Work Text:
Rita had been the one to recommend they keep more thorough case files.
Juno still thinks it’s just so she can have everything neatly written out whenever she needs something new to gossip about, but he’s not gonna stand between Rita and her gossip. If there is a kind of man who would upset the ecosystem of his office over something completely unavoidable like that, Juno doesn’t want to meet him. Rita will gossip. That’s just how it is. Somewhere out there, there’s somebody called Frannie who knows way too much about all of Juno’s clients. Besides, it’s helpful to have the records if he needs to pull them for a follow-up or another connected case.
Or, you know, if someone with a badge, a warrant, and enough probable cause to keep Juno from slamming a door in their face comes knocking.
Rita’s reviewing the Kanagawa case when she says, “sheesh, this ‘Glass’ fella turned out to be a real piece of work, huh? And here I thought he was a nice guy. You know—“ She goes on to describe some guy her aunt Helen used to date who also qualified as ‘a real piece of work’ and while Juno can’t really see a connection between aunt Helen’s ex-boyfriend and Nureyev, he’s glad somebody’s agreeing with him.
Not that he’s heard many opinions. Dark Matters isn’t going to remark on the case, not when they’re busy with the broom, the rug, and sweeping ‘Rex Glass’ under it.
“You’re right about that, Rita,” Juno says, which earns him another five minutes of ranting about aunt Helen’s ex before Rita even stops to take a breath.
Her initial point still stands, though. ‘Rex Glass’ is a piece of work.
So why can’t Juno stop thinking about him?
— — —
The case file doesn’t have Peter Nureyev’s real name written in it. Doesn’t feel right to rat a guy out like that, even if it’s just on paper.
So, the only place it’s written out, ink on paper, is that damn note. It’s folded over once and then again, jammed inside Juno’s coat pocket. Not the ones at the bottom hem, where he keeps crumpled old receipts and spare credits. No, it’s wedged right into the pocket in the lining, at Juno’s breast. Dangerously close to his heart, actually.
Pretty close to where the lapels still smell like Peter Nureyev’s cologne, too. It’s been a week, and he can’t get rid of the scent. Sure, he could take the coat to the dry cleaner’s, but that’d mean Rita asking him why he needed to get it dry cleaned, and that’d mean having to go without it for a day, and it’s too rainy for that. His other coat doesn’t have very good acid protection.
Plus, he’d have to take the note out of the pocket.
So he deals with the scent. Spicy, herbal, rich in that it was many-layered and in that it probably cost a fortune. It can’t remind Juno of anything because he’s never smelled anything like it on Mars. Sure, he’s smelled perfume and cologne and aftershave of all sorts, but here, there’s always that lingering chemical scent, that added note of sweetness to make it seem high-class and fresh, but it’s really cloying. Like fruit that’s about to go rotten but hasn’t quite yet. Nureyev’s cologne, on the other hand, is like a summer Juno’s never experienced. Beaches or meadows or something. Not deserts and Martian-red, gritty soil and acidic thunderstorms.
There’s a softness to it, somehow. Like Nureyev’s lips. So damn soft, you could sink into them forever.
Juno realizes he’s been standing with his back pressed to his front door, nose tucked down into the collar of his coat, breathing a little too deep and thinking about Nureyev’s mouth. He’d call it delusion thanks to lack of oxygen, but he’s inhaling plenty.
The first time he’d smelled this, he’d been out of it completely, talking the stupid, sappy talk of the intoxicated—or the recently-exsanguinated, in Juno’s case. He can’t remember what was said, exactly, only that Nureyev’s voice was soft.
And why the hell couldn’t he just have been Rex Glass, noble to a fault and devoted to his cause? Why did he have to—have to—
Juno doesn’t bother flicking on the lamp. He drops onto the couch, leans his face against the cushion, and wonders if Nureyev’s cologne lingered here, too, or if he’s just smelling it on the coat he was still wrapped in.
The blinds are drawn, but the lights of the city outside flash through them. There are case files on the coffee table, not the same ones that’d been there a week ago, when he brought Rex Glass back to his apartment to have a drink someplace warm.
It’d taken him three days to clean up the table after the night he’d brough Nureyev home. The bottle of scotch had been emptied pretty quick, but he’d left the pair of glasses on the table like a reminder. Or like he was trying to keep Nureyev’s fingerprints around. Somehow there was a kinship in that cold, hard glass. The rim of it had touched Nureyev’s lips, and so had Juno.
He thought about hurling it at the wall.
He’d put it in the dishwasher instead. Now, it was back on the shelf, indistinguishable from the others in the set.
He stands again. Grabs a glass, maybe that same glass—that was the thing, now, any of them could be the one Nureyev left behind—and a bottle, and pours himself a drink. Neat. Whiskey, not scotch. More than you should put in a glass of that size, but hey, he’s not drinking straight out of the bottle, so it’s a step up.
There’s about a swallow and a half left in the glass when he gives up, sinks into the couch, and wonders how Nureyev might’ve touched him, if he had more time. If Juno hadn’t caught on so damn fast and arrested him after a single kiss. Sure, Nureyev would have made off with the mask, but he did that anyway. Maybe, instead of a single exhilarating kiss, there would’ve been a single exhilarating night.
And how would a man like Nureyev spend a single exhilarating night?
Juno knows he’s gonna blame it on the alcohol when he thinks back on this later. And yet, he doesn’t wait for it to really kick in before he undoes his fly. Unbuttons his shirt, too, which makes this all even more premeditated. He can’t say his hands just happened to wander if he already prepared for the mess.
He closes his eyes and thinks about strong hands, soft lips, and spiced cologne.
If Juno was even more of a sad sack, he might say Nureyev’s name. But he’s silent. Besides, in his fantasy, he hasn’t peeled back any secret identity, so he wouldn’t even know the name ‘Peter Nureyev’ yet. It’s just Rex Glass in his living room, pressing him into the overstuffed, slightly lumpy cushions of the couch— yeah. Juno wants that man on top of him.
Or he would . If he didn’t know Rex was a thief. If he thought all he had on his hands was a by-the-book Dark Matters agent who was remarkably smooth behind closed doors.
Juno has a hunch, which isn’t a lot to go on during a case and certainly isn’t much to go on when it comes to romance. But he’ll make do. It goes: he’d never kissed Rex Glass. Nureyev had dropped the polite, professional facade when he’d stepped over Juno’s threshold. Sure, he was still quick-witted, elegant, and poised, but those must have just been the parts of his persona that overlapped with his personality.
Nureyev didn’t stand up quite as straight as Rex did. He walked without that brisk clip to his pace, and the heels of his dress shoes didn’t click on Juno’s floors. That had been what made Juno sure he was talking to a thief. Nureyev could move so silently when he wanted.
Rex seemed like the type who would trade flirty quips and giggle when Juno kissed him. When he realized, as if coming out of a daze, that he was laying on top of Juno, he’d say, “my, my, detective, what a compromising position we’ve found ourselves in. Tangling personal and professional affairs, are we?”
Then Juno might ask what else Rex wanted to get tangled up in, and Rex might answer him, or maybe… yeah. He seems like the type who’d ask Juno what he wants.
What Juno wants, his warm belly-full of whiskey and his lust-addled brain decide, is that pretty mouth and those soft lips somewhere else.
So he settles in, thinking about how those bright eyes might look staring up at him from between his thighs. He plasters a hand over his mouth—when he’s drunk, he can get noisy even when he’s alone, and he’s got neighbors who don’t know how to let a lady have his alone time. Juno doesn’t care to listen to them banging on the wall.
He wonders what Nureyev might think of the neighbors. If he might try purposefully to make Juno louder just to piss them off.
If he doesn’t feel like doing that, Juno sure can when he returns the favor.
Damn, Nureyev probably sounds incredible when he comes. Juno gets off just thinking about it, loud enough that his neighbor bangs on the wall to shut him up.
— — —
Every goddamn time Juno sees Peter Nureyev, his life goes crazy in twelve different directions.
Last time, it was a face-destroying ancient Martian mask, a crazed reality TV persona, an old friend, an evil stepmother, and a disguise.
