Chapitre 25: Turn off the Light ch.25
Peter can't sleep. He realizes as soon as he walks through the door that it's a hopeless dream (not that it's a dream because, of course, the dream is a sleep he can't hope to achieve). He knows better than to try.
He also knows that Leight told him to pack, but he isn't going to. This is one battle he isn't willing to lose. Maybe he is foolish, but he honestly believes that line about the safest place being by Leight's side.
Leight catches dangerous murderers all the time; it is, quite literally, his job. For all the gruesome cases they've seen, investigated, solved, it hasn't been personal. No one they know has gotten hurt.
Until tonight. The Lieutenant. The thoughts Peter isn't going to think.
He needs a distraction. He goes to the kitchen. Finds a kettle. Fills it with water. Sets it on the stove. Tries to be patient.
Fails.
Goes searching for teabags in a drawer. Finds one, Twinings Earl Grey. More aimless pacing, and then he remembers the old adage.
A watched pot never boils.
He sighs, gives up, retreats. He's wandering, listless, when he ends up in their bedroom (really, the section of the large room that happens to contain their bed).
Yet again, he sighs. He shivers.
He isn't cold because it's the middle of summer, but it's also the middle of the night (technically morning, practically dawn).
So he pulls the scratchy orange wool blanket around his shoulder and sighs because it smells like Leight. He sits on the edge of the bed. And he sighs because honest to god, he can't seem to do anything without sighing.
Clearly, he isn't distracted enough. So he reaches for Leight's laptop, which is resting on the night table. He sets it on his lap, opens it, blinks at the soft glow, and then groans because of course it's password protected.
He taps the keyboard gently without pushing any of the keys. He tries to think. He should know Leight well enough to figure this out. He starts typing.
110583. Leight's birthday.
Sherlock. Leight's favorite sleuth.
Peter. Leight's partner, assistant, doctor, lovesick fanboy.
The greatest love of his life, or so Peter would like to believe.
But the password is none of those things. He's about to give up when inspiration strikes. So he types.
Eleanor.
And then he's in. It's as the desktop background materializes (a black and white photo of an old style mansion, of all things) that he realizes he doesn't really know what he's looking for.
He's not looking for anything, really, besides a distraction. So he glances at the names of the folders on the desktop. There's one marked "Cases," and Peter can't help but double click.
There are six additional folders inside, each labeled with a year, starting with "2006" and ending with "2011." He clicks "2011".
Each filename contains the date the case started and the name of the first victim. He scrolls through the familiar names.
Maria Vasquez. Jacob McPherson. Jennifer Smith Markoff. Dara. Lynette Wilson. He stops scrolling. He opens the Wilson file.
It's a standard word document. It contains a description of the scene, a summary of evidence, and a lengthy conclusion that details Leight's deductive process.
It's fascinating, but it isn't really anything he doesn't already know. He remembers this case (though he almost wishes he didn't) and doesn't need to relive it. He closes the file.
Back in the finder window, he hits the "Back" button. He stares at the years, tugs the blanket tighter, tries to stop himself from doing what he knows he is about to do.
He clicks "2006," and he scrolls down to the bottom of the list. He has no concrete reason to believe that it was the first case, but for some reason, he's sure it was.
And it's there, and Peter's chest constricts. His breath catches in his throat. His heart skips a beat. He really should have known.
The file is named, "060606 Eleanor Leight."
He stares. He wants nothing more than to click once, twice, and read until he understands exactly what and whom they're dealing with.
But he can't. It's too gross a breach of privacy, and he won't do that to Leight. But he can't stop staring.
He can't think.
The teakettle is whistling. The rain is pelting down. His head hurts, and he's beginning to understand what Leight once told him about mental white noise. He can't escape this.
He wants (needs) to understand, but he can't. He can't. He can't escape this fucking moral mess.
He can, however, prolong the pain. He fishes through his pocket and extracts a small flash drive. He slides it into the USB jack. He holds his breath as he copies the document. He ejects the drive, puts it back in his pocket, forces his breathing back to normal and this incident out of his head.
So now it's time for another distraction. He remembers that Leight recommended he read something by some psychologist or other—he scans through the files in the "Recreational Reading" folder—and finds it.
Clinard. Deviance. Right.
