Chapter Text
Peter Benjamin Reilly came into this world at the crack of dawn on Saturday, August 10th, 1901. His parents, Catherine and Benjamin Reilly of Queens County, New York, smiled at each other over the screaming newborn's head. There was a bit of shuffling and bustling around to be done. The doctor and his helpers got the mother, child, and the room cleaned up and in order. The doctor mentioned coming by in a few days to check on them. He then leaves with the father's thanks following them out the door. Then the new parents are alone in their home for the first time as a family of three.
Peter's parents learned that he was easy to care for quite quickly. Slow to cry, easy to please, content to be held or lain in his bassinet where he could see the window. As he aged, it became apparent that he was brilliant as well, and unfortunately, this caused some issues when he started school. His parents could have easily encouraged him to blend in with his peers, but they wanted more for him than the hard labor of the factories his father toiled in day after day. So they fed his need for knowledge wherever possible. It ostracized him from the other children in his class, but the allure of knowing more was more potent than the pull for friends who only wanted him if he fit into their mold.
So, as intelligent and gentle a child as he was, he was also lonely. This loneliness didn't change over time, even when the boys and girls began courting and making plans for their futures together. Peter was focused less on possibly finding someone to start a family with and more on a different kind of future. There were rumors of the war coming to an end soon, but Peter wasn't so sure. They were calling it "The war to end all wars" after all, and he was considering enlisting in two years when he turned 18. Whether the war ended or not, the army felt like the place Peter needed to be. His parents weren't too keen on the idea, but he knew they would support him, no matter what he decided.
* * *
In the fall of his 17th year, an illness they called the Spanish Influenza swept the country. Peter's father caught it first, bringing it home from the factory where workers dropped like flies. His mother came next, but Peter wasn't far behind. With all three of them deathly ill and no other family to care for them, they had little choice but to suffer in silence. The few medical facilities near them were full to bursting with patients, and there was no room for their little family. Peter lost himself to the fever and honestly never expected to open his eyes again. Miraculously, with no perception of how much time might have passed, Peter woke up. His fever was gone, and he felt worse than he ever had before. Breathing was difficult, and he felt weak as a newborn kitten.
It took more effort than he thought he could give, and he stumbled and partially crawled down the short hallway in their tiny apartment to reach his parent's room. The door was already ajar, and his mother and father were lying on the bed, side by side. With every ounce of faith he had in him, Peter prayed that his parents were only sleeping. He didn't need to go much farther to see those prayers would never receive an answer. Both of his parent's faces were slack, peaceful even, but their eyes were open, gray, and sunken in appearance. Had anything been in his stomach, he would have hurled, then and there. It was clear they'd passed days ago.
He halfway fell down the stairs to the street outside; any passersby on the sidewalk leaped away at the sight of him. He supposed he must look awful, but he had little care at that moment. It didn't take long for a police officer to find him, and he managed to strangle the necessary words past his dry, constricted throat. Time moved in a blur, and he found himself in a small but clean room, clean clothing pressed into his hands, then water, then a bowl of weak broth. He went through the motions slowly, not really involved, just moving from memory. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he blinked and realized the officer from earlier was speaking to him. "Son, are you listening? The funeral arrangements are sparse now, but your parents left enough in their paperwork to take care of it. Unfortunately, that leaves us with a problem. Your landlord refuses to let you stay unaccompanied. You're still underage son, do you have any family you can go to?"
Slowly the words filtered into Peter's brain, and he hesitantly shook his head and whispered, "No, we didn't have anyone else. It was always just the three of us." The officer's face fell, and he dropped his head to run his hands through his hair. After a moment, he blew out a breath and looked back up at Peter, face solemn as he visibly tried to frame what he needed to say. "The families that take in orphans of the flu are at their limits. The orphanages don't have space for any older children. Your landlord made it, uh, pretty clear that you weren't welcome to stay without a paying adult. I'm sorry to say, son, but we don't have anywhere to put you. At your age, there's not much that anyone can do."
