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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 21, 2012 22:12:38 GMT -5
“Unlike shoes, I remember my keys,” Peter said shortly as he moved to Lestrade's side and unlocked the door. Lestrade followed Peter in as the younger man motioned for him to follow in, tapping numbers into a keypad on the wall. He wondered why such a thing was needed. Once Peter turned the dim lights on, however, he knew why.
The place was nice, surely, but it probably wasn't the architecture that he was sure the owner wanted to gaurd so well. There was the alcohol, of course, very expensive; were it lost, it would be both very expensive to replace and dangerous if a minor had it. But there was also the astonishingly extensive Irish do-hickeys hanging on the wall, ceiling, tables…everywhere. A Union Jack hung on the wall also. Lestrade resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was obvious the manager had a bit of a hard time telling apart Ireland and England, seeing as there were a few more iconic English, Scottish and Welsh things hanging as well.
“Welcome to O’Bannon’s,” Peter said, laying Lestrade's now damp jacket on a booth and going round the place to produce a pair of moccasins. Lestrade had completely forgotten Peter was barefoot; he should've offered his shoes instead of his coat.
“Name your poison." Lestrade looked at Peter, slightly amused. The dim lighting hid the look of self-induced surprise on Lestrade's face as he shook his head no. God, he must be getting better, right? He really wanted, wanted, bit he didn't want to be so selfish, no, not now. It was Peter's turn to get drunk as possible.
A theatrical idea popped into his mind and he walked behind the counter, the wall next to him covered in wine bottles. Leaning on the counter slightly and smirking, he asked, "No, sir, what's would you like to drink?" Lestrade raised one eyebrow slightly, almost daring Peter not to say. He smiled a bit too though, because, well, it's not like he really knew where anything was.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 24, 2012 0:45:05 GMT -5
Peter had barely asked Lestrade what he wanted to drink when the other man rounded the counter, looking at the Wall of Alcohol, as Peter liked to privately call it. He leaned on the counter, something Peter imagined he’d always wanted to do. Heck, that had been half Peter’s reason for learning the trade in the first place. The fact he had a really good looking bar tender willing to teach him helped. Of course, he’d needed to find another bar to work in after they’d slept together, but Sal O’Bannon was a friend of Don’s and here he was...standing in the dim room, getting looks from Lestrade. At least he probably looked less like death warmed over.
The Lestrade cocked an eyebrow, asking a question Peter didn’t know how to respond to.
"No, sir, what would you like to drink?"
He bit his lip slightly, glancing along the line of bottles. He didn’t drink. On the odd occasion he got drunk, but it had been years. He didn’t know what he liked, he didn’t know what to pick...One bottle caught his eye. It was sitting out, like someone hadn’t bothered to put it away. He reached for it, picking up the bottle. Underneath was a post-it-note with his name on it, a quick ‘heard about the kid’ scrawled underneath it. Clearly, his boss was either psychic or hopeful.
“This one,” he replied, shrugging helplessly. He didn’t even know what was in it, probably whisky. “You can play bartender.”
He set the bottle down, flicking two glasses expertly onto the bar. He leant more fully against the bar, thinking that it wasn’t so bad in the dim light. He could hear Baze shuffling around near the door to the kitchen, but he knew it was unlikely the dog would manage to get in there, especially when he knew better.
He sure hoped this was what Lestrade wanted because Peter sure didn’t know what he wanted.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 24, 2012 14:45:07 GMT -5
Peter bit his lip slightly, as if he didn't know. Really, who worked at a bar and didn't know? Then again, Peter was a bit odd; he would be the type of be surrounded by lots of alcohol for the taking and simply not take any of it.
Peter picked up a bottle that was on the table and glanced at what looked like a piece of paper on the bottom for the second before he shrugged, “This one. You can play bartender.” Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Peter's possibly teasing words, but did not fail to be impressed when the younger man smoothly moved two glasses towards them with practiced ease. He'd doubted the rumour that Peter worked here for a while, seeing as, well, who had time like that? Apparently Peter.
