The whole concept of “appropriate sleep schedule” had abandoned Peter Pettigrew sometime in second year, and everyone around him seemed to be on board with it. As long as he showed up to meetings and did the logistical work they needed of him nobody seemed to care if he was up til 4 and sleeping until 11; even if a full seven hours of sleep was something far beyond his capabilities of relaxation. But as much as Remus might shout and James might roll his eyes and Sirius might proclaim he was both boring and dusty and doomed to die a virgin (which, unknown to Sirius, he was no longer) it was this strange schedule that enabled him to be as useful to his brothers and the Order as he was. Useful things were kept around. Useful things had a place. As long as he was useful, the fact that he didn’t belong, didn’t fit in, didn’t match everyone else wouldn’t matter.
It was a fact universally known that if there was a light on in the Library and the door was shut, you left it the fuck alone. Nobody in the order ever knew everything, but Peter Pettigrew knew much, and was responsible for disseminating information, or disinformation, as the cause saw fit. However, no matter how universally a fact was known there are still people incredibly comfortable with ignoring it. Sirius was one. Peter could never fully train him that a shut door actually meant something; despite some awkward moments in school. But while Sirius always blew into a room like a cannonball, there was one other person who routinely ignored a shut door, and she did not. With his headphones in it was impossible to even notice Mary enter the room, and it wasn’t until a deep sigh brought the smell of sage and sea salt to his nose that he even knew she was there. He kept the silence of the moment going, though. If Mary had wanted his attention she would have gotten it, and more often than not she didn’t want his attention, just his presence. They’d never talked about it and honestly they probably never would, but that summed up their dynamic. Silence was golden, and gold is to be treasured.
The work lay before him like an easy to follow map; do these steps, encode these reports, streamline this intelligence. One, two, three, and then maybe you’ll be relaxed enough to sleep, to rest, to unclench muscles you had held taut for so long that you didn’t know if you could feel them soften without falling to pieces. Peter liked plans, and even if plans went awry, or had yet to work well enough to call successes, he still liked adhering to them, and in the depths of the focus he poured into his work forgot Mary was even in the room with him, probably in her favorite armchair with feet tucked up underneath her. But when the duet of sage and salt turned into a trio of sage, salt, and smoke, his senses piqued, knowing she’d pulled the lid off the decanter of scotch on the side table, and when he felt the ghostly barely-there drag of her fingers across his back he knew she was leaving for their spot, and that he would be following behind her.
“One more page.” He murmured, so low he couldn’t hear himself over the music in his ears, but the fingers vanished, replaced by the cool air of an open window leading to a rusty fire escape, and he knew she’d heard. One page bled into two, and then into three and it was another ten minutes before he made it up the fire escape, two glasses in hand, to find her in their usual spot, feet dangling over the edge, hair blowing in the night wind.
“Can’t sleep?”
The only response he got was an insouciant shrug, a rolling of shoulders that somehow told him exactly nothing about why she’d infiltrated his sanctum, and everything he needed to know all at once. The slate of the roof was so cold beneath his jeans Peter thought he could feel his ass literally freezing, but still sat close enough to feel the heat of Mary though the thin raglan of his shirt, leaning across her to grab the bottle and pouring a hefty measure for both of them. As he passed Mary’s glass to her he clinked them together, the sharp chime of the crystal shockingly loud even against the London traffic beneath them.
“Me either.”
The scotch was just enough of a burn to make him shiver and he let his head fall gently against her shoulder, taking another sip as they looked out over the city’s lights together. He was reminded of a quote from a book Remus had recommended to him once, about another Korean who didn’t quite fit in, “It wasn't that Henry was less of himself in English. He was less of himself out loud. His native language was thought” It was just as true of Peter as it was of the Henry in question. He existed best in ink and thought, less so in word and body. But somewhere along the line he and Mary had developed their own language in the silence far above the hubbub of both the town and the Order beneath them. His head on her shoulder was a silent but heard, James and Sirius will be back soon. We haven’t lost them yet.
Her fingers pushing his shaggy bangs out his face was as much of a response as he was going to get, I know. But it doesn’t make the waiting easier.
Lifting his head he downed the scotch and poured himself another measure, taking a deep breath and smelling her sage, the city’s grime, the rain that was threatening to pour down in the next few hours, “I’ll stay up with you.”
That too, was its own coded language, because what spymaster ever told the truth out loud. The heard words were one thing, but the meant words were another thing entirely.
