Archive of Our Own

There’s something about Nureyev’s bed.

Well. More accurately, there’s something about the bed in the quarters Nureyev has claimed aboard the Carte Blanche.

The ship, in its entirety, is a rattling, monochromatic beast. Juno figures there isn’t much need for a ship full of criminals to invest in interior design. Buddy probably thinks her family’s collection of vibrant personalities does that well enough.

It happens a few weeks or so into their crime journey. Heist voyage? Whatever. It’s been almost a month, and Juno blinks awake with something silky between his fingers.

The sensation isn’t unpleasant, nor so jarring as to drag him from the last clinging fingers of sleep. For several slow minutes Juno is content to twist the fabric lazily around his index finger, enjoying the slithery rasp of it over his skin when he lets it unwind. Wrap, release. Wrap, release.

When he finally blinks his eye open it’s to find a silk scarf knotted around a slat in the headboard. It’s a muted violet in the meager light that manages to escape under the bathroom door, and Juno is still running his fingers over it when Nureyev emerges with a trickle of steam.

Cold hands worm their way under Juno’s shirt and he bolts up with an aborted yelp, smacking half-heartedly at Nureyev’s arms when he leans in to press a chaste kiss to Juno’s cheek. “Good morning, dear.”

“Why are your hands cold,” Juno whines in return. “Didn’t you just get out of the shower?”

It distracts him from the scarf, at least for the time being. After a day or two Juno gets used to it being there. The luxury of it, the richness of the dye, the obvious care put into its maintenance only to leave it tied to the bed as an apparent afterthought, it’s all so very Nureyev.

When another scarf joins the first it just seems natural. Exactly where Nureyev found the time on their last job to obtain a pineapple print ascot Juno doesn’t know, though he’s now beyond the point of being surprised.

The ascot is followed by a pillow so large it’s nearly a third bed partner; a vintage linen duvet cover; a stack of honest to god afghans bought at a local market during a truly ill-advised detour from their mission at large. Juno doesn’t get it, but he tries. Nureyev places a value on things that Juno has typically considered to be luxuries; guilty indulgences made in the absence of better judgment. Indulgences that Juno has very rarely afforded himself, and never with the level of fastidiousness Nureyev dedicates to their collection and curation.

If asked ten years ago Juno might have said as much to Nureyev’s face, shot off something flippant and dismissive about Nureyev’s apparent priorities. Now he’s a little better equipped to see the nuance of it. There’s value in finding comfort where you can. Especially here, especially now, after everything they’ve been through.

(Besides, if he starts to criticize the honestly ludicrous number of scarves and ties and sashes Nureyev has accumulated on his headboard, or if he complains about having to both barter for and assemble Nureyev’s new four-poster bed frame to accommodate even more of the things, Juno would have to pretend that he hasn’t started finding comfort in them, too.)

“How many puns are you allowed to make before it becomes a criminal offense?”

Jet’s eyes flick up to meet Juno’s briefly, a contemplative crease appearing between his brows. “I do not believe there is a precedent for--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Juno grumbles, waving a dismissive hand through the air. The air inside the kitschy little gift shop is warm and still, just stagnant enough to leave a thin layer of humidity clinging to Juno’s skin. He runs his fingers through the display of keychains just to hear them clack together and wanders to the nearby rack of sunglasses.

They’re not here for a job, and Juno finds himself increasingly unsure why he bothered to leave the ship. Cantar is a planetoid hardly big enough to support its lone outpost, small as it is, though that outpost boasts a fairly impressive market. Rita had been the one to bring up their proximity at yesterday’s family meeting, and Buddy had agreed to make a stop, saying it’d be a good opportunity for them to stretch their legs without the imminent threat of a firefight.

Most of the available wares are of the natural fiber sort. Apparently the conditions here are ideal for supporting livestock. Apparently there are people that still raise livestock. Like, in fields. Rita had managed to lure Juno out with the vague promise of getting to see some sheep, which she has yet to deliver upon.

So Juno wanders the aisles of the gift shop with Jet. The artificial sunlight in the artificial sky outside is just this side of too bright when Juno’s shoulder is already aching, sending dull radiating pulses of pain straight to his temples. He’s fully planning on abandoning the endeavor to spend the rest of the day wallowing with a heating pad when a nearby display catches his eye.

The sign above it boasts “Handmade Cantarian Fiberworks”. Juno is the first to admit he isn’t the most discerning about this sort of thing, but they’re certainly pretty, if nothing else. There are belts, ties, hats, and gloves, a small collection of woven bracelets. Before he can stop himself Juno picks up a shawl, drapes it across his hands so he can see the pattern a bit better. The thing is almost offensively bright but still somehow tasteful, woven together with an artist’s eye so even the most jarring colors flow together.

“Ah. One of the traditional Cantarian flame stitch shawls,” Jet observes. He glances between the shawl and Juno before turning his attention on the display, reaching out to inspect one of the ties. “Would you be interested in hearing the history of Cantarian agriculture? The tale of how the initial settlers managed to transport the inaugural populations of livestock from Earth is truly fascinating.”

Juno tries to decide how surprised he is that Jet knows the history of Cantarian agriculture. He dismisses the thought with a small shrug, curiosity winning out as it typically does. “You know what? I think I am. Lay it on me.”

Juno buys the shawl while Jet regales him with the tale, right down to fun facts about the exact breeds of sheep and cattle and alpaca chosen for the journey.

“The fuck is an alpaca?”

Jet’s answering sigh speaks volumes, and all of them are disappointed.

By the time they meet the others for lunch Juno has learned more than he ever thought there was to learn about wool fibers and dye-making and livestock husbandry. The shawl is an afterthought, tucked into a bag hanging from his wrist, and he only remembers it when Nureyev grins at him from across the table while they’re waiting for their food. “Find something interesting?”

Juno’s face arranges itself into a deadpan stare but its accompanying words don’t quite manage to make it past his tongue. Why… did he buy this thing, anyway? Right, stupid question, he knows why he bought it, but what was he planning on doing with it? The simple answer is 'give it to Nureyev', but like hell he’s going to do that now, with everyone watching. But if Juno gives it to him in private that involves picking the right moment, and then there’s the pressure of finding the right explanation, and trying to justify the why’s of it all, and that’s just a lot.

Juno huffs a dismissive snort. “What, a lady’s not allowed to treat herself?”

Nureyev’s lips pull into a teasing little smile as he raises his hands, palms out. “Oh, of course. I’m merely glad to see you indulging in such frivolities for once.” Then his expression falls, the shift so minute Juno may not have even noticed if he hadn’t been watching Nureyev’s face. Those bright eyes sweep over Juno appraisingly before he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, casual as anything. “How is your shoulder holding up?”

Juno grunts. He shrugs stiffly and does his best to hide his wince when it sends a sharp flare of pain down his arm. “Good as it’s gonna get. Don’t worry about it.”

Nureyev fixes him with a long look, one that says he’s actively resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It’s full of that specific, name-brand Nureyev affection and makes Juno’s heart thump guiltily against his ribs.

“I’ve seen my fill of the market, I think,” he says. “There’s only so many variations of magenta and canary yellow my poor constitution can handle before getting a migraine. Why don’t we head back to the ship after lunch?”

That’s a lie. Juno’s pretty sure Nureyev could stare directly into the sun without going blind; the man himself is just as bright, just as blinding, vivid and vital in a way even the most fantastic of colors could only pray to emulate.

“Nah. Someone needs to stay and supervise this one. She still owes me some sheep, anyway.”

Rita’s head immediately snaps toward them. She’d been doing a fairly admirable job pretending not to eavesdrop, at least. “I only said that there might be sheep, Mistah Steel, I made no promises on actually seeing sheep, but I just bet we can ask around the market and see if anybody knows where we can find some!”

Several hours and an artificial sunset later they do, in fact, find some sheep. Buddy somehow arranges a dinner for them at a farmhouse that might be a restaurant or might just be a family home that she’s convinced to serve them for the evening. Either way the food is delicious enough that Juno finds himself taking mental notes about seasonings and preparations in the hope of maybe recreating the recipes sometime.

Rita nearly upends the table in her haste to stand when one of the waiters (owners? family members?) offers to take them back to the barn. It is, as promised, full of fluffy white sheep. More importantly, it’s chock full of--

“Baby sheep!” Rita’s screech turns every head in the barn, animal or otherwise. She hesitates only a moment while their chaperone blinks the surprise away and nods their permission. Then she’s gone, consumed by a mass of wool and mildly inconvenienced bleats, trackable only by her adoring coos.

Juno feels Nureyev’s eyes on him seconds before realizing he’s wearing a truly sappy half-smile. He turns just enough to meet that too-knowing grin and curses the heat that immediately rises in his cheeks. “Come on, Ransom. Let’s go see the sheep.”

“After you,” Nureyev purrs, sweeping his arm towards the nearest pen.

They pet some sheep. It’s fine. The walk back to the ship is muted in that quietly satisfied way, a warm glow lingering over Juno all the way back to his quarters.

No. Wait. Nureyev’s quarters. His feet just sort of take him here on their own, trailing after Nureyev as he gushes about the quality of Cantarian wool. (Why does everyone on this ship know so much about livestock and livestock-associated products?) Juno stands there and blinks at him when Nureyev opens his door, pausing briefly at the threshold, head tilted curiously.

Here’s the thing: it’s not like Juno hasn’t been spending more nights here than not. He’s got a drawer and a toothbrush and a small part of the closet dedicated to his stuff and everything. Something about tonight just feels different, makes Nureyev’s usually warm gaze stick to him like spotlights, and now Juno’s fidgeting like an awkward teenager.

Nureyev breaks the tension with a yawn, a wide thing that flashes his mouth full of sharp teeth, and a startled laugh bubbles up out of Juno’s chest. Just like that long fingers fold around his and Nureyev leads Juno into the room, the plastic bag with the shawl inside still dangling from Juno’s wrist.

Juno’s always done in the bathroom first and he takes advantage of the time to tuck the shawl up into the patchwork cacophony of color that is the bed’s canopy. It’s not the most artful arrangement, and Juno shoves the majority of it behind nearby scarves just so it doesn’t stand out too much, but it’s there, and that’s what matters. Juno lays back against the pillows, staring up at the spots of cerulean and jade and indigo backlit by the faint glow of the strings of fairy lights. His one small contribution to Nureyev’s meticulously constructed kaleidoscope. It’s hard to name the emotion in his chest; it flutters and aches like a well-loved bruise, one that Juno wants to press his fingers into over and over and over again.

Then it’s gone, morphing into something much more familiar when Nureyev climbs into bed in a new set of satin pajamas, bearing a book and a hot water bottle. Juno accepts the latter with an appreciative groan and a quick peck to the lips, which is followed by several far less chaste kisses.

One pretty big upside to the truly absurd number of pillows Nureyev has accumulated is that it makes it pretty easy to find a comfy spot to settle. When Nureyev offers an arm Juno nestles into his side, the two of them half-sitting as Nureyev cracks his book open. He absently curls a hand into Juno’s hair, tilts him closer so he can press a kiss to Juno’s temple, and Juno’s eye slips closed against the curling blossom of emotion behind his sternum.

Juno isn’t precisely sure when he starts going out of his way to acquire new things for Nureyev’s bed. The motivations behind these acquisitions are similarly mysterious. He could likely figure it out if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, so he won’t.

It’s not important, alright? Not now. Especially not now, because right now Juno has been found rifling through the boudoir of their current mark. Whom he and Nureyev were meant to be entertaining in the gallery along with her wife, oh, five minutes ago. Whoops.

At least it’s not a big job, so this is a similarly inconsequential fuckup. That’s how that works, right?

“Madame de la Roche?” The butler’s voice is hard enough to cut diamonds. “May I be of assistance?”

Shit.

Okay, Juno. There has to be some logical, socially acceptable reason to be elbow deep in a drawer of the lady of the house’s prized silk handkerchiefs. If the look on the butler’s face is anything to go by he needs to start talking now before they press the fancy little alarm switch hidden in their cufflink.

“My apologies. Lady Averra had mentioned her collection and I simply couldn’t resist getting a look for myself.” Juno’s high, brittle laugh rings painfully false. “You know what they say about curiosity,” he tacks on.

“Indeed,” the butler agrees, anything but convinced, one brow aloft as they reach subtly for their sleeve.

They’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing quickly up the marble hall. Juno has only a second to be relieved before he catches the first snatches of curt voices, Nureyev’s tone taking on that silky apologetic quality that means he’s trying to maintain their rapidly crumbling facade.

Moments later the man himself appears in the doorway, flanked by two rather distressed women. The conversation lulls while they take in the state of the room, then bursts, Lady Averra puffing up like an exquisitely outraged peacock. “Madame, what is the meaning of this,” she shrieks, just as her wife rounds on Nureyev, slinging accusations in several languages that Juno doesn’t understand but are enough to summon a rosy flush high on Nureyev’s cheeks.

“I’m sure my wife has a perfectly reasonable explanation--” he starts, but Juno doesn’t wait for him to finish. Nureyev glances up and in the instant that their eyes meet Juno understands.

His blaster is raised and whining with a charge before the thought even finishes coalescing in his mind. “Yeah, sure, and I’d love to share it, except it seems we need to be going now. Right now. Immediately. So if you don’t mind?”

This particular blaster only has a stun setting, not that they need to know that. It does its job of clearing the door enough for Juno to get through, and then they’re off, tearing down the hall. That butler has absolutely called security by now, and with Lady Averra’s hysterical wailing it won’t be hard to track them down.

Juno curses the tight cut of the dress, ending just above his knees and fitting him like a glove. It makes him look fabulous but doesn’t do any favors for his range of motion, so at the very first opportunity he yanks Nureyev’s arm back and skids into an only moderately graceless stop.

“I don’t think now is necessarily the best time for more window shopping, dear,” Nureyev hisses, eyes flicking to the end of the hall, where the sound of clattering footsteps is growing louder and louder.

“I know that. I just need a second.” Juno grabs the hem of the skirt at the seam and, with a soft grunt, tears it all the way up to his hip. “There. Always wanted to do that, actually,” he adds, slipping out of his heels for good measure. It seems appropriate to complete the look.

