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English
Series:
Part 2 of Bonding Rituals
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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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2,280
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1/1
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7
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727

Collect Calls Or Big Fuzzy Sweaters Are The Key To Happiness

Summary:

Peter calls Stuart after an upsetting incident.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:


"Collect Calls Or, Big Fuzzy Sweaters Are The Key To Happiness"
by Natalia Carter

    I wake up abruptly, for about the fifth time. It's not dreams keeping me awake, no mere phantasms hovering behind my eyelids tonight. No, tonight it's someone so much more real, and yet, probably just as inacessable as those dream-lovers.

    Peter.

    The thought of his name sends shivers through me, and I give up. I throw back the thick layer of quilts and hop out of bed. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and I hiss sharply. There's a pair of slippers a few steps away; my poor little feet find comfort in the warm flannel lining.

    I pad down the spiral staircase in darkness, my apartment silent and still. It's so very late--I should be asleep, I *need* to sleep, my eyes are drooping shut with exhaustion--but I can't. I just can't. I close my eyes and try to relax, but sleep just won't come. Just Peter.

    Dear God, always Peter. Gorgeous. He is gorgeous in my dreams, in my thoughts. And he smiles at me, like he never does in reality.

    No, in real life, it's always Goddamn Stuart, What the hell did you do THAT for, Stuart, I swear I would be better off without you Stuart, Why the HELL did I hire you Stuart, You cause me nothing but grief, Stuart. Never a smile, a kind word for me.

    But it's okay, I don't mind. Because as long as I'm near him, I'm happy. As long as I can see him, talk to him, smile at him--even if he never smiles in return, it's okay, because I'm around him and I'm happy.

    Until today.

    Today, in his office. Christ.

    He was tense, nervous. I couldn't bear to see him like that, his beautiful face drawn and tight with worry. So I set about making him feel better. He was a little weirded out by my being there, but he gave only token resistance to my massage--and only at the beginning. I must say, after a few minutes, he had really begun to enjoy himself.

    Then I kissed him. I couldn't help it. It was wrong, I knew, but I couldn't stop myself from leaning down, pressing my lips against his skin. I only kissed his neck, once, gently. He moved when he felt my lips on him, and I panicked, tried to leave.

    But he stopped me. Peter grabbed me, stopped me from leaving. Then he kissed me. God, he was incredible. I move into my kitchen and put on water for tea, licking my lips. I can almost still taste him, a delicious combination of mint and chocolate and something uniquely *Peter*. . . God. The water boils; I pour my tea--herbal, caffeine free-- and carry it to one of the big bay windows that take up one wall of my apartment. I curl up in the window, pulling my knees to my chest, cradling my tea carefully.

    I'm not stupid. I didn't pretend, not for an instant, that one kiss in his office could somehow lead to a lasting relationship between us. There was just that one kiss, then I hurried out, and everything was back to normal--sort of. It was almost comforting, settling into our old routine--he'd ignore me, I'd work my ass off, he'd yell at me for something. Rinse and repeat. The story of my life.

    I sigh, vowing not to think of it again. It just hurts too much, sitting here wanting him. He's probably with someone now, some lucky woman who doesn't deserve him. Maybe he picked her up at a bar. Maybe she's someone he's known for a while.

    I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to stop that particular train of thought. Peter is not mine, I think. I have no right to get posessive over him, because he's not mine.

    Shit, it's late. I am so tired. I finish my tea and deposit the mug in the sink, vowing to go back to bed and get some sleep. I'm halfway up the stairs when the phone rings.

    Now, in my experience, most incoming phone calls at two in the morning are extremely important and not to be ignored. I bust my ass getting down to that phone, and pick it up on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

    "This is a collect call from-" it's the standard telephone company recorded voice, and I'm a tiniest bit annoyed. But then- "-Peter Dragon". His voice is tiny, shaking, and I crumble inside.

    "Peter!" I near-yelp when they switch over the call. "What's wrong?"

    I hear traffic behind him. "Stuart, I need your help," he says, in that scared little voice. "Can you come get me?"

    I'll do anything for you, Peter, you know that, I'm thinking. "Where are you? Peter, what's wrong?" I say instead, not wanting to freak him out.

    "I'm at that gas station just off the freeway, the Mobil one, near Wendy's old place," he says, raising his voice to be heard over the traffic. The tremor is more obvious, and my heart breaks for him. "Please, Stuart, hurry. Please."

    "I'll be there in five minutes," I promise, meaning every word of it. "Just hang on, Peter. I'll be right there."

    I hate hanging up on him, but in order to go to him I must. The gas station is a full ten minutes from my place, but I told Peter I would be there in five, and damned if I'm going to let him down. I make it there in six minutes.

    I lock my car, looking around the parking lot. There's no sign of either Peter or his car, and I'm starting to get scared. The bell above the door rings cheerfully as I enter the little store.

    Peter. He's there, at a table in a corner, sitting across from a kind-looking lady, cradling a styrofoam cup of something hot. "Peter."

    His eyes come up, meet mine, and I gasp. There's fear there, sheer terror that turns partially to relief when he sees me. "Stuart. Oh, you're here." He's up and coming towards me. Tucks himself against me, pressing as tight as he can. I wrap my arms around him, holding him for all I'm worth He's cold, and I realize suddenly he's wet and dirty, black leather jacket caked with mud. "Stuart. Stuart. Oh, Stuart, Stuart . . ." He whispers my name like a prayer, which really scares me, because Peter's not one to break down and it sounds like that's what he's doing.