[TEXT]: according to my blood alcohol level now's a perfect time for you to come over and love me Anita&Quinn
Drunk Texts Meme:
[love] - you weigh literally five pounds that much booze is not good for you.
[love] - come to the clinic, i’ll set you up with a banana bag and then i’ll love you.
[love] - not that i dont love you already.
[love] - unless you’re at that drunk level were you don’t wanna hear the L word anymore at which point I ... llama you that’s what I meant to say, llama.
[love] - get your llama butt over here and i’ll llama you all night.
[love] - i’m gonna delete these from your phone while you’re sleeping.
[ text ]: What a massive egotistical penis. Remus/Peter
[Moony] I’m concerned about a couple things.
[Moony] One) That you found my onlyfans
[Moony] Two) Sirius is, once again, naked on top of a table and you need me to come by with our stash of bail money.
[Moony] Three) That James attempted some weird magic in an attempt to get in someone’s pants and literally transformed into a gigantic dick with a commensurate ego
[Moony] Please clarify
⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events, or are they always late? Or, are they always a bit early?
Absolutely. It’s a point of pride - for meetings on Yavin, for pick ups off world, for rendezvous, for drop offs - there’s not a single pilot more dependable in the universe. It doesn’t matter what he hits, what holds him up, or how hard he has to run his ship - Mal is always on time.
♿ : Has your muse had any injuries in the past?
Couple concussions from collisions with asteroids or other ships, one or two blaster shots caught on a shoulder or a hip, and the largest - one very nasty burn going down his right ribs along his hip and across his thigh from when his x-wing went down and his evacuation shoot didn’t pull.
He dreams about it sometimes - free falling and spiraling through the sky, or along the ground, or in the stars (they all blend together when you’re pulling that many g’s), the smell of his own flesh burning, pushing through pain and forcing himself not to black out as he wrenches himself from the seat in time to free fall away from the wreck of his burning x-wing. Falling, falling, falling alongside it, shooting stars crashing to the earth - the impact of the sea cradling his body and soothing the flames along his side.
☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon, which is your muse’s favorite?
Suns. Spiraling slowly through the universe, little bastions of life that bring spots of warmth to the solace of space. They’re the heart of the universe, each and every one.
✝ : Is your muse religious?
Yes, but he doesn’t talk about it. The Force is there, with all of them. He doesn’t believe in gods that sit and plot out the petty twists and turns of their lives, but he believes in fate and he believes that there is something tying them all together, something that the Jedi pull upon to enact their great deeds.
They may not all be perfect, but nothing is perfect. He’s seen too many wonders, lived too many times when he should have died, to not believe in something greater than himself.
⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events, or are they always late? Or, are they always a bit early?
Absolutely not. As an Inquisitor he is afforded very few chances at rebellion, and this is the one he holds near and dear as a luxury. Nothing gives him more pleasure than strolling into the console rooms on Mustafar ten minutes after Lord Vader’s summons called. He pays for it, dearly, of course, but pain hardly works as a punishment anymore. Vader lost all ability to cowl him with fear or pain when he cut down Sol’s brother.
For everything else? He’s late as a power play. It’s petty and simplistic but if he controls the time table he controls the interaction. Besides, there are very few people who will leave a scheduled meeting with an Inquisitor, and if they do? Well they’ve managed to pique the interest of the Third Brother and will find themselves meeting with him whether they wanted to or not.
☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more?
Night. In the quiet of the late hours he can hear his brother’s voice more clearly -whether a figment of his imagination or a symptom of his madness, he’ll gladly spiral into the depths of madness to hear Xiar once more.
There’s also the added benefit of the aesthetic. Inquisitors wear quite a bit of black as a rule, and nothing gives a better impact that a lightsaber igniting in the darkness.
🏨 : How well does your muse sleep?
Hardly at all. In sleep, he dreams, and in dreams he lives a life that he will never have - he remembers their family’s farm land, he and his brother swinging their sister by the hands between them, the smell of his mother’s bread, and the feel of sunshine cresting over the fields to shine on the early morning planting.
But that life is dead - razed to the ground with salted earth to ensure none would ever return. Bones of his family rotting where they lay, cut down - those memories lost in decades of screams at the hands of those he now calls Brother and Sister.
Does he know I’m still out here? He’s smart... did he figure out I didn’t betray James? Does he miss me? I miss him so much. I miss... just being around him. I miss the quiet laugh. I miss the running on the full moon. I miss not having to talk but knowing what the other was thinking. I miss studying together. I miss it all. I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s happy. At least one of us deserves to be.