Lestrade shrugged at Peter's indifference and popped the cork. He could at least do that as well as anyone. He poured the first glass full and pushed it towards Peter, and it was then that he finally realized Peter had gotten out two glasses. His hand holding the bottle hesitated for a second over still-empty glass. Because he shouldn't, he really shouldn't. And even if he told himself, just a bit, he knew from experience, no, there wasn't anything such as half way for him.
"I think I'll have water," he announced, his tone forced, and put the bottle down with a bit harder than nessecary. He turned around and filled the second cup with the tap, before turning back around and raising the glass up to Peter. He pretended he hadn't done anything weird just now at all. Nope, of course not. Peter didn't need to see him drunk.
"Cheers," he said, smirking. It really wasn't funny, because there was nothing to be celebrating at all, truthfully. But it was as close to normal as they were going to get.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 25, 2012 18:41:52 GMT -5
OOC: 100 Posts!  He watched as Lestrade opened the bottle, pouring a fair amount into one of the glasses. He hesitated over the second glass, eventually putting the bottle down instead of filling the second glass. “I think I’ll have water.” Peter glanced at Lestrade, wondering what he was playing at. After all, this was his idea. Peter didn’t even drink. He didn’t need another addiction in his life. Still, now that it was poured, there was no sense in wasting product. Lestrade found the tap easily enough, filling his own glass. Peter held his tongue, not bothering to tell the man that they did keep a stock of bottled water. Fun fact, the NYC water sanitation was top notch, seeing as how so much garbage and sewage ended up in the water. The tap water tasted almost like bottled water, so bottled water was somewhat of a scam. Peter supposed telling Lestrade anything was moot... Even his thoughts were rambling... “Cheers,” Lestrade offered, holding up a glass of water in a toast. Peter nodded, raising his own glass and taking a slow sip. It was smooth, whatever it was. Sal had good taste. “Come on,” Peter sighed, grabbing the bottle as he rounded the bar again. “I’m not going to drink standing up.” He made his way over to the booth, sliding in far enough that Lestrade could sit on either side of him. He brought the drink up to his lips again, feeling the alcohol warm his stomach. When he brought the glass down, it was empty. He reached to pour another, nursing this one now that he was through the first. It really wasn’t the best idea to be drinking on an empty stomach, but by this point he didn’t care anymore. He just didn’t care about anything. "What now?" |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 25, 2012 23:04:43 GMT -5
Peter clinked glasses with Lestrade before taking a sip of his drink. Lestrade tried not to be jealous. “Come on, I’m not going to drink standing up," he said and sat at a booth, where Lestrade took a place next to him. He watched as Peter downed his glass and poured another. It seemed horribly un-Peter like, this, but then again, Lestrade had sort of forced him to, and this was a good day to not be yourself.
"What now?"
"You drink, and I watch you drink, and once you're drunk enough to talk you keep drinking, and then I bring you home and we don't talk about it again while you detox on my couch. That's how this usually works. Don't you like it?" Lestrade asked, his words quick but dulled, stony. He wasn't being very comical for what was supposed to be a joke.
He eyed the bottle of alcohol longingly. Licked his lips, nearly gave in temptation and drank it. God, he wanted…
"But until you're drunk enough, I'll talk," Lestrade interrupted his own thoughts. Want was a vicious affliction. "When I first got promoted to Inspector I chased a man onto a cruise ship, got pushed off, broke my leg and almost drowned. It wasn't pleasant. Oh, and after I broke out of the hospital and because I ripped the I.V. out I got an infection and almost died of fever," Lestrade recalled, putting on a bored tone. What an embarrassing story.
He looked over at Peter expectantly. "You drunk enough to talk yet?"
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 28, 2012 2:23:16 GMT -5
"You drink, and I watch you drink, and once you're drunk enough to talk you keep drinking, and then I bring you home and we don't talk about it again while you detox on my couch. That's how this usually works. Don't you like it?"
Peter sent Lestrade a little glare. “Not really, and you really won’t like me when I’m drunk.”
