Author's Note: This is the first of my as-I-watch-Season-2 fics. Hopefully I'll write more as I make my way through the season. On a semi-unrelated note, anyone else notice that Season 2 seems like it's trying to make more sense than Season 1? That's a nice surprise. Also, my powers to see into the future via fanfiction reared its head again. Not only did I predict the death of Batman's son Damien via samurai sword in my Batman Beyond fic 'Beyond Death' long before it happened in comics, but apparently my vision from 'Chrysalis' that Roman would have a silver sports car rather than his iconic red one has now come to pass too. Don't worry—I will use my powers for good and not evil. Enjoy the Season 2 mini-fics! ~ Tsuki
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*I do not ownHemlock Grove. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!*
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What is left behind in the dark?
By Tsuki
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"It's not like you don't have friends in Hemlock Grove," Destiny had insisted. Peter feels like he wants to throw up. Friends? He and Roman have been many things, but the word 'friend' does not really apply. Allies? Sure. Fixations? Absolutely. Peter remembers hands and lips. He remembers smoke and laughter. But he also remembers Roman's eyes, glassy with tears and fury.
Really, Destiny should know better. She knows what lies beyond the curtain of normalcy. What dangers exist in the world of the supernatural. 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt in your philosophy.' Well, Roman Godfrey is one of those things. And sure, so is Peter, but Peter knows what he is. He's worked his whole life to control the change and his wolf. But Roman was always a livewire, all passion and pain. Unaware of what and who he is, and thus unpredictable.
He now stands outside Roman Godfrey's loft and paces for a moment, like his wolf before a clearing, assessing the danger. He's nervous. He could be walking into anything. He thinks of the way Roman used to tilt his head before offering a cigarette, all wanting and open. He thinks of the awe and acceptance in Roman's eyes when he first saw Peter turn. He thinks of the way Roman looked like he wanted to tear him to pieces, all hot passion and pain, after Letha. Peter never used to know if Roman wanted to kill him or kiss him. He was always like a raging fire, able to warm the world or burn it.
When the door buzzes for Peter to enter, his heart leaps into his throat. Even though the loft is clean and modern, he feels like he's walking into Dracula's castle.
At the top of the stairs, Roman stands in shadow, and Peter's breath catches in his throat. This is not the same Roman Godfrey with whom he skipped class and smoked joints with behind the school. This isn't the same Roman Godfrey who he felt comfortable watching him shift. Who he trusted his life with. No, this is a creature who knows what it is.
Roman stands there like an emperor, all power and command. He knows. He knows what he can do. How the world could bow to him.
Every cell in Peter's body screams danger, and the wolf is clawing in his stomach to leave, to run. That a predator much more dangerous than himself is close by. Peter lets out a shaky breath instead. "Nice digs," he mutters, hoping the attempt at their old casual tone will help.
It doesn't. The shadows that surround Roman seem to become darker, to solidify. The whole room seems cold. Roman isn't a fire. Roman is a wall of ice.
Peter swallows. Okay, time to try for an olive branch. "Look, I know things were bad when I split—"
"Fuck you." Roman's words are like a knife, sharp and frigid. They are like death.
"Roman, just hear me out—"
"Not interested."
"Please—"
"We're done."
Peter feels like his blood has become ice to match the tone of the room. He can imagine Roman using that same tone of voice while slitting his throat. The coldness, the power, the control—it reminds Peter of Olivia.
Peter finds himself tearing up, his whole body a tension of panic. He steps forward, trying to appeal to the humanity that he remembers in Roman. There had always been that sweet side to the boy who didn't know he was Upir. A side that smiled and smirked and laughed. Warmth. "Lynda's in jail. I need your help." A silent 'please' hangs in the air. Peter wonders if Roman can smell his desperation.
"No." The tone is flat and final. A king giving a command.
Peter feels the words tumbling out of his mouth. Begging. Pleading. Bargaining. Roman just keeps looking at him coolly, like he's nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. Something small and beneath him.
"What do you expect me to do about it?" he finally asks.
Peter's practically sobs. He lowers his head, almost a bow. A surrender. Subjugation to a king. "I need money. To hire a lawyer."
Roman's eyebrows raise ever so slightly and he tilts his head, as if considering. "So you came here to beg."
Peter can practically feel the chains fastening around his throat. He knows that the regal Upir could demand anything in return for the money and that Peter would agree. And, from the feel of the room, Peter knows what Roman would demand. Pain. Blood. A pound of flesh. Or worse. He sees an image in his mind of one time he and Roman fucked. Roman's cheeks had been flushed pink with want, his grin all made of flushed lips and a hint of teeth. They had laughed, trying to stay quiet in Roman's room in case Olivia had come home. It's a memory of lightness. Of heat. Of life.
Now, Roman would ask for death. Maybe not a literal one, but one none the less. He'd fuck him raw, without lube or preparation. He'd want to hear Peter scream. Then he'd wrap his hands around Peter's throat, pressing hard until the gypsy was horse and gasping. Roman would want Peter's life literally in his hands. Up to his mercy, or lack thereof.
He can see the anger flash in Roman's eyes, a promise of Peter's vision. "…I'm not giving you shit…" Roman's words are almost distant. Peter can only focus on his eyes. All coldness and murderous fury. "...when I needed you, you tucked your dick between your legs and ran away like the little fucking bitch you are."
Roman is descending the stairs now. Peter has the urge to back away. To run. He can't stop himself from leaning away slightly as Roman comes to stand before him. Peter remembers Roman being taller than him, but never quite so looming. They are on equal ground again, but it doesn't feel that way to either of them. Roman has Peter's life in his hands, in more ways than one. They are physically as close as they've ever been—Roman could easily close the distance like he used to, take Peter's face in his hands and kiss him hotly and deeply—but Roman seems shockingly far away. Another species. Cold blooded and cruel. He knows what he is.
"Roman, please…" Peter feels a tear drip down his cheek.
Roman chooses another sort of death. "Get out of my house," he says flatly.
It could have been so much worse, Peter knows. Or it couldn't have been worse at all. Peter is getting out with all the blood still in his body, all his limbs still attached. But as the door closes behind him, Peter feels like Roman took something from him.
As he walks into the warm sunshine, away from the dark coldness and danger of Roman' loft, he can't help but feel like he left his heart behind.
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END