He promises himself he'll read the article, just as soon as he retrieves his tea.
"Peter?"
Peter doesn't remember falling asleep, but given that he is in the grueling process of waking up, he knows he must have. He's lying sideways on the bed, still tangled in the wool blanket, and Leight's laptop seems to have slid off his stomach.
His head is fuzzy, but he strives for clarity. He pulls himself up onto his elbows just as Leight walks into his part of the room. "What time is it?"
"Just after six," Leight says, leaning casually against the wall. He eyes Peter and the laptop. "What were you doing?"
"Reading," Peter answers. He bites back the guilt. He sits up, crosses his legs Indian-style. "Clinard."
"Right," Leight nods. "What did you think of it?"
"It's interesting," Peter says carefully, "but it's too true to the era. No matter how much he prefaces everything with the idea that deviance is societally defined, he can't escape 1950s America."
"Of course. Did you read the bit on homosexuality?"
"Oh yes," Peter smirks, injects sarcasm into his voice, "apparently we're emotionally immature and over-attached to our mothers."
Leight smiles back, but there's something distant in it. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are full of something that looks too much like regret.
He stands there, staring, studying, memorizing, (silently apologizing,) and then Leight asks, "You didn't pack, did you?"
Peter's smirk fades. "No. I didn't."
"And you're not going to."
"No," Peter shakes his head, "I'm not."
"Very well, then," Leight nods, and something that is definitely remorse flickers across his features, but it's gone in a flash, and he puts up his shields. "Am I allowed to reclaim my computer? I need to type up some information for the Captain."
"Of course," he nods. He scoots off the bed, gesturing to the laptop. "All yours." He's on edge. He's cold.
The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end. "I can make breakfast, if you want. An omelet?"
"Peter," Leight smiles with a lightness that doesn't match his eyes, "we're out of eggs."
"Oh, right." Peter feels silly. How could he have forgotten? Why hasn't he gone for groceries in the past week?
"We have leftover take-out, don't we?" He thinks back to the night before; it seems years away. "Thai. I'll reheat some. Coffee?"
Leight nods. He doesn't move from his spot by the wall until Peter is in the kitchen. He picks up the laptop.
Peter can hear the clicking of the keys. He can imagine Leight opening a new word document, typing the filename, "071811 Raymond Fisher".
He shuts his eyes hard. The bag of coffee grounds is heavy in his hands. It hurts. He feels guilty; he feels dread. And it's heavy.
He adds enough water for two cups and starts the machine. He waits for it to start its whirring, for his breathing to get back to a regular rate. Then he opens the fridge, blinks at the harshness of the light.
Sure enough, it's empty except for a few half empty cartons of Thai. He takes them out, sets them on the counter. He stops for a moment, listening to the steady beat of Leight's keystrokes.
His chest is tight. Why can't he think? What is he forgetting? There's a pause in the typing, and it hits him. Plates. He can't reheat the food without plates.
His hands are shaking as he opens the appropriate cupboard, and then he groans because, in addition to grocery shopping, he has also forgotten to do the dishes. (He wonders how he managed to ignore the stack in the sink.)
"We're going to have to eat out of the cartons," Peter calls. He waits, but there's no response. "Do you want the curry or the noodles?"
"Leave it a moment, will you, Peter?"
Peter stops. He follows the sound of Leight's voice, back to the bed, back to the guilt, the dread, the trust he doesn't deserve.
Leight closes the computer and sets it back on the night table. He's so serious, and it hurts. "Lie down with me? Just for a minute."
Peter nods because he doesn't trust himself with words. He goes to his side of the bed and lies down.
Leight pulls him closer, holds him tighter. He rests his chin against the top of Peter's head.
"You know I love you, right?" he whispers into Peter's loose brown curls. "Always. No matter what. I won't ever stop."
"I know," Peter whispers back, his heartbeat wild, chaotic, dangerously erratic. He tries to look up and catch Leight's eyes, but the angle makes it impossible.
"I love you, too." Too much, part of him thinks. More than he loves himself.
Leight holds him tighter, and it almost—just almost—hurts. "I love you," he repeats it fervently, reverently, like a mantra (or an apology), so softly it's barely audible. "I love you. I love you."
.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone