Author's Note:

Ugh. You guys. I'm sorry this took so effing long. My muse completely abandoned me the last couple weeks and this chapter has remained half-written in fanfic purgatory for too long.

So, I offer my apology in the form of some sexy fluff (well, as fluffy as I will allow these two to get because, you know, monsters). Fluff is followed by plenty of angst, as you can expect. Much struggle and self-loathing. The usual. Not a lot of plot development. That's for later.

And I want to thank you all for the comments! I'll admit to writing this fic for completely selfish reasons (I'm sorry, these two just had to get it on so I could carry on with my life…actually, nevermind, not sorry), but it's fucking amazing that you all are as into it as I am. Honestly, I've read them all like ten times. So, please, keep telling me what you think! It means the world to me.

"I'm your silver line, only you will find
Silver line, I'll save you every time
Don't wake the lover
The spell I'm under
Be grace, I need it
Pray I believe it
Never let the darkness leave us
If you can't I'll be the dreamer
Be the night and I will be your shining light"

"Silver Line," Lykke Li

Chapter 11: Silver Line

The sky was already lightening by the time Roman drifted to sleep. The stars dimmed and gave way to the slanted, yellow light of the autumn sun as it peeked between the clouds. His sleep was the heavy, sated kind that only followed long stretches of unrest. The kind that leaves the sleeper dangling on the precipice of that groggy lucidity where the dream world and reality meet. His dreams, usually painted red and occupied by frightening, shifting shadows, were filled with soft fur, warm sunshine and the smell of pine needles and wet earth.

When Roman finally woke, the sun was high in the sky. Awareness returned to him slowly as he opened sleep-heavy lids and squinted against the afternoon light. He was on his back and the sheets were tangled around him, half hanging off the bed. The blanket was nowhere to be seen, probably chucked in a corner somewhere out of the way, he didn't remember. Peter's arm was slung across Roman's chest, his face turned towards him, still sleeping. Honestly, he looked a mess. Tousled hair fell over his eyes, barely concealing the yellowing bruises around the right eye socket and the nearly-healed scratch across his cheek, all rude reminders of the battle they had fought the previous day. There were downy feathers in his hair, scattered across his back, stuck to his lip…in fact, there were feathers fucking everywhere and Roman's pillow was missing. He didn't recall who had torn the thing to pieces with teeth or nails, but it didn't really matter. He considered it a small sacrifice.

Roman plucked the feather from Peter's lip and sent it floating into the air with a small puff of his breath. Peter stirred slightly, dark lashes fluttering as he opened his eyes. He dragged his arm off Roman's chest and wiped his hand across his face with a groan.

Roman turned his gaze to the ceiling, watching the feather float back down to rest between them. He almost didn't dare look at Peter, for fear Peter might plummet back down into that cycle of guilt that had sent him scurrying from Roman's bed the last time.

"What time is it?" Peter mumbled into his pillow.

Roman turned to his nightstand and grabbed the digital alarm clock sitting there, lifting it to his face and peeling two rather sticky condom wrappers from the face that obscured his view of the time.

"Almost one."

"Shee-it." Peter groaned again, throwing his arm back across Roman's chest, pulling him closer.

Roman tried to stifle his growing grin lest it seem too eager, but failed. He pushed up onto his elbows and rolled over, placing a forearm on each side of Peter's shoulders. He ran fingers through Peter's dark hair and across the stubble on his cheeks, exploring his face with his fingertips to commit the moment to the eternity of his memory. His chest felt tight, the pure, unadulterated joy threatening to choke him.

It wasn't just the sex. Not that it wasn't the best, most mind-blowing sex he'd ever had, because it was. Just the thought of it nearly strangled a groan from him. But as Roman racked his brain, he couldn't remember ever waking up with anyone beside him. He had made a precedent to make sure all sexual partners exit the building immediately following the act. He couldn't relax so long as they lingered, judging him now that the lust that blinded them had passed. Sometimes they had wanted more from him, fantasies of fine dinners at fancy restaurants and long drives along the coast in his fast car. Others were disgusted by him, or frightened. They had seen through his carefully constructed masks and glimpsed the ugliness that dwelled beneath. So Roman would send them packing the moment he finished, his lust momentarily sated, so he wouldn't have to see the judgment in their eyes.

But Roman had hid nothing, and Peter had stayed. Peter had watched, unflinching, as Roman had lapped the blood from self-inflicted wounds. Roman had allowed himself to be dominated, controlled and completely fucked. He had given Peter a chance to reject him, no, he had asked him to. And he had stayed. He had fallen asleep with his head on Roman's shoulder and an arm around his waist.

He hoped Peter would stay forever. He hoped he could wake up this way every day and that Peter would eventually discover that he needed Roman as much as Roman needed him. He hoped that Peter would be his and his alone. But Roman cut this thought short. It sounded obsessive and needy, even in his own mind.