This time, it’s a flying train, an impossible poker game, a hell of a lot more dangerous Martian artifacts, several violations of gambling laws, and two disguises.
Juno yanks his tie to loosen it, no longer playing the distinguished facade of Mr. Dahlia Rose. If he ever was in the first place. Juno can’t do distinguished the way Nureyev does. He can do ‘disgruntled husband’ alright, but not well enough that he avoids reacting when anybody calls his bluff.
Nureyev, after telling Juno (with much indignation) that he was not trying to kill him in his sleep, had gone into the bathroom for a long while. Juno heard the shower running, then the sink, and all the while, Nureyev had been humming to himself. He’d returned to the hotel room they were sharing with wet hair and silk pajamas, and had gotten into bed without a word to Juno.
Now, he’s just a dark head of hair sticking out from under the duvet, barely visible with the only light coming through from out the picture window.
Juno can’t sleep. He’s pretty sure Nureyev isn’t plotting his demise now, but the adrenaline of the day isn’t going away. Also, it’s no less unnerving to sleep beside a man who’s only probably not trying to kill you.
And the whole goddamn room smells like Nureyev’s cologne.
It’s a big bed. He’s practically a yard from Juno. You could fit another person between them. And all Juno wants, because it seems a common symptom of private investigators is self-sabotage, is to ease closer to him and put an arm around that slim waist. Nureyev’s height isn’t as intimidating when he’s lying down, and even though the span of his shoulders is broad, he sleeps like he’s trying to take up as little room as possible.
It would be so, so easy to slot in behind him, to wrap his lean frame in his arms…
That’s it.
Juno sits up, flicking the covers off him, and stalks to the bathroom. He’ll shower, then. Let the warm water deal with some of his leftover nervous energy. And the headache he’s got after looking into somebody’s head thanks to Martian tech.
Swinging the bathroom door closed at least makes him feel a little safer, like he’s alone with his thoughts. Smells like Nureyev in here, too. Not just his cologne, it’s also whatever soap or shampoo or product he uses. He seems like the kind of man who’d go for fancy skincare. Juno’s not a very classy lady, by that standard, although he’d stopped using that three-in-one stuff after Di—
Never mind.
The hotel’s travel-size bottles of soap and shampoo are citrus-scented, bright and acidic and powerful enough that they erase Nureyev’s scent from his senses.
The shower’s better than the one in his apartment, at least. Hot, good water pressure, one of those fancy shower heads that can change the spread and intensity of the spray, which Juno tries to mess around with and then sprays himself in the face. He probably shouldn’t leave the suit Nureyev got him crumpled up on the bathroom floor, but he can’t be bothered to fold clothes right now.
How in the hell did Nureyev guess his measurements right, anyway? Feel a guy up once, and you just know? Juno sure couldn’t.
Juno also doesn’t particularly want to think of Nureyev feeling him up right now. Not while Nureyev’s sleeping on the other side of a very thin door. And especially not when Juno’s gonna wake up next to him tomorrow morning.
Seriously, what’s he supposed to do if Nureyev rolls over to face him tomorrow morning, messy hair and eyes heavy with sleep, and says something like, “you should have warned me you snore, detective”?
Probably say, “yeah, ever since the third time I broke my nose.” Yeah, that, and look at his thin, slanting mouth and want—
And want.
He leans against the shower tile. It’s textured, rough in a way that’s supposed to appear natural, but it’s an even, repeating pattern, clearly manufactured. He barely feels it poking at his back. And even if it scrapes a little, it just has him thinking about that damn manicure Nureyev had on during the card game. Pointed. Clearly some kind of fake nails over his own, because they’re gone now, but Juno bet he could dig them in and scratch bright red furrows into Juno’s skin.
Or, he could just trail them soft and light and leave Juno with goosebumps instead.
From there, his mind’s on Nureyev in this shower with him. First, he’s stripping on the other side of the frosted glass door. Then, he’s stepping in with that rabbit-eating-a-canary smile, and then he’s pressing Juno to the wall, his mouth hotter than the spray. Thigh between Juno’s, hands on his hips, using his height to make Juno tip his head up so they can kiss, and kiss, and—
He is so fucked.