“Okay, let’s-- Ransom?”

Nureyev’s jaw snaps closed. His attention returns to the end of the hall with a bemused pout so affected it nearly makes Juno laugh outright. “If you’re quite done with the show?”

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s go.”

It isn’t a particularly large estate, and the Ruby 7 is already waiting for them behind a row of hedges at the edge of the property. Nureyev just finishes confirming Jet’s location when Juno snaps, “What was that supposed to mean?”

“What was what supposed to mean?” Nureyev shoots back, just slightly winded.

“‘If you’re quite done with the show'.” If his intentionally warbling baritone comes off as just a touch childish, so what. Nureyev slants him an unimpressed look over his shoulder. “Like I haven’t shown more skin than this on a job before.”

“Yes, but that’s usually before I have to bail you out! We didn’t even make it to the proper job this time. You’re lucky I work quickly, Juno, or else your little detour would have blown the whole thing entirely.” He throws up one of his hands, using the other to snag Juno by the elbow and steer him down a set of servant’s stairs.

“Yeah, well--” Juno wants to point out that this is just a cash grab, but bites his tongue at the last second. A job is a job, and Juno does still take pride in his work, owes it to the others to be reliable. This mistake is solidly on him.

“What were you doing in there, anyway?” Nureyev’s voice has gentled slightly, that acidic bite of irritation tempered by genuine curiosity.

Juno absolutely cannot make himself say those handkerchiefs were really nice and I thought you’d like one for the bed. As a matter of fact, he’s pretty sure he’d rather swallow his own tongue than even try.

“Oh, you know. Looking for things we can hawk if money gets tight between jobs. Just lost track of time, is all.”

They’re outside now and Juno deeply regrets not putting his shoes back on. Gravel hurts, and he’s pretty sure there’s a pebble straight up embedded in the arch of his foot, but they can’t slow down, so he settles for trailing a litany of invectives behind him until they’re throwing themselves into Jet’s back seat.

To say Buddy isn’t pleased with him is an understatement. They got what they came for, though, with no casualties besides Juno’s dress, so she gives him a pass. After they debrief he’s too annoyed to pretend that he hasn’t fully moved to Nureyev’s room, so that’s where Juno goes the second he’s dismissed, limping the whole way.

“Stupid handkerchief, stupid rock, stupid Juno, what were you thinking, like that stupid bed doesn’t have enough--” Just before the door opens Juno sighs, doing his level best to arrange his expression into something less petulant.

It doesn’t matter. Nureyev is busy changing, doesn’t bother to turn or acknowledge Juno in the slightest. Maybe he’s more angry than Juno thought? This was dumb, he should’ve just gone to his own damn room, with its own perfectly functional shower and bed. Give Nureyev a little space. Right.

Juno turns around to do just that when Nureyev’s soft voice stills him. “Why don’t you sit so I can take a look at your foot?”

He’s looking at Juno now with the sort of gentle concern that makes Juno feel positively flayed open. It’s just… he never feels worthy of looks like that, and yet Nureyev is so generous with them, always makes his gestures of affection seem so easy. So simple.

The handkerchief tucked into Juno’s bra strap feels hot against his skin. Juno’s affection is stilted and clumsy; he’s collected how many colorful trinkets now to add to Nureyev’s soft, deliberate mess of a bed, but he still hasn’t gathered the courage to give one to the man directly.

Juno sits silently on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t even complain when Nureyev drags a stool over and pulls Juno’s foot into his lap, long fingers making his toes twitch when they brush along the line of his arch.

“Ticklish?” Nureyev grins.

“Shut it,” Juno replies, though it’s more fond than biting. He lets his head tilt back, picking out the snatches of patterns and colors he’s added to this strange constellation of a canopy. Something so discordant and gaudy has no right to feel so…

Ugh. How many times has Juno tried to finish that sentence? Comfortable has pretty much lost its meaning. Of course it’s comfortable, it’s a bed, piled with far too many blankets and far too many pillows (that all smell like that one damn cologne, that trap the phantom warmth of another body so well that it never really feels like waking up alone). Colorful? Pretty? A potential safety hazard?

Juno can throw as many simple adjectives at it as he wants but he knows none of them will ever suffice. Maybe he’s just not ready to finish that sentence yet.

Nureyev extracts the rock from his foot. It’s smaller than Juno thought it would be, but Nureyev still frowns at it like it’s personally offended him, nose wrinkling as he sets it aside and grabs the antiseptic. “Why did you take your shoes off? I’ve seen you run in taller heels than that.”

“Felt like the thing to do,” Juno replies flippantly, falling into an easy smile. “Have you ever seen those action movies with the dolled up heroine who has to rip her skirt and carry her heels around? Maybe I wanted a moment.”

Nureyev snorts. “Have you seen movies like that?”

“Rita,” Juno explains. Really, Nureyev should’ve known.

Nureyev contemplates this as he finishes wrapping Juno’s foot with gauze. A little much for a little puncture, but Juno knows better than to say so. Always better to just let Nureyev fuss. He has a bit of a thing about Juno getting injured, which Juno supposes is understandable. They haven’t quite reached that topic with Buddy yet. Juno sort of dreads the day they do. Her disappointed voice is terrifying.

Smooth fingers run up his thigh, tracing the tattered edge of the seam, and Juno follows the trail of them. He’s always liked watching Nureyev’s hands. He picks at the fabric, knuckles brushing skin when he fits the ruined fabric back together with a thoughtful hum. “I think this is salvageable.”

“Oh, good. I was worried for a second.” Nureyev snorts, lets the fabric drop so he can start putting the first aid supplies away.

“You stay off your feet. I’ll go get us a snack. Being the backbone of this entire endeavor leaves me ever so peckish.”

Juno chucks one of the smaller pillows at the door, chasing Nureyev’s rumbling laugh. Stay off your feet. Whatever, he’s fine. It only takes one foot to change into some more comfortable clothes, anyway.

He’s even quick enough about it to tuck the handkerchief into one of the knots at the baseboard.

Rita stands at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips as she observes the damage. If Juno keeps shifting from foot to foot behind her she’s going to smack him again, but it’s really hard to stand still when facing… this.

‘This’ being the mess that he’s made of everything. Nureyev woke up early to go on a job with Vespa and Jet, which Juno’s sure is going swimmingly. Left unsupervised and otherwise unoccupied, Juno had attempted to track down and fix the burnt-out bulb that had broken an entire string of fairy lights.

He’s a fully grown adult. He should, theoretically, be capable of replacing a single lightbulb by himself. Except that the string of lights was fully entangled through and around and between all of the scarves and shit and when Juno tried to free it he must’ve tugged wrong and the whole thing just--

Collapsed. It collapsed into a sad, shameful heap, with lone stragglers hanging from the skeleton of the canopy like flags of surrender.

Juno did not panic, because this is not a situation that requires panicking. He’s stared at that canopy nearly every single night for months now, and he can put it back together. Everything fell straight down, so it’s all relatively in the same place. All he has to do is arrange them on the floor in a pattern he recognizes, and put them back up, and it will all be fine.