But Peter even wondered if he had spoken aloud, seeing as how Lestrade kept powering on through like a man on a mission. Well, he supposed he was – the “Get Detective Peter Aramis, second grade, drunk so he will talk like a chick” mission. He’d think up an acronym for that later.
"But until you're drunk enough, I'll talk. When I first got promoted to Inspector I chased a man onto a cruise ship, got pushed off, broke my leg and almost drowned. It wasn't pleasant. Oh, and after I broke out of the hospital and because I ripped the I.V. out I got an infection and almost died of fever,"
That was an awful story. Clearly Lestrade survived, but it seemed like one of those cases you would just want to forget and never think about again. Not to mention it probably hurt like hell.
"You drunk enough to talk yet?"
“No, you can tell another awful story,” Peter replied, sipping a bit more.
Truthfully, he didn’t know if he could get that drunk. Talking was frowned upon in the Aramis household. If something happened, you shouldered it to the back burner and got on with life. It sucked, but it was what you did. Now, when someone wanted him to talk, he couldn’t bear to. He did talk to his mother seriously once and look at where he’d ended up. Just the thought of that talk forced him to toss back the rest of that glass, quickly – and less deftly – pouring himself another one. He needed to slow down or Greg was going to have to peel him out of the booth with a spatula.
“Got anything lively involving car chases or bullets?” Peter suggested tonelessly, but he was still jabbing at the man’s idea.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 28, 2012 19:33:16 GMT -5
Lestrade ignored Peter when he said, “Not really, and you really won’t like me when I’m drunk," because, well, most people were in one way or another unpleasant when drunk, and he was probably much worse than Peter anyway.
“No, you can tell another awful story,” Peter said when Lestrade asked him if he was drunk yet. Lestrade hadn't really thought it was all that horrible, it was just him being stupid and pathetic really, but he decided not to correct Peter. He watched as some thought suddenly caused Peter to down another glass; he wondered what. But as long as Peter was drinking, he didn't particularly need to know.
“Got anything lively involving car chases or bullets?," Peter said dully. Lestrade frowned; he just couldn't get used to hearing Peter's voice - whole person - like this. It was wrong, really, because Peter was the too-happy one.
"I don't exactly like car chases," Lestrade admitted. "I, er, I'm not a very good driver. I ended up completely scratching up a police car once." He thought about bullets. Did he do guns very much? He supposed he had in the past, but more when he was in California; now that he was a detective and surrounded by a bunch if guys in his department who didn't exactly like him, he'd seen a bit less action.
"Bullets, though? I suppose… adrenaline, you know? They're a bit fun. Not, you know, in a killing people fun," he added quickly, "But they're exciting, you know. Like in the shows." He looked at Peter, not really wanting go talk about shooting thing, when… well, with all things considered.
"But you know, I've been shot myself before. I have to admit, it's not pleasant," he said lightly. The man had been an awful shot so he'd not suffered any permanent damage, but that hadn't made it any less painful.
He looked at Peter. "I'm sure that's not you wanted. But I'm not exactly an action-filled guy."
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 4, 2012 0:42:27 GMT -5
"I don't exactly like car chases...I, er, I'm not a very good driver. I ended up completely scratching up a police car once."
Peter would have laughed at that, maybe offered to tell Lestrade a story to make him feel better. Like how he had backed his parent’s truck into the garage door when he was fourteen. His father had been giving him driving lessons the day before, but Peter couldn’t wait for him to finish work to give him the next lesson. So he’d gone out to the truck, started it up, and intended to drive it out back. Unfortunately, the gear hadn’t fully clicked into drive, and the truck had lurched backwards in reverse. He’d stomped on the break, but not before he was through the garage door, only inches shy of backing into his mother’s BMW. He’d worked all summer to pay for the new garage door, and he hadn’t been allowed behind the wheel of the truck until after he did. He'd never made that mistake again.
"Bullets, though? I suppose… adrenaline, you know? They're a bit fun. Not, you know, in a killing people fun. But they're exciting, you know...Like in the shows."
