Chapitre 32: Turn off the Light C.32

Reluctantly, he follows Charlie into the closet-sized stairwell. He waits for Charlie to go up five steps before he starts up. It's a short staircase, ending with yet another ceiling.

Charlie stops and thrusts a key into a lock on yet another trapdoor; when he pushes it open, there's an influx of cool night air.

They're on the roof. The concrete is smooth under Peter's (green) sneakers; it thumps to the beat of the (deafening) music in the club. The air is heavy, thick, humid against his skin; although it's the middle of summer, it isn't hot.

He shivers even though he's wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, but it isn't because of the cold. For now, they're alone, so he takes a moment to look around. The storm that has been haunting the city for the last three days has lifted. The sky is clear, black, and dotted with stars he has never seen in the light-polluted city sky.

He can just make out the faint belt of the Milky Way bisecting the firmament. To the north, he sees the pretty flashing lights of the Philadelphia skyline. It may as well be a picture on a postcard, a scene in a movie, a place in a half-remembered dream.

He names the skyscrapers to himself as a faint breeze billows around him; they seem farther away than the stars.

He wonders, absently, if he is still suffering side effects of whatever drug Charlie gave him. He wonders, even more absently, which drug it was.

"You're wondering what we're waiting for," Charlie observes with that infuriating, smug calm of his.

"No," Peter barks, whirling around, his nostrils flaring,.

Full of that anger that seems to come and go in waves. "I'm not. Stop guessing how I'm feeling or trying to tell me what I'm thinking. You don't know. You don't know me, and you're never going to."

"You're right," Charlie purses his lips, thoughtful, "I don't know you. I do, however, know Mal."

"No," a voice cooler than the air refutes, "you really don't."

Peter turns.

There's Leight, wearing his long black trench coat, his gray deerstalker, and his quintessential cryptic expression.

He's flanked by two of Charlie's security men, who have undoubtedly stripped him of whatever weapons he brought with him. He doesn't look concerned in the slightest.

"Mal," Charlie says, his upper lip curling into the cruelest of sneers, "it's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Ten years this month," Leight inclines his head. He doesn't smile. He's impassive. It's so different than Charlie's affected graciousness. It feels like home.

Peter stands off to the side. He knows he should still be mad. He should hate Leight. He really, truly, honest to god should despise Leight with his entire being.

Because it doesn't matter (he runs other these thoughts for the thousandth time) that Leight had a virtuous end in mind. His means were heartbreak, and Peter shouldn't want (shouldn't be able) to get past that.

But there's Leight, standing there with his back to the stars, and Peter doesn't hate anyone except Charlie Knightley.

There's a moment (just a moment, only a moment) when Leight's eyes settle on Peter. But he's guarded, indecipherable, and he looks away (too) quickly.

Charlie nods to his bodyguards, and though they look doubtful, they file back down the staircase, shutting the trapdoor behind them.

Leight and Charlie stare at each other from a distance, and it's too reminiscent of old western-style showdowns.

"Charlie," Leight keeps his voice low, steady, dangerous, "what do you want?"

"The same thing I've always wanted," Charlie shrugs. "Revenge, justice, what have you. To make good on my promise."

"This isn't justice, Charlie. Eleanor—I understood. You lost Will, and I can understand that you thought taking Eleanor would make it right. But this escalation? Raymond? There's no point."

"Of course there's a point, Mal," Charlie keeps on smiling, undaunted.

"All I've ever wanted was for you to feel it. The question is, what will it take?" His gaze drifts (unerringly innocent) to Peter.

Peter can't breathe, can't think, can't feel anything but for the overwhelming fear that's flooding through him, clogging his trachea, paralyzing his nerves.

"Charlie," Leight warns, "don't."

Charlie chuckles. He starts walking, slow and casual, toward Peter. "You'd feel it, wouldn't you?"

"Charlie."

"We're doing this tonight," Charlie continues. "We're ending this tonight."

"Fine," Leight says sharply.

It's like he's bending, snapping, cracking, breaking under the pressure. There's something desperate in his voice.

"Fine. Do whatever you want with me. Just let Peter go."

Charlie looks back and forth between them, leering, his eyes bright and devious.

"He has nothing to do with this," Leight (almost maybe) pleads.

"You know I can't do that, Mal." His hand is resting on his belt, on that bulge that can't be anything but a holster.

"Or I could, but I won't."

"Doing this won't bring of them back. Not your parents. Not Will. Certainly not me."

"You still don't understand why, do you?" He turns back to Leight. "As brilliant as you are, you're hopelessly daft underneath it all, Mal."

"Then explain it to me."

"Life is a game of Russian roulette."

Leight peers back at him. Coldly, he says, "You're the one with the gun."

"I am, aren't I?" Charlie asks, voice full of warmth.

He removes said gun from his holster.

It's an old-style silver revolver, probably a Webley. "Whatever am I going to do with it?"

Peter is perfectly still. Charlie is too close to him, moving closer by the second. He knows how this is going to end, and it can be summed up with two simple words: not well.

And he can't help but think he should have listened to Leight, gone away, saved them both.

"Charlie," Leight growls, "stop playing coy."

"All right." In an instant, Charlie has a bruising grip on Peter's arm, and he has the barrel of the revolver aimed directly at Peter's right temple. "Let's do this."

Peter can't breathe, can't think, can't feel. Everything is fear; so much, it barely registers. He doesn't want this. He can't stop this. He shuts his eyes.

They're all silent. No pleas, bargains, apologies, or last words. Those are for show, and this isn't. This is real; this is life, and regardless of what Charlie said, this isn't a game.

Bang!

The shot rings out, but Peter doesn't die. He waits to feel the bullet, for the black to take him, but it doesn't. Instead, the metal against his temple falls away, and Charlie's fingers loosen around his bicep.

There's a dull thud, and he opens his eyes.

Leight is holding a small handgun, looking grim.

Charlie is on the ground. Dead. Blood trickles from the bullet hole in his forehead. His eyes are open, and he's smiling.

"Cause of death," Peter finds himself saying, "gunshot to the skull."

"Peter." Leight drops the gun.

It clatters against the cement. He staggers forward, and all at once, he takes Peter in his arms and kisses him with all the passion, all the apology, all the emotion he can't voice.

And Peter kisses back. Because they're alive, and Leight is warm, and he tastes like espresso and chocolate and spearmint (but not nicotine), and he thought—god, he thought he'd never have this again.

Then he remembers. He remembers the flashes of sweaty skin and throaty moans, and he pulls back. He looks at Leight, and he remembers how cold Leight looked when he introduced Saffron.

He remembers, and it hurts all over again. Before he has a chance to think it through or stop himself, he slaps Leight hard and open-handed.