(He keeps his hand shoved over his mouth when he jerks off. Nureyev’s not hearing this.)
— — —
The thing about Juno Steel is that he’s great at reasoning, decent at follow-through, and absolutely shit at major decision-making.
Let’s put it this way: he’s a steady shot, but there’s not always a steady mind pulling the trigger, and sometimes, when it’s all said and done and he’s blown his chances with Peter Nureyev to bits, he looks back on it and says, well, shit.
It’s not his first regret, and it won’t be his last. This one’s just sticking around longer than they usually do.
Longer than almost any of ‘em do, actually.
But Nureyev’s just a man, and Juno knows how to work a man out of his system. Just takes another man. Or a lady. Or somebody who’s not of either persuasion.
Funny thing is, Juno’s tried all three, and the results have been… lackluster.
Juno may be no Prince of Mars, but he’s pretty damn decent in bed, especially for a lady who’s pushing forty. And he’s definitely not old enough that his body oughta be betraying him in this particular department.
But he can’t, well. Pull the trigger.
He’s a classy sort of dame, so his partners leave his bed (or their beds, or the back room of whatever bar he met ‘em in) happy enough. A couple of them even seem disappointed that they can’t return the favor, and while Juno appreciates the sympathy, he’d rather they not draw attention to this little problem, especially when he doesn’t need a diagnosis. He’s already got a name for what ails him.
Here’s a hint: it starts with an N, and it ends with, ‘the man I left behind in a hotel bedroom after the best night of my life, probably.’
Yeah.
Juno gives up on sex for a little bit.
But Juno’s only human, and he’s the sort of human who doesn’t like giving up on sex for a long time, so it gets him antsy and irritable. His cock sure isn’t happy with him, and nobody else is, either. Doesn’t help that work has been all politics and unsolvable mysteries, and that his own damn eyeball has gotten so chatty on him, he doesn’t feel like he’s had a moment alone in weeks.
Rita’s trying to cheer him up, he knows. The birthday thing was a good idea. It’s just him and Rita, and getting to watch her gush over a movie, even if he doesn’t follow the plot of it very well. Plus it’s always a little funny to watch other theater-goers slowly start to lose their minds over all Rita’s loud commentary and audible reactions. Not that he’d let a single one of them shut her up.
She’s an obnoxious menace, but she’s his obnoxious menace, alright?
When he gets back home, though, he picks up the thing that’s been bothering him.
The card.
It came attached to a bouquet of flowers, fresh ones, that don’t smell like they’ve been doused in preservatives to last just long enough to wilt away as soon as you put them in a vase. Juno doesn’t have a vase, so they’re in a giant novelty coffee mug Rita got him two years ago that says ‘GALAXY’S BEST BOSS’ in a curly script. It’s almost big enough to hold the amount of coffee Juno drinks every morning, but it’s too awkward to actually drink out of.
The card’s what caught his eye, though.
Happy Birthday, Juno.
Three words. But he’d be crazy not to recognize that handwriting. It’s neat, almost so pristine it could have been typed out, but it curls and lilts at the edges, like a certain soft voice he’s so fond of.
There’s a box in his top dresser drawer. Tiny thing, used to hold some piece of jewelry that’s lost now, anyway, but Juno’s been using it to store another little note, wordier than his birthday greetings but with suspiciously similar handwriting. The y in birthday loops just the same as the y in Nureyev. There’s a slant to the h in happy that matches the one in your better half.
It’s Nureyev.
And dammit, if Juno doesn’t feel giddy as a goddamn schoolgirl getting flowers from his boyfriend before the prom. (Juno skipped the prom with Mick and Sasha, so it’s not like he’s ever had the experience, but he can extrapolate.)
For a second, he thinks it’s stupid to wonder what it means. But then he remembers it’s Nureyev, of course it means something. So he gets his comms, calls Rita, and has her walk him through installing an application that can identify flowers from a photo.
She’s giggling the whole time, like she’s pretty sure it’s not just from a client, and she asks Juno twice over if his new case is Juno Steel and the Secret Admirer.