He wondered if Lestrade had ever been on the receiving end of a bullet before if this was how he could think of it. But thinking about bullets period wasn’t helpful. So he took another sip from his drink and was quiet.
"But you know, I've been shot myself before. I have to admit, it's not pleasant. I'm sure that's not you wanted. But I'm not exactly an action-filled guy."
“Who is?” Peter asked, carefully holding his glass so he wouldn’t drop it. “I’ve never fired my weapon outside the range, haven’t had to deal with car chases and all that hoopla. I've never even gotten a paper cut, which with the amount of paperwork...”
He shrugged a bit, knowing he had been lucky. There would come a day when he would get hurt, possibly die. He would have to pull his weapon at some point, maybe kill someone else, though it was something he hoped he would never have to do. His uncle talked about the retirees who could claim they had never fired their guns in the line of duty, and Peter wanted to be one of those when he retired, as well. As it was, he wasn’t sure he could fire a gun outside the range. Not after he’d seen what bullets could do to people last night.
He poured a bit more into his glass, counting it as 2.5 glasses – 1.5 past his limit, especially on an empty stomach. His head was fuzzy and he knew he should just stop where he was, but his normal sensibilities weren’t clicking in. So he took another sip and put his glass down on the table, letting his chin fall into his hand so he could study Lestrade.
“You know, I thought I was doing the right thing for the kids an’ the community. Then shit goes down in my own building and I can’t do anything. Looks like they were right about me,” he snorted a bit, humorously, but with a self-depreciating smile on his lips. Yeah, his mother would love to see him now.
He reached for the glass again, taking a longer sip until the whole thing was empty. He tapped it back down onto the table, the noise loud in the room.
“I’m such a lightweight,” he muttered. "It's embarrassing for a bartender."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 12, 2012 22:13:52 GMT -5
“Who is? I’ve never fired my weapon outside the range, haven’t had to deal with car chases and all that hoopla. I've never even gotten a paper cut, which with the amount of paperwork...” Peter shrugged, and Lestrade silently raised an eyebrow, sipping at his water. He was surprised; not that he expected Peter to have been going after criminals like he did, seeing Peter's rank and division, but still. Never to have fired outside of the range? God, he really was a pure little soul, wasn't he? A child, compared to him. Actually, considering how early he had started, Peter could even be his own kid if he was as young as he looked.
Peter took another large gulp of the alcohol and placed the glass back on the table less than gracefully. “You know, I thought I was doing the right thing for the kids an’ the community. Then shit goes down in my own building and I can’t do anything. Looks like they were right about me,” Peter said moping. Lestrade noted the kid's words were already starting to slur, despite only having a few glasses. Well, not everyone could drink like he did, but still, it was a bit funny how fast it was taking effect. “I’m such a lightweight. It's embarrassing for a bartender."
"It is," Lestrade agreed, and then remembered that all that was splashing about in Peter's stomach was liquor and coffee. He pursed his lips slightly, frowning. "Maybe you should slow down. Or," he looked around, seeing if there was any food, "Eat something. Here," he said, tossing Peter a pack of saltines he spied in a basket under the table.
He felt another pang of want while looking at Peter toss back alcohol and looked down, embarrassed with himself how bad he was at resisting temptation. Contemplating something to say, he convinced himself he didn't need to drink… yet.
"You know I have a daughter," he said suddenly. "Well obviously, we didn't exactly meet on the nicest terms did we?" he smirked slightly at the bad memory. "Anyway I've seen her since, on new year's. She's so big now, I couldn't believe it. You know she's graduating primary school this year? God, it's amazing. The just grow up too fast to think about it," Lestrade sighed, wondering why the hell he mentioned his daughter anyway. He seemed to be thinking about kids a lot more than he cared to today.
