face to clear it of any telling wrinkles, Peter stepped through the hall and into the kitchen.
Here were the facts. Juno Steel existed, and now Peter Ransom existed in the same room as him. There were no walls to block his voice now.
“I’m just saying,” Juno’s voice was light with playful annoyance, back turned to the door, to Peter, “If a stream wants me to believe that a guy can win millions of creds in a singing competition, it should do better than have a soundtrack full of post-Neptunian rock”
“Mistah Steel!” Rita gasped, a tiny hand slamming over her chest, “I can’t believe you’re slanderin’ Lillian’s new band! I watched a whole documentary on the production of the soundtrack, I’ll have ya know, and—”
“Okay, sure,” Juno scoffed, and the sound lodged into Peter like a splinter, settling beneath his skin, “Their music is okay for being just music. But enough to seduce an ‘ice-prince’ judge into both falling in love with them and winning millions? Yeah, it just doesn’t cut it.”
Rita’s cheeks puffed out in a pout, “It’s about the fantasy of it, not the realism! Besides, your standards are just way too high, cut us some slack— oh, hey Mistah Ransom!”
Peter saw Juno’s body tense up just in time to remind himself not to do the same.
“Hello, Rita. Don’t mind me, just popping in for a quick meal.”
“No prob! There’s still some food on the stove, if ya like fried rice,” she nodded to the saucepan, “Boss and I already had our bowls, and Mistah Jet and Miss Vespa took theirs to-go. And Captain A’s Captain A, so, ya know.”
“Thank you, Rita,” he nodded, keeping his gaze steady from her to the stove, pointedly not looking at where Juno had turned to look over his left shoulder. And it was, of course, his left shoulder, because it was the side with an eye with out an eyepatch because his right eye was gone and it was—
Juno’s fault. Of course. It was Juno’s own damn fault, and Peter had no reason or obligation to feel guilt over it.
Peter’s stomach clenched again. He carefully scooped some rice into a chipped bowl, as if it was a solution. As if his discomfort was caused merely by hunger.
File it away , he recited, file it away.
He was so caught up in his own head he almost didn’t realize Jet was there until he turned around and nearly crashed into the huge man— A man whose steps were so loud Peter had no excuse to not have caught them. Had no excuse not to be aware of the presence of a man who could so easily break his neck.
He didn’t feel his stomach clench, this time, but he figured the dull throb was excuse enough for his current peace of mind.
“Pardon me,” the large man gestured to his own bowl, empty, “I have simply come to take care of my dishes.”
“Oh, Mistah Jet!” Rita bounced in her seat, cutting off any possibility of an intelligent reply from Peter, “Come over here a sec! So ya know the whole Seafaring Stranger stream series we were watchin’ last night?”
“Yes,” Jet said, setting his bowl in the sink, “I was there.”
“Mm-hm! And ya know the whole romantic subplot where Juliano falls for Virgil and learns to love again because their singing was so darn captivatin’?”
“And gave them a literal fortune,” Juno pitched in.
“Yes,” Jet turned on the water, one hand already reaching for the dish soap, “I was there.”
“If you,” Rita’s whole body seemed to lift off her seat, punctuating the ‘ you’ , “heard that song, would ya do the same?”
“No,” Jet scrubbed his bowl, “I would not.”
She turned to Peter without missing a beat, “What about you, Mistah Ransom?”
Peter froze, Juno’s eyes— eye was definitely on him now.
“Rita,” Juno hissed, “Just because I agreed to go through a backlog of musical old streams with you doesn’t mean you can harass our coworkers with dumb questions about singers. ”
Coworkers. That’s all they were. Peter Ransom and Juno Steel— coworkers.
“I wasn’t there for stream night, unfortunately,” Ransom said airily, “So I’m afraid I couldn’t say either way.”
“I don’t think anyone would turn their life around for, again, Neptunian music, Rita,” Juno was not looking at Ransom, anymore, “And the whole scene with Juliano just up and fainting when he heard Virgil perform in person? In what universe does a regular old song do that?”
“Creative liberties!” Rita threw her hands up, “You gotta admit it was cute! And ya can’t pretend you don’t love stories with songs that are more than just music.”
Juno huffed, “Sure, but those are from myths, not mortals”
There was a certain… lilt, to Juno’s voice. Peter wasn’t sure what it was supposed to convey. Wasn’t sure why his brain caught on that statement, in particular.
Maybe it had caught Nureyev’s attention, not just Ransom’s.
“Maybe you should play a singer one day, boss,” Rita’s smile had taken on that sly curve, the way it tended to whenever she poked fun at Juno in particular, “Bet yer voice could have any innocent bystanders swoonin’ in hordes.”
“Oh my god ,” Juno groaned, “Not this again.”
“Again?” Jet asked, before Peter could.
“Mistah Steel sings like an angel,” Rita giggled, and Juno rolled his eye. Rita giggled harder.
Nureyev had raised an eyebrow but said nothing, assuming it was just another inside joke, born from decades of mutual, lighthearted snark. Something he was not a part of.
But that moment did spark an innocent curiosity— what did Juno sound like singing?
No , he immediately dismissed the thought. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even need to file it away, it’s nothing more than a passing curiosity. A whimsical, fleeting curiosity, no more significant than wondering what he’ll have for dinner or what any other member of the Carte Blanche might sound like carrying a tune.