“No, Rita, I just wanna know if it’s something I’ll be allergic to,” he says, which she doesn’t buy for a second, but she drops the questions and just goes back to the manic giggling.
The flowers are as follows:
Pink camellias, symbolizing longing for a love you’re far away from.
Irises, meaning trust and hope, and named after a goddess, just like Juno is.
Black dahlias, associated with dishonesty and untruth.
And roses, a deep, bold red. Juno doesn’t need to look to know that they stand for romance and passion.
And, of course, Dahlia Rose.
All in all, it seems like Nureyev’s feelings are… complicated.
And it seems like he doesn’t have great taste in the color of a floral arrangement, because these are all over the place.
More likely, Nureyev was so intent on getting Juno a message, he didn’t care for the aesthetic of it, at least not to the level of color. And that… well, that says a lot, coming from Nureyev, actually. For a man who cares so much about his looks, focusing past that must mean something.
A traitorous leap of Juno’s heart says this means he still has a chance.
And now that he’s thought that, he can’t fall asleep.
He thought it’d take seconds to pass out once he got into bed tonight. He’d been exhausted all day, only kept from yawning through the movie because Rita liked fast-paced action flicks. But here he is, laying awake and trying to untangle the knot of string and wire that is Peter Nureyev’s mind.
And he’s thinking about their first—their only— night together. Now that he thinks he might have a chance of repairing his awful, stupid mistake, he can actually think about the part of the evening before he panicked himself into walking out on the best thing that’d ever swanned through the door of his office.
Since that night, he’s been sure Nureyev wore no disguise when they kissed for the first time.
He’d taken it slow in a way that meant he was just being deliberate, showing Juno with every minute action how much he meant this, how much he wanted it. His hands, quick and clever enough to pick a lock or a pocket, had been all over, and he’d managed to get into Juno’s lap before Juno even noticed him making a move.
From there, taking it slow had gone out the window.
Which was probably good, because Juno had never wanted to fuck somebody so bad in his life. Not even when he was a stupid teenager who thought with his dick and not his head.
Forget kings and goddesses, Nureyev had ridden him like a goddamn siren.
Juno finds himself harder than he’s managed to get for some time now, just thinking about Nureyev, and he kicks the bedsheets off. Ex-lover or no, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take what he can get and blow off some of that ever-expanding steam before he pops.
It all comes back to him in flashes while he shoves down the waistband of his boxers and goes about abandoning himself to the pleasure of it. For a moment, all he can think back on is how good it was, pressing smiles together and listening to Nureyev’s soft whispers and gentle laughter as anything he’d ever fantasized since that first stolen kiss got thrown out the window in favor of the real thing. Nureyev kissed old scars and Juno kissed Nureyev’s temple where he was starting to gray and the whole time, Nureyev fucked himself with an eagerness that bordered on frenetic, and then blew past that border into driving Juno fucking crazy.
Juno had come first, because he couldn’t hold out when Nureyev was doing all that, but it was easy to figure out what Nureyev wanted next. When he hadn’t been kissing Juno, he’d been staring at his mouth.
And Juno’s always been pretty damn good with his mouth.
He shoves his first two fingers in his mouth but he’s thinking about Nureyev’s cock on his tongue instead. The taste of him, the smell—not his cologne, but the musk of his skin and the salt of his sweat—the feeling of his hips and thighs flexing under Juno’s hands as he writhed, trying to fuck Juno’s mouth.
If Juno didn’t have his fingers in his mouth, he might’ve called Nureyev’s name when he came. As it is, he just makes a broken, muffled sound.
When he comes down, he regrets thinking about Nureyev. Now he’s just fucked himself up over it all again. The THEIA chimes in with something about rapidly fluctuating endorphin levels, and Juno snaps at it to shut up and let him have some alone time, please.
At least it didn’t decide to comment while he was getting off.
Juno groans, rolls over in bed, and lets the heaviness of what is apparently an endorphin crash send him to sleep.
What a way to ring in thirty-nine.
— — —
It’s not the last time he thinks about Nureyev.