"You know, Ireland's an awful place to grow up. All anyone wants you to do is be Catholic and study physics. At least in my case," he smiled. "Actually, I had to get permission from the priest to go to college. It was ridiculous! And you could never be yourself because, well, Catholic. Not that I'm anti-Catholic, not really - well, maybe a bit - but anything happened? Deal, you're Catholic." He'd jumped subjects from his daughter to his childhood in a second and he had no idea why. He hoped Peter wasn't too religious.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 14, 2012 0:19:56 GMT -5
"It is...Maybe you should slow down. Or eat something. Here -”
Peter snorted when Lestrade agreed with him. He wasn’t supposed to agree with him, even if it was obvious that he was the lightest of light weights out there. Had he been a girl, he would have been a cheap date...He would have been his sister... but he wasn’t because Angelique could drink him under the table - not a hard feat...And now he had crackers. What was he supposed to do with these?
“Do you have any idea how old these are?” he asked, dropping them back onto the table, red and clear plastic crinkling. He couldn't remember ever filling the baskets, so the crackers had to be old.
"You know I have a daughter...”
Well, obviously. Peter had met the man on the day he was worried sick over her being in the hospital. He was drunk, but his memory was still working.
“Well obviously, we didn't exactly meet on the nicest terms did we?"
Lestrade smirked and Peter nodded. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten after all.
"Anyway I've seen her since, on new year's. She's so big now, I couldn't believe it. You know she's graduating secondary school this year? God, it's amazing. The just grow up too fast to think about it.”
Yeah, they really did. One minute they were toddling in the apartment hallway, and the next they were big enough to play basketball and get shot...
“She couldn’t stay a baby forever,” Peter pointed out. "You blinked, Daddy."
"You know, Ireland's an awful place to grow up. All anyone wants you to do is be Catholic and study physics. At least in my case. Actually, I had to get permission from the priest to go to college. It was ridiculous! And you could never be yourself because, well, Catholic. Not that I'm anti-Catholic, not really - well, maybe a bit - but anything happened? Deal, you're Catholic...”
Peter couldn’t help but laugh at that. It wasn’t a happy sound. He just couldn’t help it. He grew up Catholic, he knew what went on. Only he was sure he had a much different relationship with Father Samuels than Greg and his priest. He trailed off into chuckles, pouring another drink.
“It's not Ireland. Catholics are the same anywhere. I was raised Catholic, which is why I’m as screwed up as I am.”
He took a small sip this time, leaning back in the booth when he was finished. He glanced over at Lestrade, feeling just drunk enough.
“I’m a very bad Catholic. My mother says I’m going to hell because I lost my cherry to a man. My priest says I’m going to hell because I refused to...well, I refused to do it with him,” Peter paused leaning closer to the older man. “If I'm going, might as well do what I want before I get there.”
And before he could let his better sensibilities get through the drunk haze, he leant forward and pressed his lips against Lestrade's. It was as gentle as he could make it, and he had to brace his left hand on Greg's knee. He just needed to be touched, and right then Greg was the only person who seemed to give a crap what he needed.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 14, 2012 0:56:29 GMT -5
“She couldn’t stay a baby forever. You blinked, Daddy,"Peter said tossing back the apparetly very old saltines, and Lestrade looked at him, surprised at the bitter tone. Damn; he just kept alluding to dead children, didn't he? Lestrade decided to think about Doctor Who instead before going on about Ireland; fake statues strangling you to death was slightly more pleasant than little boys being shot.
Peter laughed, and the sound was cold, harsh. Lestrade immediately wondered what the hell the chruch had done to screw Peter over.
“It's not Ireland. Catholics are the same anywhere. I was raised Catholic, which is why I’m as screwed up as I am," Peter said self-depricatingly, and frowned, unhappy at hearing Peter become more bitter. Still, at least he was talking. At least Lestrade was being a friend. He hadn't pointed out that Irish Catholics brought obsession with the church into a whole new level. And beside, he was sure Peter wasn't as messed up as he was; Peter wasn't a child-gone-murderer and didn't fancy sucking on the metal barrel of his 6mm every night as far as Lestrade knew.