He got precisely three scarves in before he realized he didn’t actually recognize them. At all. At which point he very calmly put them back down and went to find Rita.

“Well, boss,” she says, peppy as ever, “this don’t look too bad at all! Not sure what you got all flustered about--”

“Goddamn it, Rita, I’m not flustered.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, boss.”

Juno presses his eye shut and sighs. “I’m sorry, Rita. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“S’okay, boss.” Her easy forgiveness for his many and varied failures of character is another thing Juno isn’t sure he deserves. Like Nureyev, though, he figures it’s a decent goal to try and be the kind of person who does.

“So. Where do you wanna start?”

Juno gestures helplessly at the bed in its entirety. “I, uh. I’m not really sure. That’s why I got you.”

Rita nods, face splitting into one of her huge grins. “Well, why don’t we sort them by color? Then if you remember where a blue one should go you’ll know where to find it!”

“Great.” Juno agrees quickly. That’s simple. Manageable. He can do that. “That sounds great. Let’s do that.”

That’s how Juno ends up sitting stiffly on the floor, Rita handing him things to sort and absolutely eviscerating his sense for color at every opportunity.

(“I said put it in the lavender pile, Mistah Steel, not mauve.”

“What’s it matter? They’re both purple.”

“Besides them being two completely different colors? For someone who knows how to dress so pretty you sure are bad at this.”

“I don’t need to know their names to know what colors I look good in!”)

They manage it, though. After they get everything sorted into a frankly alarming amount of piles Rita turns her attention to the canopy itself, and Juno only experiences a mild flare of panic when he realizes he has no idea how Nureyev got them all to stay up there in the first place. It’s not as simple as just draping them across each other, because of course it’s not, because nothing Nureyev says or does or exists nearby can ever be simple. Juno thinks back on the elegant way some scarves would wrap and twist together, emerging from the folds like a great serpent.

He couldn’t even begin to recreate something like that. Even if they get it all put back Nureyev will know, instantly, how badly Juno fucked things up in his absence. As much as they share it this is still his space, and Juno should’ve just left it well enough alone.

“I’ve got an idea.” Rita’s hand falls on his shoulder, drawing Juno back out of his head.

“Y-yeah?” he stammers, blinking into the stark white of the fairy lights behind Rita’s head. The traitors.

“Yeah!” She nods so enthusiastically it sends her curls bouncing around her face. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just need to check something, so you sit tight, and don’t start without me!”

“I-- okay?”

His response is met by only silence as Rita disappears out the door. With a weary sigh Juno lets himself go boneless, resting against the side of the bed. He wonders how Nure-- how the mission is going. The mission that Nureyev is on along with Vespa and Jet. He wonders how all of them are doing.

What time is it, anyway? Surely they should be getting back anytime now, and--

Oh.

Oh, no. There’s no way that… she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t, right? They’re friends, and friends wouldn’t--

When the door opens again Nureyev is standing there. His eyes make a quick sweep of the room; at least he has the decency to hide his smirk behind his hand. “Oh, my. It seems you were right.”

Juno ignores him, directing the full brunt of his glare on Rita, hovering just behind Nureyev in the hall. “You’re fired. I’m firing you.”

“Don’t work for you anymore!” she sing-songs, wiggling her fingers in a wave. “Good luck fixing the bed, you two. Call me if you need any help!”

With that Rita makes her calculated retreat, leaving Juno alone with his fate. Nureyev steps fully across the threshold, allowing the door to cycle closed behind him, and all the air in the room suddenly turns to lead in Juno’s lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, forcing the words from his throat. “I was just trying to help while you were gone, and I know I shouldn’t have touched your stuff, I- I’m sorry. I’ll put it all back, unless you just want me to leave, which--”

“No, dear. I don’t want you to leave.” Juno can’t bring himself to look at Nureyev’s face, too embarrassed by his own careless choice of words, so he settles on watching Nureyev carefully pick his way across the room.

He joins Juno on the floor, settling with a soft, relieved groan. “I’m not angry. It’s just fabric, Juno. No harm done.”

A long arm settles across his shoulders. Not pulling, not demanding, just resting. Grounding. Juno takes a moment to steady his breath, mouth gone sticky and dry when he tries to speak again. “How did the job go?”

Nureyev raises his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “It would have gone a lot smoother if a certain woman knew how to hold her damned tongue. Other than some bruised egos, however, it was a complete success.”

“Yours or the mark’s?”

It gets a laugh out of Nureyev, which helps untangle the strangling knot that’s wedged itself in Juno’s windpipe.

“I like to think my ego isn’t so fragile.”

“Really.”

Half an hour later they’re still bantering at each other, trading jabs that are far too sentimental to have any sting. A familiar pattern that manages to distract Juno from his own thoughts. Nureyev is good at that sort of thing. People, he’s good at people, in a lot of ways that Juno isn’t.

“I’d been meaning to rearrange it all, anyway,” he explains, inspecting each pile of fabric one by one. “I was thinking of arranging them by color, actually, so this is splendid. You’ve already done all the hard work for me.”

Fatigue is slowly starting to creep up on Juno, clawing at the back of his eyelid, but he doesn’t mind pushing through it. He fetches piles for Nureyev to sort through while Nureyev starts weaving them together in the canopy. Nureyev fills the gaps in the silence with stories about his favorite pieces, relieving Juno of the burden of conversation, allowing him to just let Nureyev’s voice wash over him.

Juno could listen to Nureyev talk forever. He’d probably do it, too.

“Ah.” He glances up at Nureyev’s soft exhalation to find a shawl in his hand, the brightest of blues and greens and purples woven in jagged, dancing lines, like a flame. The smile on Nureyev’s face as he runs his fingers over the fabric is small but still manages to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Cantarian lambswool. This was your first contribution, was it not?”

“Um.”

Nureyev takes one look at Juno’s face and bursts into laughter. “Did you think that I hadn’t noticed?”

“No.” Juno’s vehement denial is completely betrayed by how dark his cheeks have gone and only serves to make Nureyev laugh all the harder.

“Come now, darling. I cherish all of your gifts.” Juno’s attention falls rather determinedly to the floor before he spontaneously combusts. A brief silence passes before Nureyev says, “Unless you didn’t mean them as gifts?”

Okay, great, Juno is still finding new and incredible ways to fuck up every single day. What a charmed life he leads.

“No, Nureyev. They’re gifts. I… I got them for you.”

Nureyev gives him this long look that manages to be indulgent and exasperated and melancholy all at once; it makes Juno feel small, makes his heart feel like a rapidly expanding supernova, far too massive to be contained behind a simple human ribcage.

“I love them, Juno,” he says. Nureyev sits on the edge of the bed and beckons Juno to him, so Juno goes, steps up between Nureyev’s legs and bends the short distance needed to press their foreheads together.

They stay like that, breathing slowly, in and out. Nureyev’s hands settle on Juno’s waist, Juno’s framing Nureyev’s face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Months ago Juno would wake up from dreams exactly like this one, blinking at the dark ceiling of his bedroom, unmoored and grasping at the shoreline and wretched with the knowledge that he cut his own anchor.