It’s not the last time he thinks about the flowers, either. Long after they’ve faded to dried husks and gone into the trash, Juno remembers each of them, and the message they told. He overanalyzes it—he’s prone to that—and he thinks about Nureyev in his bed. Thinks long and hard about it, usually.
Sometimes he swings back the other way. Sometimes, when he has the opportunity to have somebody else, anybody else, in his bed, he takes it.
And then he thinks of Nureyev while he fucks that somebody else. It’s the only way he can get off.
It’s part of a downward spiral, but everything in Juno’s life is part of a downward spiral, and/or an artificial intelligence takeover these days.
That’s the thing about downward spirals, though, is they always lead somewhere. ‘Somewhere’ is usually ‘rock bottom’, but Juno Steel is familiar with rock bottom. He’s curled up there plenty of times already, once more and he’s probably going to win some sort of frequent visitors card.
Rock bottom is only survivable, Juno has found, if you have somebody to heave you up out of it. When he was a kid, it was Mick, with a jovial distraction and a drink. Lately, it’s been Rita, with a lot of chatter and a caseload. The massive slab of impassive muscle that picks him up by the scruff in the desert is very different from who’s usually shoveling him off that metaphorical grimy floor, but it turns out he’s managed not to die in the desert, so he can’t complain.
There’s something to be said for the people who’ve managed to get Juno back on his feet, too. They always turn back up.
And that’s how he ends up aboard the Carte Blanche.
It’s more complicated than that, of course, but Juno’s mind for complexity has been put on ice for a little while in favor of the picture Nureyev makes, lounging on the hood of the Ruby Seven like a pin-up doll meets a card shark. Sharp and dangerous and inviting all in one package.
This is a new feature of Juno’s contemporary rock bottom: it always leads back to Peter Nureyev.
Juno manages to conceal his surprise—to a degree, at least, but he keeps sneaking glances at Nureyev whenever he can. And he’s thinking about flowers. Roses, irises, camellias, dahlias.
They couldn’t possibly have meant this, right? This can’t be planned, even Nureyev isn’t that crafty. It’s gotta be some joke of the universe that they ended up in the same time, same place once again.
Well. For once, Juno finds he doesn’t exactly mind being the punch line.
— — —
Buddy is gonna be pissed at them, Juno thinks, as he lands heavily against Nureyev's door and pulls Nureyev after him and into another kiss. Vespa’s gonna stab him. And worst of all, Rita’s gonna ask where he’s been.
(Sikuliaq probably won’t care.)
Juno can’t find a damn to give. They could be hours late, but all he cares about is Nureyev’s mouth on his and the scent of his cologne.
The conversation that ended any hope of Juno and Nureyev having a platonic relationship happened just after the two of them passed the Gilded Globe of Reaches Far to Buddy. She instructed the crew to meet in one hour in the center chamber of the Carte Blanche, which should have given Juno time to get out of the glittery dress and six inch heels.
Instead, it gave him time to go to Nureyev’s room and pour out his heart on the linoleum floor.
Nureyev handled it with a grace only he could. He accepted Juno’s apologies, thanked him for them, even, and told him he was willing to start afresh if Juno was, albeit slowly, as a relationship going up in flames aboard a spaceship was much more dangerous.
“Besides,” he tacked on the end, “it isn’t as if you can run away, when you’re just a few doors down.”
Juno’s thoroughly finished with running, so that wasn’t going to be an issue.
They might have left it with a casual embrace and a goodnight, and then they might have arrived at Buddy’s afterparty with ten minutes to spare, but Juno had to ask.
“Nureyev, did you… send me flowers?”
The look Nureyev sent him for that simple question was simmering.
So they’re gonna be late for the party.
Nureyev presses Juno up against his bedroom door, one hand cupping the back of his head (gentlemanly of him, to keep Juno from cracking his skull) and one at his hip. Juno has no clue how long they’ve been kissing. He’s simply been enjoying the exciting new height advantage these heels give him.
So much for taking it slow, Juno thinks, as Nureyev brings their hips together in a sinfully sinuous roll.