Lestrade watched as Peter stared drunkenly over at him, saying, “I’m a very bad Catholic." 'God, I can't tell you how many times I've sinned,' Lestrade thought to himself. "My mother says I’m going to hell…" 'Fancy that, mine too…' …"because I lost my cherry to a man." 'Ah, so you are bi. Thought so.' "My priest says I’m going to hell because I refused to...well, I refused to do it with him." Well that was different, and very, very wrong. Lestrade's priest had escaped the Catholic Church somehow, he'd been an inspiriation. Not a hopeful gay rapist. Jesus Christ. Lestrade's surprise and anger showed on his face as Peter suddenly leaned in towards Lestrade closer.
“If I'm going, might as well do what I want before I get there," Peter asserted, and then suddenly he was kissing Lestrade. Peter's lips were soft and they ran over Lestrade's gently, but needy; he tasted of cheep but fair quality whiskey, and Lestrade tried not to taste more than he should. He didn't pull away; he kissed back. He felt Peter touching his knee, leaning in more, wanting more; needing comfort; seeking it in the easiest way: passion. But Lestrade knew Peter wasn't so drunk so that he wouldn't remember this in the morning, and he didn't want the younger man to regret it, so he only kissed Peter softly, didn't take advantage. He wasn't like that anymore.
Lestrade pulled back after a minute and looked Peter in the eye, hesitant for a second and ignoring all sorts of warning lights going off in his head before leaning in to kiss Peter again. The sweet taste of whiskey mixing with the scent of what Peter was - what he tasted like - combined with Lestrade's own. He knew they couldn't do this forever, because Peter was Peter and he was him, and they were both avoiders; likely, they'd pretend this never happened later. But they didn't have to, and maybe Lestrade didn't want to.
"You're not going to hell," Lestrade whispered softly against Peter's lips, his left hand wandering to meet Peter's right cheek. Lestrade pulled back just an inch and said more firmly, "Hear me? You could never go to hell. Or if you are, so is everyone else because you are a good man," Lestrade finished, giving Peter an assertive and slightly sad look. Because Peter was a good man, a wonderful boy, and Lestrade didn't for a second believe that he was bad. No, he was very, very good.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 15, 2012 3:40:26 GMT -5
Peter was slow to consider that maybe Lestrade might not want to be kissed. He didn’t even know if the man liked other men, let alone if he even liked him. Lestrade was old enough that he could have been his father, and that could have weirded the man out even more. But then he returned it. Peter was relieved, getting closer to Lestrade, if that were possible. Just when he was starting to think the man was on board, he pulled back. He met Lestrade’s eyes, feeling the devastation creep up from the pit of his stomach. He just kept screwing up today. First with Conroy, then in the station, and now with Lestrade literally pinned under him for a kiss he didn’t want...
But then Greg was kissing him again, more purposefully – chasing away the dread that had swept him up. The man still tasted like the bad coffee at the station, but the caffeine only pulled Peter in deeper. He was lost in it until Lestrade pulled his lips back again.
"You're not going to hell.”
The words were felt more than they were heard, making Peter’s lips tingle. He leant into the hand cupping his cheek, savoring the affection. He had to be this drunk to accept it from others. He’d learned the hard way that letting others take care of him was a bad thing. It just gave people the chance to hurt him worse for it. But he just needed to be touched, to remember that there was more to life than death.
Lestrade pulled back a bit more, putting a bit of space between them so he could speak more firmly. It was enough to get through the drunk haze.
"Hear me? You could never go to hell. Or if you are, so is everyone else because you are a good man."
Peter didn’t know if he flinched because of the tone or the words themselves. He had never been told he was a good man. Don had told him he was a good kid every so often, ruffling his hair. And his father had told him he wasn’t a total waste of skin, but never had someone deliberately told him he was a good man. Peter shook his head, trying to think of some way to explain to Lestrade that he wasn’t a good man. He was...well, he didn’t know. Good wasn’t it, though. And he didn’t want to sit here and argue about it, because Lestrade would want to argue it out, to try and make him feel better. He was too tired – too drunk to effectively try to hold his own.