Unimportant.
“I’m calling bias,” Juno snorted, and Peter didn’t need to look at the detective— ex -detective to know he was rolling his eyes— eye , “You only ever rope me into singing along to your dumb musicals, you’re probably hearing the actors more than me.”
“Sooo you agree you should branch out? Cuz’ Mistah Steel, I was just readin’ an article ‘bout a composer who did the soundtrack for the Library of Arcs streams and they gotta whole other collection of clarinet pieces and I know you ain’t a clarinet Mistah Steel but I bet you’d sound real good singin’ ‘em!”
Juno blinked, “Well Rita, you got one thing right.”
“Really?! That’s great because I already pre-ordered—“
“I’m not a clarinet.”
Peter didn’t hear whatever Rita’s response to that was, at least not clearly. He had already found his way out of the kitchen, the bowl starting to lose its warmth in his hand.
It was far into the late hours of the night by the time Peter finished his bowl. It would probably have made for a better experience if he had eaten it straight away, while it was warm, but by the time he had retreated safely into his room, his mind was a million miles away. He wrangled it back into his skull through work, usually, but there was nothing to do at the moment, so he ended up reorganizing his skincare products, which led to him decluttering anything that had gone bad, which had led to a two-hour long dive into a rabbit hole of looking up the longest-lasting cleansers that were readily available on the nearest collection of asteroids, and—well, by the time he remembered to eat, it was late.
He had meant to just take a short trip to the kitchen. Everyone else should’ve already fallen asleep, so there was little worry of running into Ju— of running into anyone. Get up, put his bowl in the dishwasher, perhaps grab a small glass of water, and return to bed. Simple, easy.
At least it was, until he felt the sudden urge to take a quick walk through the halls.
He sighed, it wasn’t uncommon for his body to give a sudden burst of energy when inconvenient, but he was already so tired. He knew from experience that the urge wouldn’t go away quietly, though, just fester until he gave in and paced for a few minutes. Just a walk up and back down the hall , he compromised with himself, then I’ll go back to my room.
This was not an issue until, upon turning into the hallway, his ears were met by music.
Ah, his brain froze, Rita wasn’t exaggerating, was she?
Just around the corner, Juno was facing away from Peter, looking out the hall’s vast window and into the wide expanse of space beyond. He was dressed in cheap-looking pajama pants and a threadbare tank top. He looked radiant.
And he was singing.
Peter couldn’t make out the song, didn’t recognize it as anything he had heard or played before, and Juno was so quiet he could only catch a note or two every other measure. It took everything he had not to get closer.
Then Juno’s voice rose, just a decibel or two, just enough that Peter could make out the soft melody. It felt warm, and safe, and like every other word he might’ve once used to describe Juno. It felt familiar. Peter took all those feelings and filed them away.
But more than that— there was a tug in Peter’s gut, to step over that dangerous threshold, to see Juno. To hear Juno.
He must have shifted, maybe stepped forward subconsciously, because all at once, Juno’s song cut off and the lady whipped around, staring at Peter with a wide, unreadable eye.
Oh. He wasn’t wearing his eye patch.
“Um!” Juno blinked, “Uh, hey. Shit, um, funny seeing you here?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms to mask his suddenly shaky hands, “Quite. Don’t mind me, I was just passing through when I heard you. Thought it'd be nice to stop and listen.”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to bother anyone. Haven’t really sung in a while and all— I’m out of practice, I guess.”
That was him out of practice? Peter felt both his eyebrows climb into his hairline. He had only heard a snatch of Juno’s singing, and still—
“You have a lovely voice, Juno,” Peter said before he could stop himself.
Juno flinched back, “Yeah— uh, sorry. Thanks, I mean, but— I didn’t— I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you could hear. Sorry.”
Ah.
Peter knew, at some level, that the song wasn’t meant for him. That Juno had chosen to leave, all those nights ago, that Juno hadn’t known that he was going to meet him again when he took up Buddy’s offer. That Juno didn’t want Peter there. But some traitorous part of his heart had heard Juno’s humming, and was convinced that it was made for him, for his heart to beat along to.
It hurt, to know that Juno regretted ever letting him hear.
“Of course,” Peter’s voice was cold. Controlled, “I apologize. I’ll be sure to announce my presence immediately if such a situation should arise again.”
“Nur- Ransom,” Juno’s face scrunched up in some emotion Peter could not recognize, “That’s not—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll be taking my leave,” he turned on his heel, “See you in the morning.”
Juno replied with silence as Peter made his way back in the direction of his room, cursing himself for letting his guard down enough to get hurt again , and as he was about to turn the corner, he heard—
“See you tomorrow morning.”
His voice was soft, warm— the same way it was when he sang. Pianissimo, he wanted to say, so quiet it was barely there, but powerful nonetheless.
It wasn’t a goodbye, declaration, not a simple string of words to acknowledge Peter’s departure. It was a promise.
One that Juno had failed to give all those sleepless nights ago.
Peter turned the corner and walked faster.
And if he didn’t sleep well that night— if he didn’t sleep at all that night— well, he had long since perfected the art of under-eye concealer. He was fine. He was fine . When he caught glimpses of himself in reflections, he looked fine, and that’s what mattered.
Whether or not Juno slept only a few yards away from himself— it didn’t matter. It didn’t.