Chapter 7: Turn off the Light ch.7
It is six in the morning before the police car pulls up in front of Crick University Hospital, bearing the ever-serious Captain, the sleeplessly disgruntled Lieutenant, the trench coat and deerstalker clad Leight, and a determined Peter.
He's practically buzzing with the knowledge of who did it and how and why and the fact that Leight has called him clever and brilliant more times in the past two hours than he has over the last two years. The case has reached the wrap-up, and he's buzzing with anticipation—for both the arrest and what will come after.
"Why are we here so early?" the Lieutenant whines as they pass through the building's sliding glass doors and show their badges to security.
"Soon," Leight hums, mostly to himself, "everything will be illuminated."
For once, Peter's the one leading the way. He guides them to the elevator, hits the button for the fifth floor, and takes them down the hall to the office marked "Kimberly Ye, Hospital Administrator." Politely, he knocks.
"Who is it?" a voice calls from inside.
"Peter Grayson."
"Ah, Dr. Grayson. It's open."
Peter opens the door. He walks in, knowing that the others will follow. He watches as the color leaves Ye's face. "Dr. Ye, I wanted to thank you in person for the opportunity work here, but I'm afraid I have to decline."
Ye is deathly pale as she stands beside her desk. "That's unfortunate, Dr. Grayson," she says robotically. "We would have been lucky to have you."
"Yes, you would have, wouldn't you?" Leight asks as he begins a slow invasion of Ye's personal space.
"I wouldn't have seen this. Dara's copy of Zill and Cullen, sitting on your bookshelf. Daffodils, full of lycorine, in that vase. Countless connections to Myanmar. You found out Dara was, in part, responsible for the rice blight, for the deaths of millions of your people. You understood, of course, that he had wanted to make things better; you've tried to do the same. But his methods—you couldn't stand it. So you killed him. The slightest bit ironic, isn't it?" Leight smiles, but there is no warmth.
"You weren't supposed to get involved," Ye states, her voice fully devoid of emotion. "You wouldn't have been able to work this case—any case, for that matter—without Grayson. I did my research, see, and I know you're nothing without your Boswell."
Hands on his hips, the Captain stalks forward. "Is that a confession?"
"You didn't count on Boswell solving the case," Leight returns. He takes a few steps back, allowing the Captain to arrest her. He waits a few minutes, watching the formalities with his arms crossed across his chest.
"And there it is," Leight says, heaving a sigh. He looks at Peter and smiles a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Ready to go?"
Peter nods—hesitantly, nervously, hopefully. He doesn't know what is going through Leight's head. He doesn't know where they're going. He doesn't know what to expect. He barely knows what he wants—except that his dreams invariably involve Malcolm Leight.
So he takes a step forward, and only then does he realize that Leight has extended his hand. His breath catches in his throat. He contemplates pinching himself because all signs should point to this being a dream.
He shouldn't believe, shouldn't trust, shouldn't want. And yet—here he is, reaching out to take Leight's hand, smiling like an idiot as they exit the building, without a thought to the Captain, the Lieutenant, Dr. Kimberly Ye, or the Crick University Hospital staff.
They can't hitch a ride in the police car, and there are no cabs in sight. Peter stops, staring at the near empty street on this quiet morning. He lets out a strangled laugh. "We're stranded."
Leight rolls his eyes and gently tugs Peter along. "Ever heard of the subway?"
Peter laughs (a real, hearty, robust laugh) as he jogs to keep up.
"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," Peter mutters as he stares at the heap of white rice on his plate.
"Because," Leight says firmly, "this is different."
Peter can't deny that this is different, that they've never been like this before, because they haven't.
This is the second time in the entirety of their mutual history that they've failed to celebrate with the ritual fuck.
This is the first time they have not returned to the apartment after solving a case; this is the first time they have simply gone out to breakfast.
Of course, it isn't just breakfast because nothing can ever be simple (not even a meal) where Leight is concerned. So they're having breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant—probably the only one in the city open this early. They're sitting across from each other in a small booth, attempting to eat white rice and yellow curry.
"Yeah," Peter sighs in spite of himself. He reaches for his mug, which is full of steaming thick, nutmeg, heavy, sweet, milk-diluted, lycorine-free chai. He echoes, "This is different."
"And yet," Leight observes thoughtfully, putting down his fork, pushing away his plate, and focusing all of his attention on Peter, "you still have doubts."
Peter sets down his own fork but keeps staring down at his food. If he looks up, Leight will see his blush, and that is not acceptable. "It's not that," he murmurs, flustered. "It's just that I don't understand."
Leight frowns. "I was under the impression that everything had been illuminated." His words don't sound harsh or judgmental or condescending or any other ugly adjective that so often describes Leight's tone.
Peter takes a deep breath before looking up. He smiles sadly, ironically, as he builds the courage to get the words out. He's glowing with self-deprecation. "Why me?"
"Peter," Leight scolds, something dark flashing through his eyes, "don't be daft."
"It's a valid question, Mal," Peter insists with a desperate shake of the head. He needs Leight to understand this.
He needs to say the words, to face his fears. "I'm not special. I'm not clever or exciting. I'm not terribly rich or successful or handsome. I can't solve cases or complex calculus problems. And I—I don't think I'm terribly good for you. What I want isn't what you can give, and I shouldn't ask more than—"
"Peter," Leight interjects sharply. He snatches Peter's hand and holds it in his on the table. "Look at me."
Peter looks.
"You're an idiot."
"Thanks, Mal, that's really what I wanted to hear."
"Just shut up, will you?" Exasperated, Leight sighs. "You're brilliant, and you're an idiot if you don't realize that you are clever, exciting, handsome, and a compendium of other positive adjectives. You also seem to be forgetting that you solved this case—and don't you dare protest that I would have figured it out eventually. You are special, Peter Grayson—all the more so because you don't realize it."
He pauses, then, and lowers his eyes to look at their hands clasped on the table. He applies the lightest pressure. "You don't realize how special you are to me."
Peter stares back at him. He can't breathe; he doesn't want to. He can survive on these words alone.
"Dr. Ye was right," Leight continues. "I couldn't do this without you. I couldn't function, not really, before I met you. It's always been a curse, to see what I see. The interconnections of seeming coincidences. The truth and the lies. The deductions and inductions. Nothing is ever simple. I can't look at a teacup—this one, right in front of me, for instance—without seeing the chip on the rim, the careless way the waiter handles dishes, how he's out back smoking a joint, and suddenly I'm thinking—it makes perfect sense that teacup is chipped, that it's sitting here in front of us, that the waiter is out back smoking a joint instead of paying attention to us because he hates this job—its cruel, ironic necessity. Nothing is ever simple, see? There's so much noise—bloody white background noise in my head. It's always been there, always on, always torturing, distracting, haunting. I could never turn it off. And then..." he's heavy, serious as his eyes hold Peter's.
"I met you. You've given me silence, Peter. With you, I'm deaf to the noise. I can see, think, breathe without being haunted, distracted, tortured. I can speak without screaming. I can focus enough to solve cases, to care, to feel."
Leight stops abruptly. He breathes, stutter-stop. "Do you understand?"
Peter squeezes Leight's hand. He doesn't understand, not really, but he's trying, and he's hoping, and he's thinking that maybe, just maybe they have a chance.
"You turn off the sound," said Leight.
.
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