Peter Avalon couldn't say that he missed travelling with the rest of the AEW roster, but he could say that he missed some of his former roster members. Watching Cezar helping so many other people with their journey's back to the ring was excellent and he couldn't be prouder of what Ryan Nemeth was doing on TNA, but even then, Peter had always been a solitary creature. Still, it was proof that he cared for others, and there was no one more that Peter Avalon cared for quite like he cared for Jill Perry.
While Peter had been known as The Librarian, one of the duo at least, Peter had found himself falling for the girl who did sign language interpretation for her twin brother in Jurassic Express. She was a sprite of a thing, bubbly and bright no matter how badly Jurassic Express were treated. That enthusiasm had charmed Peter, especially when Jill had become protective of the other member of The Librarians, Leva Bates. On more than one occasion, Jill had yelled at Peter on Leva's behalf and on more than one occasion Peter had solved the issue with an apology and a nice meal.
The meals had gone from an effort to apologize to an almost nightly occurrence, enjoying the company of each other. Peter missed those dinners, missed the physical company of the two women who had changed who he was as a person. Jill had softened the softer edges of Peter's soul while Leva rounded both out, a complete picture of grace between the three. And just because they weren't 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 in the same vicinity didn't mean they were 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 in the same vicinity. When AEW was in town, and she was free of her other duties, Jill stayed with Peter instead of renting a hotel room.
"Got all your things?" Peter questioned as he greeted Jill at the door of his house with a warm embrace. He pressed a gentle kiss to each cheek, taking her hand and leading her into the low light of the living room. It was set up for the cozy night in that he knew Jill was so fond of. The pull-out couch was set up with the comfy sherpa blankets that Jill loved so much as well as the small collection of Squishmallow's Jill left in the guest room when she wasn't here.
Jill smiled as she sat her black rolling bag by the end of the metal bedframe, giving an eager nod of her head, "You made it all cozy in here! And what's that smell?"
"Lavender and rose water," Peter gestured to the oil diffuser plugged into the wall, "I read something about it being calming. I've got hot cocoa ready to make and a nice glass of champagne ready for me."
Jill giggled at the ridiculous pronunciation of the word champagne, before she questioned eagerly, "And our book?" She tried to peek at what Peter had picked out. It was a routine from when they were still travelling together. Once the day had wound down and it was time to sleep, Peter would hold her tight and they would read a book, chapter by chapter, over the course of their traveling. It was usually classics that Jill had never had the attention span to read on her own.
"No, no," Peter tutted with a click of his tongue and a waggle of his finger, "you go get tidied up. Then we'll-"
"I'll shower in the morning," Jill pouted, almost childishly swinging her arms back and forth as she rocked on the balls of her feet. She played with the sleeve of her oversized floral sweater, "I just wanna hold you, Peter."
He sighed and gestured to the bed, letting Jill snuggle under all the blankets and get into a comfortable position as he retrieved the cocoa from the kitchen in her favorite Hello Kitty mug. She looked peaceful in her state and he raised one bushy eyebrow, "You sure you want me to read to you? You sure you don't want to just-"
"Your voice is soothing," Jill smiled as Peter got under the white sherpa blanket with her, resting her head on the spot right above his heart, "I miss these quiet moments."
He pressed a kiss against her mess of brown curls, reaching onto the coffee table to pick up the book he had chosen for their first night together in a long time. The cover was an oil painting, an explosion of colors depicting a man on horseback in a field of sunflowers charging against a windmill in the background with his lance held high. It was a personal favorite of Peter's, the story of a man no one believed with a delusion of grandeur of being more. It was a story he could relate to, after all he had done in his career.
"Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing," Peter began as he adjusted the glasses on his hawkish nose, his voice gentle as he read to his own dream tucked close to his body.