So much for casual, he adds, as Nureyev makes the mistake of kissing him someplace other than his mouth (his jaw, smooth-shaven to give him that crisp, high-society image for the heist).
So much for patience, he concludes, as two words slip from his recently-unoccupied mouth.
“Fuck me.”
“How unladylike, Madame Dauphin.” Nureyev might joke, but he’s cupping Juno’s ass through the shimmering fabric of this dress. This fucking dress. Too many layers; Juno can hardly feel Nureyev’s hand on him.
“Don’t call me that,” Juno groans.
“But you still have your wedding ring on, sweetheart.” Nureyev sounds like he’s smirking. Juno can’t tell, of course, his face is firmly tucked into Juno’s neck, but there’s a smirk there. He’s sure of it.
Juno’s left hand rests at the back of Nureyev’s neck, and, as mentioned, the massive rock he’d been wearing all night still sparkles on his ring finger.
“Just call me my name, will you?” Some time ago, before a series of self-actualizations, Juno might have said he was asking that because he hated his newly minted pseudonym.
But really, he just likes hearing the way Nureyev says, “Juno,” as he arches into Juno’s touch.
“Nureyev,” Juno replies, both feeling and sounding like a breathless, swooning damsel (it's the gown, it brings that out in him), “I mean it. I want you— now. I’ve been thinking—never mind. Just… do you want…?”
“Juno, dear, we’re already late. My wants, grand as they may be, might need to be put off for a while.” He says that, and yet he hasn’t stopped touching Juno.
“So take your hands off my ass.”
“Hm?”
“If we’re really gonna put this off until later, go to Buddy’s party, then stop touching me.”
Nureyev kisses him again.
Yeah, they’re gonna be late.
Nureyev gets Juno flat on his back on the bed, hikes up later after taffeta layer of the stupid dress, and if Juno had all the time in the world, he’d ask Nureyev to suck him off right here. There’s something about it, with the dress still cinched tight around his waist, Nureyev’s hands on him beneath it—god, his blood is boiling.
“Nothing underneath, hm? You’re a more daring lady than I thought,” Nureyev says.
“Please, as if anybody was gonna notice past all the dress I’ve got going on,” Juno snorts. “And it’s not like I brought fancy underwear to space. I did try it with my usual, but you could see them. The back’s too low.”
The dress, as Juno understands it, came from Buddy’s closet, but it had required some modifications, given that Buddy’s an extremely slender woman and Juno is not. Plus, he’s bigger in the shoulders. The back of it laces up now, but in order to get it to fit, that lacing goes all the way to the small of his back, and the waistband of his boxer briefs peeked over it.
“I’ll have to thank Mr. Sikuliaq for his sewing skills,” Nureyev said.
“Please don’t, I really don’t need the big guy to know how much it worked for me.”
It’s just Nureyev’s hand on him, it shouldn’t feel this much, but it’s good, alright? It’s stomach-swooping, toe-curling good—
Or it would be, if the toe-curling part didn’t give him such a damn cramp in the arch of his foot. Shit, that hurts.
“Hold on—stop,” Juno says.
“Are you alright?”
“Ow, it’s—don’t look at me like that, it’s not you, it’s these shoes.” He’s out of the habit of walking in heels, and these are particularly painful after so long. He doesn’t even know where Rita managed to special-order them. “Just give me a second to get them off—“
Nureyev leans back, but he sets his palm on Juno’s chest when Juno tries to sit up. “Allow me, then,” he says, sitting back far enough that he can undo the laces on Juno’s shoes. They wrap around his calves all the way to his knees, strappy and alluring, sure, but also secure enough that he can run in them when they’re being chased by security.
Nureyev unlaces the heels and slips them off one by one, massaging the arch of Juno’s foot right where it gets sore. “Better?” he asks, laying a kiss on the inside of Juno’s knee.
“Yeah, I am never wearing those again.”
“Would you like me to get you out of the dress, as well?”
“Fuck that.” Juno finds Nureyev’s tie, hooks his finger around the knot, and yanks him forward by it. “No time for that.”