“I’m drunk. I’m sorry,” Peter apologised, staring down at where his hand was on Greg’s thigh. He hoped that would appease him. He really didn’t want to have to fight about it.
Drinking was something he didn’t do for a reason. When he was drunk he did stupid things. That was how he got it in his head to stalk Perry, after all, which was highly stupid since the man could have killed him. Now he’d gone and kissed his friend and superior. He’d messed up big time. He apologised, but he doubted it would matter. At least the man wasn’t tossing him across the room. He was going to soak up what he could while he could.
“I told you that I wasn’t a good drunk. I...well, I get like this.”
He could blame the alcohol, but it was a cheap excuse for everything he’d done before he started drinking. He couldn’t excuse not being able to help Conroy, for being so bitter towards anyone who was trying to help him, for even being mad at Lestrade for being his friend. And he knew better, but he let himself go like this because he couldn’t turn down a drink. Even telling someone about Father Samuels after all those years... He’d broken three of his rules in a record amount of time – 1. No addictive substances, 2. No kissing people you know, 3. Never tell about the Father. He only had ten. At this rate, he wasn’t going to recognise himself in the morning.
He suddenly wondered if he would feel better if he remembered how to cry. It had been ten years since he’d done it. Conroy was like his kid and he couldn’t even work up the urge to. He was going to hell if he couldn’t even cry for a child. Even murderers could manage that.
“I’m not good at dealing with anything like this. He was just a kid and I tried, but...” he cut off with a shrug, not able to figure out what he wanted to say. He was good and soused. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t nearly enough.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 15, 2012 12:21:11 GMT -5
He was fourteen the first time he slept with a woman. She was eighteen, and while she lived on the same street as him their entire lives, they'd never gotten on because he thought her too presumptuous and she thought him to dull. But they were both going crazy with wanting to not be alone, and so they'd done it, harsh and fast and without enough meaning. Lestrade had regretted it so much afterwards that he didn't let himself even think about it for years. He was mostly ashamed, because premarital sex was against the church and Lestrade was already sure he was going to hell; he didn't need to give God another reason.
But he broke him promise not to let himself go until he was married again when he was sixteen, and Becket pinned him up against the wall and kissed him like it wasn't shameful. He was the first person Lestrade thought he might be in love with. But then Becket died of tuberculosis and Lestrade was sure that was a sign from God, and so he decided sleeping around with women was a good way to make up for it. Sins replacing sins.
Despite the church always being in the back of his mind, by the time he was eighteen he had started skipping church, and his mother was telling him over breakfast that he was going to be punished irrevocably. He barely cared, because McCourt was dead and he was a murderer. There was no repentance from sin by that point, so he didn't bother to try.
But from what he had just heard - the snippets of Peter's past he'd been allowed - Peter had tried. And perhaps it had broken him.
The younger man flinched when Lestrade tried to comfort him, and a flash of sadness went through his body. For what he said was true, and yet it seemed to hurt Peter; it seemed Peter was still trying to get it right with the church, or at least felt guilty by it. It was so much easier not to, but Lestrade understood the need to be accepted by God.
“I’m drunk. I’m sorry,” Peter said, looking at his own hand on Lestrade's leg. Lestrade kept looking at Peter. “I told you that I wasn’t a good drunk. I...well, I get like this," Peter seemed ashamed, and again Lestrade felt sadness and Peter's self-deprecation. “I’m not good at dealing with anything like this. He was just a kid and I tried, but - I’m sorry.”
"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Lestrade said immediately, and his voice was as convincing as he could make it. "Whatever fuck all bastard that decided it was a good idea to shoot as child is to blame. You don't get to apologize for something you didn't do!" Lestrade's voice had gotten louder as he went on, and he took a second to remember there was no need to yell. But he was angry like Peter had seen him when they had first met, at the fact was that helplessness was a natural poison. A paralytic.