He trailed off for a moment, clearly thinking about something before he nodded firmly to himself. "Alright, I don't think my missus will mind too much if you stay with us for a few days, but we don't have the room for a kid. So this will only be a temporary thing, alright, son?" He paused until Peter nodded at him, still too sluggish to think about what all this meant for him. The officer nodded again, then slapped his knees and stood up. "C'mon, son, my shift is over, and if you want anything from your apartment before the landlord gets to it, we better go. I don't know what's going to happen to you, but I'll do my best to help you with what I can." Peter stood and started following the man out, and it suddenly dawned on him he didn't even know his name. When he quietly voiced this thought, the man smiled sadly at him and just said, "Jim, you can call me Jim."
After that, Peter just focused on one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, one need at a time. He didn't think it'd hit him yet. His parents were gone, and Peter was alone. As he gathered what sentimental things he could carry along with a few changes of clothes, Peter realized he was also about to be homeless. Jim was friendly to him; his wife, Lois, was also lovely. They both were kind to him, and he stayed with them for almost two weeks before the fog finally started to lift from his mind. As friendly as they were, it dawned on him that that was all Peter had learned about them. He didn't know them beyond the surface of kind strangers.
As his mind started to sharpen again, he also began to notice the strain his presence was putting on them. Jim had warned him they didn't have room for a kid, as evidenced by the small love seat he'd been using as a bed. They hadn't outright asked him to leave, but it was clear his occupation was to end soon. They had probably let him stay longer than Jim had first mentioned out of pity for his situation, he thought. Peter knew how to work hard, though. His father had done it for over 20 years, and he could do it too. He would be alright, he had to be, and Peter could start by getting out of the hair of the couple who'd taken care of him while he couldn't care for himself.
He packed what few belongings he now had, left a thank you note on the small kitchen table, and set out on the street while Lois was busy on their tiny balcony hanging laundry. As he walked down the road, he organized a list of needs first in his mind. First, Peter needed a source of income. He needed to find work, and that shouldn't be too hard. Then, finding somewhere to bed down and find ways to get food as his body required it. Work, shelter, food, in that order, one step at a time, and trying hard not to think about everything he'd lost.
* * *
That winter was the hardest Peter had ever experienced. He slept where he could huddle with other people and took what food he could find. Peter wore every item of clothing in his possession and was still never warm. Finding a job had been much harder than he'd thought. The market was so competitive with other orphans of like age and mind searching for ways to support themselves or their siblings, and no job offer was open for long. The few jobs he did manage to get, he couldn't keep.
The sickness had damaged something in his chest, which had become exacerbated by a horrible racking cough that wouldn't go away as the weather cooled. As a result, anytime he exerted himself, Peter was incapacitated and unable to breathe, making him useless for productivity. As time passed, it got harder and harder to find anyone who'd give him a chance. Word spread among those willing to hire the orphans, and a sick kid who couldn't work hard was a lousy investment. It got a little easier as the weather warmed, and the cool and wet of spring gave way to the warm and, mostly, dry summer.
Two months, Peter only had to make it two more months, and then he could enlist in the army. Not only was he going to be doing something useful with his life, but the military meant a warm, dry place to sleep until they could send him overseas in another year. It also meant a consistent source of food, which is a huge motivator. This thought carried him through the few difficult jobs he managed to get, and he was downright cheerful the day he turned 18 and walked into the recruitment center. However, at the day's end, his good cheer would be a mood as black as a moonless night.
The army doctor had stamped a big red "rejected" right on his folder after his physical. "Your lungs are too weak. You'd be a liability on the field, son, and we need healthy soldiers. You're too big of a risk." No amount of arguing on Peter's part could get him in. It didn't stop him from going back every month, but with each passing month, his mood and mind grew darker. He stopped being picky about the shady, dangerous jobs that even his lowest point in winter hadn't made him take. After all, what did it matter how threatening a job might be if Peter was going to starve to death without it? He'd come too far and survived too much to give up.
* * *
For two long years, Peter took any job he could get. He never gained any weight but did put on some wiry muscle from all the physical labor he forced himself through, ignoring his screaming lungs the entire time. Lucky, the kind of jobs Peter took now didn't care if their employees passed out or had a "fit," so long as they got the job done. Often, he was just a courier for some real shady characters; other times, his task was to watch someone and report back to receive his payout. Peter never asked why the people that paid him needed info on someone. One could be sure it wasn't good, but he tried not to think too hard about it. Finally, in late March of 1921, he caught a lucky break.