No time for much of anything, not drawn-out foreplay, not enough preparation that Nureyev’s cock in him doesn’t feel like a massive stretch, not moving slow enough to keep Juno from yelling.
“That doesn’t hurt, does it?” Nureyev looks concerned, leaning over Juno, his hair falling into his face, his tie and the first few buttons on his shirt undone by now (Juno wanted something to do with his hands).
The ask is reasonable—if anyone was in the hallway outside the room they might assume Juno’s shouted cursing was because he stubbed his toe on the bed frame—but ultimately unnecessary. “No, no, it’s good. It’s so fucking good. If you don’t fuck me I’m gonna stab you.”
Vespa’s attitude was rubbing off on Juno, apparently.
“As if you could,” Nureyev says, grinning. His teeth are sharp enough to be a weapon all their own. Juno would have them on his neck, but there’s a mountain of crushed tulle between them, and it makes it hard for Nureyev to kiss him and fuck him at the same time.
“As if I’d ever make the mistake of leaving my plasma cutter behind, you mean,” Juno replies.
Nureyev gives him a curious look. “Wherever are you keeping it?”
It’s down the center front of the bodice of his dress. But a lady’s gotta have his secrets. Juno just says, “wouldn’t you like to know?” and rests his hand over Nureyev’s throat, his thumb and forefinger putting just enough pressure on his arteries to make his eyes roll back.
From there on, there’s very little discussion.
— — —
They show up exactly forty-three minutes late.
Juno’s dress is a rumpled mess (but not a dirty one, because Nureyev proved he was just as good with his mouth as Juno) and he’s holding his shoes by the laces, because he’s not putting them back on. His makeup is blurred around his eye, and he doesn’t even want to think about the state of his hair. Overall, he looks like he either took a bad spin on Mick Mercury’s hovercycle, or like he’s just been fucked into oblivion. Given how far they are from Mars, it’s very clearly the latter.
Nureyev looks mildly more put together—he left the tie in the bedroom but he’s buttoned his shirt, and his hair looks a little more like his only activity that night was running from an angry socialite.
Both of them had to wipe Juno’s lipstick off their faces.
They walk in to find everybody waiting on them, of course. Vespa grumbles, Buddy pulls out a bottle she’s had on ice, and Rita gives Juno and Nureyev a very critical eye, like she knows exactly why Juno’s grinning and Nureyev’s looking disgustingly smug. She’s smiling, though. It’s a disturbing smile.
They could keep this a secret for a while—rather, they could try. That’s gonna be nearly impossible in a place like this, though, especially not when Rita’s already suspicious.
So, when Buddy hands them each a flute of champagne and Jet congratulates them on a job well done, Juno doesn’t even try to hide the fact that they’ve got history and they’re making more of it.
The fact that Nureyev kisses him instead of toasting their success makes it pretty obvious, anyhow. As does the fact that Juno kisses him back.
Buddy, of course, makes a concerted effort to put them to shame for their private celebration —it really only works on Juno, who’s flustered and sputtering. Nureyev only laughs, and his hand presses against Juno’s lower back.
Despite the severity of the conversation to follow, once they’ve shaken the morose mood and gotten through a couple new bottles (mostly Juno and their illustrious captain) they’re back to joking and cheering. Nureyev has pulled off several spot-on impersonations of Zolotovya, Buddy told the story of how she stole the wedding ring Juno had been wearing all night—it was worth a million creds, apparently, and Juno immediately handed it back to her upon that discovery—and Vespa complained about drunk people all the while.
After letting Jet spin him around like the ship was a dance floor, in order to show off how wide his skirt flares, Juno collapses on the couch. He’s dizzy, because he’s drunk and because Jet’s a surprisingly fast-paced dancer, which means it takes him a second to notice when Rita hops up onto the couch next to him.
“So,” she says.
“So,” he replies.
“That Rex Glass.” Rita looks at Nureyev, who’s gesticulating with his half-full glass and managing not to spill any of it while telling Buddy and Vespa some story. “Real piece of work.”
Of course she recognizes him. Rita never forgets a face.
“Yeah,” Juno sighs, “but I’m starting to suspect that Juno Steel’s a real piece of work, too.”