Not anymore, though. Nureyev is here, solid, under his hands. Full of a needle-sharp wit and a million secrets, a prismatic heart that shines all the way down to the marrow of Juno’s bones, marking him with shifting, living color.

Nureyev moves just enough to press their lips together. “Shall we get back to it?”

“Yeah.” Juno nods, once, then again, presses in for another kiss before Nureyev can get too far away. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Good morning, everyone,” Buddy says to the room at large, sweeping in with a mug of tea cradled in her hands. It’s unusual for her to be the last one to the family meeting, but when Nureyev had inquired after her whereabouts Vespa had just about glared a hole through his head, and Juno, for once, is feeling too content this morning to get involved.

They managed to get the canopy reassembled, working fairy lights and all. With a little finagling they even managed to incorporate a couple privacy panels around the sides, just heavy enough to filter out most of the light; it feels a little like sleeping in a very soft, very warm cave. Juno genuinely can’t remember the last night he managed to sleep so deeply. Nureyev is in a good mood, too, the two of them sharing a quiet, clingy sort of morning that leaves Juno grinning into his sips of coffee.

Buddy’s gaze lingers on him assessingly, because of course it does, one corner of her mouth pulling up in a grin. “Glad to see the two of you have decided to join us.”

Juno winces, just a little. “Yeah, sorry about dinner, we were just--”

“Don’t be too mad at ‘em, ma’am! It was sort of my fault. Mistah Steel messed up their love nest-” Juno should really know better than to take a drink while anyone at this table is speaking. “-and so I stalled for time until Mistah Ransom could come help him put it back together.”

Over the sounds of Vespa’s violent gagging Buddy raises her brows, attention still fixed on Juno. “Do I even want to know?”

“If you say another word I will gut you, Steel,” Vespa rasps, looking truly nauseated as she stabs her finger threateningly in Juno’s direction.

“I didn’t say anything in the first place!”

That finger quickly turns to Nureyev as he makes a poor attempt at stifling his laugh behind his fist. “And you, wipe that grin off your face. Nobody wants to hear about your love… love… anything.”

“Actually, I am curious as to what the definition of a ‘love nest’ might--”

“Oh, don’t you even start--”

“As I was saying.” Buddy’s voice cuts neatly through the brewing argument, everyone settling back in their seats with minimal fuss so they can start the meeting proper.

Honestly. Not a single ounce of shame to be found between the lot of them.

Juno takes advantage of the moment to finish his coffee in peace.

There’s an old adage that says you shouldn’t go to bed angry.

Juno has gone to bed angry plenty of times and it’s never hurt anything except, arguably, his mental health. He’s on the verge of doing it again, he and Nureyev buzzing around the bedroom like a couple of angry hornets.

The worst part is that Juno doesn’t even know what they’re fighting about! The job had been going fine. The job went fine, despite Nureyev’s increasingly sour mood. He damn near bit Juno’s head off when he’d tried to give him a little space and grab them some champagne, hand clamping down around Juno’s wrist before he could get so far as a step.

Juno had been confident going into the night, unusually sure-footed after a couple of missions well done. Maybe that’s why he’s so pissed. It should’ve gone down smooth as honey, but they came way too close to blowing it way too many times because Nureyev couldn’t stop sniping criticisms at Juno’s every move.

When it becomes apparent that Nureyev isn’t going to be the one to break the silence Juno finally snaps. “Hey, Nureyev. In the interest of bettering our communication, I’ve got a question for you.”

Nureyev freezes in the midst of removing his earrings. He sighs so deeply his whole body shakes with it. “Yes, Juno, what is it?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

With a mechanical steadiness Nureyev finishes taking his jewelry off, Juno glaring straight at him through the mirror of the vanity. His expression is no less stormy than his reflection’s when Nureyev turns to face him.

“My problem, dear Juno, is that despite the collective effort of the people who care about you, we still cannot seem to convince you to value your own well-being.”

Juno reels back, the words breaking over him like a freezing tide. “You-- what?” His own voice is small in comparison, and Juno hates the way it trembles in the air between them.

“We have had this conversation before. Please don’t make me have it again.”

Juno can’t remember the last time he heard Nureyev quite so tired. All that steel is gone, leaving behind it an aching frostbite in desperate need of warmth.

“You mean,” Juno starts, pauses, swallows past the thick pulse in his throat, “you mean my shoulder?”

“Yes, Juno, your shoulder,” Nureyev snaps. “And your hand, and your eye, and your complete disregard for how your pain affects the people around you.”

Okay, so he’d tweaked his shoulder pretty badly a few jobs ago. It wasn’t a big deal. Even Vespa gave him a clean bill of health, told him to walk it off with some painkillers and heating pads. Which he’d done! For the first night, at least. Things just sort of kept happening these past few weeks, and the ship only has so many hands.

The others have been harping him a little more about resting but he didn’t think much of it. They’ve all been working hard, and Juno’s had this injury for years now. He can work through a little pain. It isn’t a problem unless it interferes with his ability to fire a blaster, and Buddy worked with Jet to modify a shoulder harness to make sure that’s not a problem anymore.

Just before leaving for the mission today Nureyev had caught him shaking his arm out, attempting to alleviate the pins and needles shooting from his shoulder all the way to the tip of his little finger. Inconvenient, definitely, but nothing new. He’d brushed off Nureyev’s concern, just wanting to get started already, looking forward to stealing as many fancy appetizers as he could before the night was out.

Here Juno thought he’d been making progress on the whole ‘valuing his own life’ thing. He’s definitely better than he was, hell, even six months ago. He has things to live for, things he cares about, things worth coming back to. One of them is staring at him right now.

“It’s just a little pain,” he murmurs, and immediately knows that was the wrong thing to say, Nureyev’s face contorting into a furious scowl that makes his back go stiff, fingers rigid on the back of the chair.

“Pain that you do not have to bear in order to prove your worth,” Nureyev grits, every word a stone that gathers at Juno’s feet like a grave marker.

“I’m not trying to- to prove myself by sucking it up and-- a-and… I mean, that’s just asinine, isn’t it, that bullshit of pushing through an injury just to seem tough--”

“You tell me, Juno, as that seems to be precisely what you’re doing.”

“I’m not injured!” Juno explodes, words ringing in the subsequent silence. He walks to the bed and sits just to pop up again, pacing a line back and forth in the small space. “I used to be injured, and now I’m in pain. There’s a difference. This is life for me, I hurt every day, and I’m not brave or-- or tough, or trying to prove something by working through it, I don’t have a damn choice.”

Now Juno does sit, and he stays, shaded in the little curtained opening of their bed. Since the addition of the privacy panels the scarves and lights have begun to creep down the sides, covering every gap like dense layers of kudzu.

Nureyev turns to face him fully, eyes a little wide, and Juno can practically see his mind going a mile a minute to reorganize his mental archive of observations to fit this new information.

“I see,” he murmurs, and the thing is that Juno knows that he does. Nureyev doesn’t mess around with platitudes, not really. Not with Juno. He wants to understand, will keep pushing until he gets an answer that satisfies him, and at least those are arguments worth having.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to--” Juno breaks off with a sigh, cowed in the face of his own outburst. “You didn’t know, and I didn’t say anything. You’re right that I don’t have the best track record with taking care of myself. This isn’t that, or I didn’t think it was, but I get why you’re upset. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“No, that’s. That’s alright,” Nureyev concedes. “I shouldn’t have made assumptions before speaking with you. You’ve come a long way since I first met you, and I suppose I can be somewhat… overprotective, at times.”