He'd ducked into an underground bar that had a roaring fire to escape the frigid temperatures and freezing rain as spring tried to battle against winter in a bid to come early. He made his way up to the fireplace, finding his favorite shadowed spot with his back to a wall. His unshaven scruff made him look older than he was, a small blessing as no one threw him a second glance. Eventually, someone came by his table to bring the single whiskey he always asked for when he came in. He didn't have much money on him, but the burn would help warm him a bit on the inside, at least. As he nursed his drink, he overheard a nearby conversation that piqued his interest.
There was a rumor that somebody had hired a cargo ship to carry supplies that would aid in the rebuilding efforts in Europe. Word also had it that they were in dire need of crew hands. The job paid well, guaranteed three meals a day, and offered more permanent positions to those who did well on their first run. A dry place to sleep, not needing to watch his back for fear it might catch a bullet, and the promise of food. Peter was undoubtedly interested, and this could be what put him back on his feet. Even if he only made it the one journey, it would pay enough to get him off the street and give him time to find a job a little more above-board.
Who knows, maybe he'd try his luck in Europe. Either way, if he could get taken on, that was three to six months of a guaranteed spot to sleep and food. It couldn't be much worse anyway.
* * *
Peter's luck held out when he went to find the man in charge of hiring the crew. They didn't ask his medical history, or age, or much-identifying information outside of his name and if he could learn quickly. Before a total of 24 hours had passed, he found himself aboard the ship, assigned a bunk, and was training for what he needed to know. It wasn't as hard as he was afraid it would be, and he found his lungs didn't give him as much trouble the further out to sea they got. They had a rotational watch so that someone was always above deck and keeping an eye out around the ship. No one person was on the overnight lookout more than twice a week, which was nice since temperatures dropped significantly after dark.
They had one main person in charge of meals, but everyone also rotated through the kitchen to be his helpers. Everyone had to clean, and somebody checked the cargo every few hours to ensure it stayed secure. A secure cargo hold was especially crucial when the rough waters of a storm raged. Their captain was reasonably strict on sticking to the schedules and work duties everyone was assigned, but he wasn't cruel. It wasn't uncommon to see him come down with hot coffee for anyone on night watch or out in unpleasant weather. Peter found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't since his parents had died three years before. He got to know his bunkmates and learned a few card games, and he was very appreciative of the warm, dry bed every time he would lie down.
He hadn't thought about them much over the years, and at times that made him feel like an ungrateful son. He'd loved his parents dearly, and he missed them, but he hadn't honestly had time to grieve. It all seemed so distant and far away from him now. At night, when was on solitary watch, however, when all was quiet and calm, and it was just him, and his thoughts, the sadness of the life he might have had, and those he'd lost would press down on him. The mornings after, when he'd come in after his shift, he'd smile extra brightly, cracking jokes to make his crewmates laugh.
His mother always said laughter was the best medicine, so when he felt like he was going to shatter under the grief, he'd laugh. He'd remember the good times, and when the fellas started to share stories of the families they'd left behind or, like Peter, lost, he didn't hesitate to join in. They all remembered the good times together, and it would lift the crew's spirits as they shared all the antics of their lives over coffee and food. By the time they made landfall in Ireland, a port stop on their way to their final destination, the crew had become good pals. Peter felt like his life was finally going in the right direction, and he threw himself into it with everything he had.
Instead of heading back to America, Peter's crew agreed to do several short runs along the European coast, moving various supplies. For some things, it was easier to transfer by ship rather than by ground. Peter worked with his crew for seven long and happy months and learned more about dock work than he'd ever wanted to know. When their contracts ended, they decided to celebrate with a trip to the pubs Ireland had to offer by the seaside. It was easier to get a drink there than back in the states, after all. This decision would change several of their lives forever.
* * *
Most of the crew called it a night after the second pub, but Peter and five others decided to keep going. Pub after pub, so intoxicated they could barely crawl, they were having a grand time. All the while, the danger in the shadows stalked them, biding its time to attack. Peter and the others didn't notice as one of their own vanished as they stumbled around loose crates in a back alley. They laughed, holding each other up as much as they pulled them all down and struggled through to the next dark street. Another member would disappear every few dark streets or alleys until only Peter and his upper bunkmate Joseph were left.