"It's not your fault, Peter," Lestrade said in a softer voice, but just as firmly. For some reason, having Peter blame himself was horrible enough that Lestrade would not let it be. "Okay? It's that guy's fault, not yours. You held that kid when his parents couldn't." Lestrade had read the police report, and he knew the statement was both quite literal - Conroy was the last to die of the three people living in that house - and metaphorically. Lestrade remembered the times he'd seen Peter hold Conroy, touch and speak to him like a loving father touches his son, and he knew that having Peter had most possibly made a lot of the things in Conroy's life more bearable.
"And I'm not saying you couldn't have done more, you could have, because you can always do, more, but you did the best thing you could have possibly done." For Conroy, Lestrade was sure Peter had been enough.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 17, 2012 0:23:26 GMT -5
"You've got nothing to be sorry for. Whatever fuck all bastard that decided it was a good idea to shoot as child is to blame. You don't get to apologize for something you didn't do!"
Peter sat up a bit more, looking at Greg with wide eyes when he started yelling. He hadn’t heard Greg yell like that, especially at him. That was a bit harsh. He didn’t think he was responsible for hurting the kid, but he was the first responder. He was feeling like he was at fault there for not being able to do what the kid needed. Sure, he had basic first aid, but nothing nearly good enough when you had three bullets in you.
"It's not your fault, Peter. Okay? It's that guy's fault, not yours. You held that kid when his parents couldn't."
Two more lives he didn’t save.
"And I'm not saying you couldn't have done more, you could have, because you can always do, more, but you did the best thing you could have possibly done."
He was right. He could have done more. There was more he could have done if he had known how. But after this, he was going to be on alert. He had the feeling he wasn’t going to get much sleep in his building for a while. He leant his forehead on Lestrade’s shoulder, suddenly dreading heading home.
“You do know I’m not sober enough to reason with, right?” He asked, really not wanting to argue with Greg about that, either. “I’m going to feel the way I feel and this is the way I feel.”
He thought it was a valid point, and that valid point wasn’t going to be helped by arguing. He’d just get more stubborn before he got more cooperative with the alcohol in his system.
He huffed a bit. “I don’t like being drunk. Makes me muddled.”
Muddled didn’t start to describe it. He was starting to see why the kids didn’t like drunks. He didn’t like himself right then.
“I want to go home,” he told Lestrade, snorting at the idea. He couldn’t go home. His father had made that pretty clear. “No one shoots kids in Montana.”
To be fair, they probably did, but he never saw it. On his ranch, dysfunction never ended with guns, only with plane tickets. Too bad Conroy hadn’t had the same courtesy.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 17, 2012 5:47:47 GMT -5
“You do know I’m not sober enough to reason with, right?” Peter asked weakly, and he lent his head against Lestrade's shoulder. The fact that Lestrade's words hadn't made a dent hurt. Peter still looked just as sad, disbelieving; like he couldn't help himself but think it was his fault for not being there. He was more there than anyone else had been! “I’m going to feel the way I feel and this is the way I feel... I don’t like being drunk. Makes me muddled.”
"Muddled," Lestrade repeated, his anger once again being replaced by simple sadness.
“I want to go home,” Peter then said, and he sounded disbelieving, like that would never happen. Lestrade wondered why, but he wouldn't ask. He'd already pried too much, had probably ruined too much between them tonight; he didn't want to strain what friendship they had left any more than he already had.
Lestrade turned his head to where Peter's head was resting on his shoulder and kissed the top of his head softly, his face in Peter's hair. "Alright," he said softly, and patted Peter's shoulder with his hand. "Alright, let's go." He gently pushed Peter away and held on to the man's shoulders so that he wouldn't fall from the disappearance of his headrest.
"My house is closer than yours, I think," Lestrade said, though he had no basis to that idea. It was simply that he knew his house was quite close to here. "Yeah? Sound good?" He gave Peter a small smile that was meant to be encouraging but probably still looked quite sad. He hadn't actually specified directly that he was going to take Peter home with him, but he was sure that Peter would understand; he was a smart boy, and he wasn't that drunk.
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