Juno’s lips flutter up into a wan smile. “Maybe just a little.”

“You can’t say I haven’t earned it,” he replies curtly, though it’s warmed by Nureyev’s own smile. “May I ask that you allow me to help alleviate any extraneous pain you may be experiencing, then? If it must be a part of your life I would prefer to keep it to a minimum, if at all possible.”

Juno watches Nureyev’s face for a long moment, struck yet again by how easily someone can bare their emotions after spending their entire life crafting masks. All Juno can do is try and meet him halfway.

“Sure. Yeah. That sounds fair.”

And… that’s that, apparently. They slip back into their evening routine, only coming together for a slow, lingering kiss before moving, like the argument had never happened to begin with. The silence around them is gentle now, tender, like clear air and blue skies after a sandstorm.

Juno is very deliberately settled on his good shoulder when Nureyev climbs into bed after him, and it isn’t long before he feels the exploratory press of cool fingertips over his skin. It makes him shiver; Nureyev always seems to run a little cool, and his touch is like a balm against all of Juno’s aching parts.

“Does that hurt?” Nureyev asks, nothing more than a whisper of breath against the nape of Juno’s neck, and he has to stifle a low, pleased groan.

“No. S’nice.”

He can hear Nureyev smile. The blankets shift when he sits up, rummaging near the foot of the bed for something. There’s a whole collection of spare blankets, discarded clothes, and god only knows what else down there, but Nureyev returns quick enough with a triumphant little hum.

“Here. Try this. It may relieve a little of the tension.” Something squishy and soft drops unceremoniously onto Juno’s face but he can only summon the most token of protests, reaching around with his other arm to collect the pillow. It’s long and thin and smells like a mix of Nureyev’s cologne and the salty-sweet of Rita’s favorite snacks. Juno immediately wraps his arms around it, hugging it close, not bothering to question why that particular mix of scents exists together on a pillow, of all places.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “This… helps.”

Nureyev doesn’t answer but to press a kiss to the crown of Juno’s head and settle in close.

They get to test this new arrangement the following morning. Juno’s shoulder has apparently decided to cosplay as a screaming mass of pain, so sharp and unrelenting it pulls him out of a dead sleep.

He immediately curls in on himself like some sort of damn child but it hurts too badly for him to care. Something must get Nureyev’s attention (Juno refuses to believe it’s the whimper he definitely did not make) because moments later the bed behind him is dipping and that soft voice is in his ear.

“Juno? What’s the matter, darling?”

“Hurts,” Juno grits, hating how breathless it comes out. This stupid wound didn’t even hurt that badly when he first got it; it seems completely unfair for it to be so damn painful now. He takes a couple of deep breaths through his nose and says, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Just… hurts.”

Nureyev hums. Juno can sense his hand hovering, wanting to comfort but unsure if his touch will make things worse. It withdraws slowly, along with the weight from the bed. “Okay. Just try and get comfortable. I’ll see if Vespa has anything that can help.”

Some indeterminable time later Nureyev returns with a whole armful of supplies, Rita trailing along behind him. Juno’s managed to shuffle into a more dignified position, propped up against a mountain of pillows, angled in the corner to take as much pressure off his shoulder as possible. It’s not like Rita hasn’t seen him in more compromising positions.

Juno’s more concerned about what a terrifyingly efficient team Nureyev and Rita make. It took a little while for their rather distinct personalities to mesh, but now that they have they’re a force to be reckoned with, at least when it comes to teaming up on Juno.

The door to the bathroom cycles open as Nureyev climbs back into bed, breaking into a smile that’s so deeply affectionate it makes Juno want to melt. Christ, that thing could be weaponized. “Hey,” he says, breathless now for another reason.

“Hello yourself,” Nureyev purrs. “I come bearing gifts.” There’s a shriek from the bathroom accompanied by the unmistakable sound of water spraying against tile. “I also come bearing Rita.”

Juno laughs in spite of himself. Even that limited movement sends another hot ripple of pain down his arm, up his neck, pounding behind his temples. Nureyev settles next to him as carefully as he can, painstakingly folding his gangly limbs to jostle the bed as little as possible. “First, take these. The good doctor says they’re meant specifically for nerve pain.” Nureyev presents him with two little pills, which Juno swallows dry, earning a pinched look of bemusement. “She also provided some lidocaine cream. Hopefully this will help tame the beast, hm?”

Nureyev’s touches are feather-light, hardly daring to apply even the most minimal pressure, and maybe it’s all in his head but Juno can already feel the sharpest edges of the pain receding. He sighs in relief and turns, unthinkingly, into Nureyev’s warmth, still hovering there at his side.

“Thank you,” Juno murmurs before he forgets himself. So what if pain makes him cuddly? Nureyev is already a cuddler, proven quickly enough when he gives in and nestles up against the pillows. One of Nureyev’s arms curls around Juno’s head, guiding it down to his shoulder so he can better play with Juno’s hair. It’s starting to get long on the sides. He should shave it again soon.

“I think you’d look rather good with long hair, actually.” Oh. Had he said that out loud?

Rita appears, then, carrying a wobbling stack of hot water bottles. Between her and Nureyev they manage to poach enough loose scarves to secure a good number of them to Juno, keeping the rest wrapped up as backup.

“Don’t worry, Mistah Steel, you need anything at all just give ol’ Rita a buzz and I’ll come runnin’!” She assures him. Then she gets a high five from Nureyev, which is genuinely one of the most alarming things Juno has ever witnessed, and takes her leave.

“Love that woman,” Juno mumbles in her wake.

“I can certainly see her appeal,” Nureyev chuckles.

Juno drifts in and out for the rest of the day. Every time he surfaces Nureyev is there, always close, attention immediately falling on Juno when he stirs. The muted glow from the fairy lights makes him look ethereal, some beautiful, otherworldly creature that Juno has somehow managed to trick into loving him.

“I forgot the scarf.”

Nureyev’s smile is suspended somewhere between fondness and confusion. He closes his book and reaches out to not-so-subtly press his wrist to Juno’s forehead. Juno wrinkles his nose, turns his face just enough to dislodge his touch.

“I’m not concussed, Nureyev.”

“Juno, that’s not what--”

“I forgot the scarf. Your scarf. I was mad, so I didn’t get you one, but I should have.” Nureyev is fully amused now, crooked smile flashing one of those sharp incisors. Just to be contrary he reaches out to push his fingers through Juno’s hairline, catching some of the short, wispy strands that have managed to stray.

“I hardly think that’s worth worrying yourself over,” he assures him, but now that it’s in Juno’s head he can’t let it go.

“But I always get you a scarf. I owe you a scarf.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Juno.”

“I owe you a lot of… just. A lot.” It’s unclear to both of them what Juno is trying to say, but he’s confident that Nureyev is smart enough to figure it out. He’s sleepy, and whatever drugs Vespa gave him are making his tongue heavy, thoughts sticking together like syrup. He reaches out to find Nureyev’s hand and hums happily when long fingers meet his. They slot together perfectly.