Peter let Jo slump against the wall beside them as they came to the pier. About half a mile down, he could see their ship and sighed, wondering how he'd get himself and all of them there in one piece. His head spun, and his vision swam, disorienting him as Peter stumbled a few steps before catching himself on a support pole. He looked behind him but couldn't see any of his friends. Where had they all gotten off to now? They can't have wandered far; none of them were much better off than he was.
He turned, intending to go back into the alleyway from which he was sure they'd just come. Only to go crashing to the ground, face pressed against grimy cobblestone and any manner of unpleasant things. The odor of rotten fish was particularly potent down here. Peter let himself lie there for a moment, groaning in discomfort as his stomach gave a particularly violent lurch. He managed to keep it firmly in his abdomen where it belonged, but it was a close call. After a few deep, soured breaths, he pushed himself primarily upright.
Stumbling into the mouth of the alley, he could barely see past the end of his nose. "Jo! Shawn! Ho, boys! Anyone alive down there?" Peter was aware his words were barely legible, slurred as they were, but he couldn't seem to grasp speaking clearly at that moment. A few seconds of silence before he heard a throaty chuckle and turned his head that way. Peter thought he must be dreaming, for stepping into the dim light of the moon was the most beautiful man Peter had ever seen. The man seemed to glow where the light of the moon struck him. He was tall, slender, with a perfect, sharply angled face. Green eyes caught the moonlight, making them glow silver for a moment. The stranger had tied his long, red hair at the nape of his neck with what looked like a plain black ribbon.
"You should be cautious calling out in the dark like that. You never know what's lurking." A voice like mulled wine curled around Peter's ears as the stranger's lips curved ever so slightly upward. He never stopped his slow, deliberate steps forward as he spoke, and Peter didn't realize he may be in danger until the stranger has pressed him against the opposite wall with a hand cradled intimately around Peter's neck. Peter shivered as his brain struggled to process the situation, and he stifled a surprised gasp when the man pressed his thigh between Peter's legs. His breath ghosted across Peter's jaw and under his ear as the stranger moved his lips down to brush over the pulse point on his neck. "Pretty things like you shouldn't walk alone at night."
"M'not lone, though." Peter slurred back quietly. He felt the man's lips lift into a smirk where they still pressed into his skin. "I don't' see your friends anywhere. Do you?" Peter had to admit, he hadn't seen his friends anywhere, and he couldn't hear anything indicating anyone else was around them. However, something must have warned his brain that Peter was in trouble, for he kept this thought to himself. Peter couldn't stop himself from jerking as he felt a wet tongue against his neck. Peter frowned and tried to direct his hands to move, to push the man away. He wasn't sure what the law was like in Ireland, but he knew back home displays like the one he was in could get him killed.
"It's a pity." Came the stranger's whispered words right in peters ear. "I could have a lot of fun with you. WE could have fun for days. But it's been so long since I was last around here, and I'm starving." Peter made a confused noise as his hands finally came up to the man's shoulders to push, and he found the stranger as immovable as a concrete pole. The stranger pressed him more firmly, uncomfortably so, into the wall behind him and Peter's heart rate picked up as his mind cleared with the rush of sudden fear.
He both felt and heard the delighted laugh the man gave. "I do like your spirit. Perhaps I'll give you a gift, hmm?" Peter struggled harder, grunting with the effort to break free but getting nowhere. "Unless it's the gift of getting the fuck off me, no thank you." Maybe he shouldn't have let his mouth run away with him, but he was pretty sure he was about to be assaulted in a very unpleasant manner in a back alley, thousands of miles from home. An experience he did not want, thank you very much.
With a sudden lurch, the man pressed every inch of his body into Peter, effectively immobilizing him. Peter felt something sharp against his throat and had barely a second to think "knife" before his neck exploded in agony. He choked on air, and his hands fisted in the coat he'd been scrabbling at moments before. Within a few seconds, Peter could feel himself weaken, and his vision began to darken. "This is it; I'm going to die here. Throat cut open in a back all because I told tall, gorgeous, and deadly to, essentially, fuck off."
He was vaguely aware of sliding prone to the ground as the stranger released him. He must have passed out very briefly because he woke to the shock of cold water engulfing him. He realized the man threw him into the sea and watched him as he began to sink. Peter tried but was unable to support himself in his weakened state. "Use my gift wisely." These are the last words Peter hears as he sinks beneath the water and his world fades to blackness.