    "Christ, Peter, what happened to you? What the hell happened?" I murmur, stroking his back, his shoulders, anything I can reach. "It's okay, Peter, you're okay now. You're safe, safe with me," I'm babbling too, trying to calm him, calm myself.

    That nice lady Peter was sitting with gets up, comes over to us. She takes my arm and guides us over to the table, sits me down, and Peter follows, nearly curling up in my lap. She sits down too, across from us, and smiles. "I take it you're the famous Stuart," she says quietly. "He's been asking for you."

    I nod, hugging Peter as tight as I can.

    "I found him down the road a little bit. He was alone, crying, walking toward the freeway. I pulled over and asked if he was alright. He said he wasn't and he needed to find a phone. He called you, I guess, and he's been asking if you were coming about every ten seconds." The woman smiles, and I do too a little. "I didn't want to leave him alone, but now that you're here, I'm going to be really late for a meeting." She gets up and prepares to leave.

    I clear my throat. "Thank you," I say urgently, desperately. She turns back and nods.

    "Of course. Any time." And she's gone.

    Peter stirs against my side, bringing my attention back where it belongs. "I'm cold," he murmurs, a hand creeping up my thigh. I'm wearing tight jeans, a t-shirt, under my leather jacket, and shit, if he keeps that up I'm going to--

    I reach down and move the hand on my thigh, placing it instead on my chest, where I hope it won't do any more damage. "You should be cold, you're soaked," I murmur, combing my fingers through his hair gently. He's got beautiful hair, Peter does. "Come on," I say, standing up and pulling him with me. "Let's get you home."

    He trembles as we go out into the darkness, shrinking closer to me and grabbing for my hand. I hold his tightly, and realize just how scared he is. I've known Peter for what seems like forever, since DragonFire started up. He's never been one to reach out for people, never been a particularly physical person. But he's reaching out now, clinging to me for all he's worth. I don't think I've ever seen Peter afraid before, and it's a strange experience.

    He stays curled against me when we get in the car, sliding across the seat to press his body against mine, lay his head on my shoulder. His hair brushes my cheek, and I fight back a gasp.

    I turn onto the freeway, mentally plotting out the most direct route to his place. He senses this and sits up a little in protest. "Where you going?" he asks almost sleepily.

    "Taking you home," I respond. He shakes his head.

    "No. Go to your place." I look at him strangely, but get off at the next exit.

    "Any particular reason?" I question, not at all surprised when he settles in against me.

    "I don't want to be alone," he says, and shivers.

    We get to my place, and I remember he's wet. I take him upstairs and give him some of my stuff, flannel pants and a big fluffy sweat shirt, before sending him to the shower. He looks at me gratefully as he disappears into the bathroom.

    Peter emerges a few minutes later, looking adorable in the sweatshirt, smelling of lavender shampoo and soap. He comes downstairs, looks at his leather jacket draped over a chair, and chuckles. "That's _never_ going to come clean," he says, eyes flashing at mine. I smile and nod in agreement.

    I get him settled on the couch, drape a blanket over him because he's still shivering, and sit on the floor with my back against the couch. "Peter, do you want to tell me what happened?" I ask quietly, making it a point not to look at him. I've got a feeling he's going to need some privacy.

    Peter clears his throat nervously. "You have to promise you won't tell anyone else," he says, in that little voice. I agree.

    "Promise."

    He squrims a little on the couch, getting comfortable. I wait patiently. Finally a big sigh comes from behind me, and he starts.

    "I was out, at a bar, enjoying myself, you know, just messing around. I was talking to this guy, nothing serious, but we were having fun. He bought me a drink, and he touched my hand before he left. Anyway, this bunch of rednecks saw it, and they came over and started harassing me. At first it was the usual stuff, cocksucking faggot stuff, and I can handle that. They left after a while."

    "How did you get all wet?" I ask, not wanting to push.

    "I'm getting to that," he near-laughs, reaching out lazily to thump me in the head, but his hand lacks momentum and it ends up more like a caress. "So I left the bar a litle while ago, around one thirty or so. They, uh . . ." he's squirming again, and I crawl up on the couch beside him. He lays his head in my lap, and I stroke his hair as he continues. "They grabbed me and dragged me into this alley . . . there were five or six of them, all big rednecks. They were just shoving me around at first, playing with me. But then they started in earnest, knocking me down, hitting me hard . . . they thought it was funny to push me into the mud, and kick my ass as I tried to get up . . . finally a cop drove by, and they got scared and left me alone."

    I have no idea what to say to this, how to follow this up. Peter doesn't seem very upset about this, not now at least. But he _was_ upset before, when I picked him up, and it's hard for me to believe he's gotten over it that quickly.

    I sigh and put my head back, closing my eyes. Peter is a warm welcome weight in my lap, his hand coming up to squeeze my knee. He's getting sluggish, and I'll bet he's falling asleep. I open my eyes and look down at him, and sure enough, his eyes are closed and he's near-snoring. It's a dream come true for me, holding Peter. I wish I could stay awake and enjoy it, but damn, I'm exhausted. It's almost three in the morning.

    I reach down and tangle my fingers in his hair, stroking easily. We need this now, this little break, this rest. There will be no more pressure now, no more of his semi come-ons, no more of my stupid longing. Now, we're just going to sleep together, him and I. We're going to lay here and help each other out, and there's not going to be any of our regular bullshit. Without words is the way we're going to do this.

    At least for tonight.

    In the morning, we'll talk.

 

 

*** end ***

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Natalia Carter.
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