As days and jobs and planets go by Juno starts losing track of the number of times he wakes up in that overstuffed peacock of a bed.

Sometimes it’s a refuge, a place built by tired hands for tired hearts that don’t always know when to quit. Sometimes it’s just a bed, a soft mattress to faceplant into at the end of a long day. Sometimes it’s missing the warmth of an extra body, offering sight and smell as a temporary respite. Sometimes, when he least expects it, it’s the closest thing to home Juno has ever felt.

He stops bringing back scarves. Or, rather, he stops actively seeking them out. If something catches his eye that screams Nureyev Juno will pick it up, up to and including a short string of lights shaped like vampire bats and a pretty dangling wind chime made of crystals that glow a light, gentle blue in the dark.

Today’s scarf is special. Nobody would ever accuse Juno Steel of being the type to care about something as trivial as an anniversary, and they would be correct, because he’s not. Most of the anniversaries in Juno’s life mark the memory of yet another tragedy in a long line of tragedies. Perhaps that’s why he fixates on this one, a bright spot to latch onto, something sure and new to go along with this whole insane venture.

And… he means well, okay? Juno does advanced recon to find just the right thing to grab to commemorate the day. As usual, however, the universe has other ideas. The job is just another cash grab. Easy. It should be easy.

Except someone managed to miss the fact that the security detail extends to the entirety of the manor’s staff, from valets to maids and everyone in between. Juno’s pretty sure it’s a gardener currently chasing them down in their dead sprint across the back lawns.

“Rita,” Juno pants. He pauses just long enough to turn, plant his foot, and fire off two rounds. The gardener hits the ground with a grunt only to be immediately replaced by the stable hand. “Rita, where’s our getaway?”

“Jet said he’s just this way, boss!” She flails an arm in the general direction they’re heading. At least she’s short enough to fit under the arching topiaries. Juno’s gotten a good five artfully pruned animal paws to the face, and he’s just about--

Rita screams when the head of a nearby giraffe explodes in a burst of greenery. “Oh, the poor thing!”

“Good thing it’s only shrubbery and not a real giraffe,” Juno grunts, spinning on the spot in an attempt to locate the shooter. Easy enough when a flash of blaster fire appears from the shadows between two hedgerows. Less easy when that shot buries itself clean through Juno’s thigh.

He hits the ground with an undignified squawk and Rita hovering over him, tears already prickling the corners of her eyes. “Boss! Boss, are you okay, you gotta get up, Jet’s almost here--”

Juno stops her rambling by pushing himself up onto his elbows. They’re sheltered enough by the topiaries that he’s not worried about getting shot again, but they’re nearly out of the gardens, and then it’s nothing but open grass.

“Go, Rita,” he says, hand in the middle of her back, pushing her gently but insistently away. “Get to the Ruby 7 and come back for me.”

“But boss--”

“Just go, damn it! I’ll only slow you down.”

The sound of footsteps is quickly approaching. Juno’s confident that he can hold them off, even prone as he is, at least until their ride gets here, but he can’t protect both himself and Rita.

“No!” Her face sets in those stubborn lines Juno knows all too well. “I ain’t leaving you! We’re partners, remember?”

Juno groans, allowing himself to flop back into the dirt. “Rita--”

The rumbling purr of a very familiar engine swallows whatever argument Juno might have made. His relieved laugh turns into a cough when the Ruby 7’s thrusters kick up dirt and garden detritus into his face, but it’s worth it.

Jet brings her down directly on top of the ruined giraffe and he steps out without a second glance. “Rita, if you wouldn’t mind getting inside while I collect Juno.”

“You’re the best, Mistah Siquliak!” Juno watches her bound around to the passenger’s side door before looking up (and up, and up) at Jet, flashing a quick grin in the face of his heavy-browed consternation.

“You’re the best, Mr. Siquliak.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Steel.”

Juno is grateful that nobody but Rita is around to see Jet haul him up like a sack of potatoes. Well, Rita and the half dozen security goons nearly right on top of them. Jet closes the door and jumps into the driver’s seat as blaster fire starts to ping against Ruby’s door panels. As they rise into the air Jet sighs forlornly. “I just repainted her last week.”

“Car maintenance is a never-ending labor of love,” Juno intones. Jet sighs again and reaches for the comm in the dash.

“I’ve got them. Returning to the Carte Blanche now.”

For the most part everyone takes Juno getting shot much better than he anticipated. It helps that Rita is there to confirm that it was an accident, thank you, though Juno doesn’t know why that’s somehow better than him getting shot on purpose.

Okay, okay, he knows why it’s better, but it’s more embarrassing, and Vespa doesn’t let him forget it. She keeps up a constant litany of minor insults under her breath as she cleans and dresses his wound; Juno likes to think of it as her own unique love language.

Vespa instructs him to stay in the medbay overnight so she can keep an eye on him, something about major blood vessels in his thigh potentially being compromised, whatever. The second she leaves Nureyev takes her place, the two of them exchanging terse nods as they pass each other in the doorway.

His posture relaxes considerably when he lays eyes on Juno; Nureyev crosses the medbay and folds himself into the chair at Juno’s bedside, glancing over the IV bags and monitors. Juno is mostly sure he doesn’t actually need them and that Vespa just likes keeping him hooked up to things so he can’t run away, which is… valid, given his history.

“Clean shot,” Juno supplies before he can ask. “Doc’s worried about the blast potentially having grazed an artery so she’s keeping me here overnight. Otherwise I’ll be all healed up in no time.”

“Oh. How utterly mundane compared to your typical caliber of injuries,” Nureyev laughs. It’s nice to hear, but it also reminds Juno of his original intentions for the evening. He runs a hand over his face with a groan.

“Mundane, yeah, but horrible timing.”

“Did you have a marathon to run that I was unaware of?”

Juno shudders. “Ugh. Don’t even joke about that.” Nureyev’s smirk is bright and unrepentant, the bastard. “No, it’s… it’s the anniversary of us joining Buddy’s family. A year ago today.”

Juno has the pleasure of watching Nureyev’s face turn from lightly teasing, to wondering, to gently surprised. A pleased smile curls over his face, turning his eyes molten in a way that makes Juno feel like he’s too big for his skin. “The anniversary of our reunion,” he says, all fond and soft and-- wow, yeah, Juno is pretty gone, isn’t he?

“I wanted to surprise you. Had a picnic situation all made up. Even told Buddy we’d be missing dinner. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind as far as settings go, though.”

Nureyev’s expression is so open it hurts to look at but Juno watches him anyway, commits everything about that smile to memory, etching it in full, glorious, living color.

“I think I may be able to do something about that.”

Juno does not cry when Nureyev comes back some 20 minutes later with a picnic basket and as many blankets and pillows and scarves as he can carry. It’s a near thing, though.

The odds of Vespa losing it when she finds her medbay temporarily transformed into their living quarters is high, but it’s a gamble Juno’s willing to make. Nureyev pulls another bed over and they spread the blanket over their laps, toasting with their plastic cups of champagne. Juno took the liberty of preparing an array of all of their favorite fancy appetizers they’ve gotten at various heists over the past year, and even the not so great memories feel insignificant at times like this, dulled by time and affection.

It’s almost perfect. Sitting here with Nureyev, surrounded by his softness, his colors, his comfort, getting lost in every smile, every touch singing over his skin like the gentlest kiss of lightning-- Juno isn’t sure he recognizes the person who walked away from this.

He isn’t counting on the road ahead of them being anything close to smooth, but even the deepest of pitfalls can’t take these moments away.

A well-aimed blaster, on the other hand, can destroy a carefully selected gift within seconds.

“I did have something else prepared,” Juno admits. When Nureyev sits up, obviously intrigued, he feels the need to add, “Don’t get your hopes up too much. Didn’t exactly turn out the way I anticipated.”

Juno digs around in his pocket and comes up with the scarf.

It’s a delicate thing, genuine white cotton carefully embroidered with a spray of rainbow-colored flowers, clustered in careful patterns like bursts of fireworks. It’s elegant and expensive, painstakingly crafted, and though he’ll never, ever be able to explain why he needed it for Nureyev.

Except that he’s an idiot who decided to stuff it through his belt loop, and the asshole that shot him managed to singe away all of its edges, leaving it half burned and pockmarked with scorch marks. Juno was lucky to salvage as much as he got, but he knows how pathetic it looks, reduced to nothing but a long scrap of something that used to be beautiful.

He presents it to Nureyev anyway, rambling the closest approximation to an explanation as he can while punctuating every sentence with another apology. Nureyev stops him by folding their hands together, the ruined scarf between them.

“It’s perfect, Juno. All of this, it’s perfect.” He raises their joined hands up, dusts kisses across Juno’s knuckles, only pausing when his eyes fall on Juno’s lap. “Well. I suppose I could have done without you getting shot, but other than that.”

Juno laughs, high and ringing, the sound bursting out of him like a sunburst. “Right. Other than that.”

And he’s just about reached his limits of talking, so Juno pulls Nureyev in for a real kiss, sighing into it when Nureyev immediately goes pliant in his hands.

Vespa has the misfortune of walking in while Nureyev is in Juno’s lap, their hands wandering just a little too much to be polite for public consumption. In their defense, they did try to behave, and had been doing an admirable job of it up to that moment. They jump apart like a pair of teenagers caught necking in the back of their dad’s car, and Nureyev wisely removes himself from the situation before Vespa can drag him out by the scruff of his neck.

“Good night, dear Juno!” he calls from the hallway, beating a hasty retreat when Vespa whirls around with a growl.

“‘Night,” Juno replies, even though Nureyev is long gone. Then he turns to Vespa, who’s inspecting his monitors with a scowl, because he does feel a little guilty. “Sorry about that. And for the mess.”

“Whatever,” she grunts. “You vitals still look good, but I’m keeping you anyway. Just don’t let your boyfriend grind on your open wound anymore, got it?”

She leaves him there, spluttering and hot in the face, with a promise to check back in the morning.

Juno still doesn’t regret it, though.

Perhaps it was less of a promise and more of a threat. Vespa wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn, far before the family meeting, and is a little too gleeful about it for Juno’s liking. Not that it matters. She changes his dressings and lets him go, so Juno gathers up their things and heads out into the quiet halls.

He doesn’t have the heart to wake Nureyev up, no matter how badly he wants to crawl into that bed and be warm and slow and sleepy together until the alarm goes off, so Juno makes a beeline for what used to be his quarters. Mostly unused, now, though he’s still got some clothes and essentials stashed away.

He dumps his collection of blankets and pillows onto his own bed, sad and small comparison. Juno only stays long enough to wash up and change his clothes. Jet is, unsurprisingly, awake, sitting at the table in the galley and sipping his coffee as he peruses the news.

“Just made a fresh pot,” he says, tipping his chin toward the coffee maker. Juno fills a mug all the way to the rim and joins Jet at the table. The quiet is nice, even if Juno isn’t quite awake enough to appreciate it properly.

After an hour or so the others come trickling in; Juno decides to make himself useful and cook a proper breakfast for everyone, and it’s nice to see their sleepy faces light up at the smell of fresh omelets. Chatter slowly fills the galley, easy and muted by the early hour. Even Rita is quiet, giving Juno a long hug around the middle in exchange for a special order of French toast.

Honestly, Juno should know better than to trust an uneventful morning. It’s not unusual for Nureyev to be the last one to the meeting. Juno usually has to browbeat him into eating breakfast, and his morning routine could politely be described as involved, so sometimes he takes an extra minute or so getting himself together.

Juno almost misses it. He sees Nureyev slip in from the corner of his eye, turns to see if he’s grabbed his eggs from the galley or spurned Juno’s efforts once again, and damn near drops his coffee mug.

He catches it before it can shatter on the table, and it was already mostly empty and sort of lukewarm anyway but that is not the point.

The point is that Nureyev has taken the ruined scarf Juno had given him, trimmed away the worst of its burned edges, and has turned it into a headband, tied into a neat bow at the top of his head. It pushes his hair back, revealing all the chiseled angles of Nureyev’s face, and that smirk means he knows exactly what sort of chaos he's unleashed upon Juno's poor unsuspecting heart.

“Disgusting,” Vespa mutters from somewhere to Juno’s right.

He isn’t sure if she’s talking about Nureyev, or Juno, or the both of them. Probably both.

That night, back in the quiet safety of their bed in all its squishy, technicolor glory, Juno can’t help but smile. He knows it’s stupid, and he must look like the biggest sap this side of the galaxy, but he’s had a breakthrough, and he feels he’s allowed to indulge.

Nureyev is wrapped around him like a very angular squid, the two of them sitting back to chest. He’s particularly fond of draping himself over Juno like a living shawl, a thought made all the more amusing by their current surroundings. “What’s so funny?” he asks, warm breath followed by a lazy kiss to the crook of Juno’s shoulder.

“Nothing. Everything.” Juno shrugs, a helpless little thing, careful not to dislodge Nureyev from where he’s settled with Juno tucked under his chin. “Just happy, I guess.”

“It suits you,” Nureyev observes, before pressing another kiss to the crown of Juno’s head.

A sudden boldness seizes Juno, bolstered along by the molten thing in his chest, settled there like a second heartbeat.

“Hey, Nureyev?”

At his answering hum Juno swallows and says what he probably should’ve said a long time ago. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

He can feel the breath in Nureyev’s chest still in surprise, the two of them suspended in that moment for what feels like an aching eternity. Then Nureyev exhales, his arms drawing around Juno all the tighter, words shimmery and just as fragile when he says, “Thank you for coming back.”

That night, when Juno closes his eyes, he dreams about an endless field of technicolor sheep. He dreams about red sand passing in a blur outside the window of a car; the twisting, mottled violet of space; yellow sunlight through dirty apartment blinds; the flickering blue glow of neon lights; the manicured green of casino tables.

He dreams about a love made of color instead of words, because how could words ever hope to capture the perfect angles of a smile, or the way dark eyes glow with a cool, endless fire that warms Juno down to his bones.

He dreams about indulgence, and comfort, and home.