"Um, you're staring," Peter said. He was looking back at Roman but his gaze was shifty, squirming under Roman's searching stare.

Roman cleared his throat and dropped his eyes, fixing them somewhere on Peter's throat. "Yeah. Sorry."

"You're a real creepy guy sometimes, Godfrey," Peter snorted. He ducked under Roman's arm and sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and raking his hands down his face and through his hair. "Got coffee?"

"French press. In the kitchen."

"French press? What, is that some kind of sex position?" Peter mumbled through a yawn.

Roman snickered. God, Peter was flirting with him and it made his heart flutter and the blood run south. "It could be. But I thought you wanted coffee."

"Yeah, and a shower."

"No kidding. You smell like a wet dog," Roman teased.

Peter sniffed, looking over his shoulder and giving Roman a half smile before standing and walking towards the master bath.

Roman was beyond tempted to follow him, but decided against it. He would have to tread lightly and exercise restraint to keep Peter from running. If Roman knew anything about his friend, it was that he feared closeness, dependence and entrapment more than anything.

Peter disappeared into the bathroom and Roman heard the shower turn on. He sighed and got out of bed and went to the dresser, pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt before he crossed the hall to Nadia's room. He had the keypad on the security locks on her door replaced at no small cost. He entered the first door, allowing it to click shut behind him.

Nadia's nanny sat in a straight-backed chair reading from a large book bound in leather with moldering pages, a single candle burning on the table next to her. She looked out of place in the modern home, her clothing too puritanical, her pale hair pulled back too tight. Roman held no fondness for the woman, but she had agreed to stay despite the chaos and despite her fear of Nadia. She had been Roman's nanny when he was a child and he remembered her as strict and austere. She had scolded him mercilessly and laughed cruelly at his mistakes. Roman would have dismissed her if she was not so desperately needed. Nadia was safe with her for now and Roman was in no position to be looking for new help.

Roman nodded at the nanny, a gesture she returned, her lips tight and her eyes sharp.

Nadia was lying on her back in the crib, wiggling in her onesie and cooing and gurgling. Roman lifted her up and held her close to his chest, pressing his cheek to hers. She pawed at him affectionately in the way that babies do and Roman held her closer. He hadn't believed he could feel such love for anything, for anyone. The love was all consuming and undeniable. She was the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever seen and he would give his life a thousand times to save hers. He would exact merciless revenge on the thing that had taken her and the thing that held her captive in the dark cellar beneath the cabin in the woods. He needed to talk to Olivia. He had to find out what she knew.

Roman held Nadia tightly to him for a few more moments before replacing her in her crib and exiting the room. The nanny made as if to say something, but he let the door slam shut behind him before she could speak. He didn't care to hear her judgments or her grievances.

He went to the kitchen and started the electric kettle. He measured a few scoops of coffee grounds into the French press and leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to heat. He let his mind wander. He thought about Peter in the shower, dark curls stuck to his face in wet tendrils, eyes shut against the stream of water. The fantasy progressed from there and became significantly dirtier. Roman imagined Peter touching himself, soft gasps echoing against the marble walls of the shower. Roman felt himself twitch underneath his pants and couldn't help but press himself against the kitchen counter, the pressure sending the heat uncoiling in his stomach.

He must have closed his eyes at some point, because when he opened them, Peter was standing in front of him with a towel hanging low on his waist and his arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised. He shook his head at Roman slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Roman averted his eyes and returned his attention to making coffee. He poured the hot water over the fragrant grounds, waited a few moments and then pressed slowly down on the tamp, the grounds swirling through the darkening water. He poured it into two small cups with matching saucers and pushed it across the counter to Peter.

"Voila. French press," Roman exclaimed with a mock grand gesture.

"And here I was thinking coffee came from a can," Peter said, taking the small cup in his hand and drinking from it delicately, pinky up. "Mm, exquisite."

Roman rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway.

"So, you haven't seen my clothes have you? They seem to be," Peter arched an eyebrow, "missing."

Roman smirked and gestured with a hand for Peter to follow.

Peter had lost a significant amount of blood after the events in Sproul Forest. Roman had dragged him inside, red droplets trailing on the carpet behind him. Peter's shirt was absolutely drenched with blood, some dried and browning and even more the deep blackberry color that continued to pump from the wound at his side. The thick, coppery scent had filled Roman's nostrils and made his vision blur and his movements stutter. But Peter hardly had anything left in him to spare, so Roman controlled his urges and dragged Peter's unconscious body to the bathroom.

Roman was exhausted from the stress and the level of discipline it took to even be in the same room as Peter, soaked in his own blood. Roman felt nausea rise in his throat and had released Peter's body, sending him sprawling onto the white tile floor, the red smearing across the porcelain. Roman had choked back the bile and knelt at Peter's side, peeling the sodden clothes from his body, trying to be gentle around the still bleeding wounds. He had wiped the dried blood from his skin with his softest white Egyptian cotton towels, staining them pink. He bandaged Peter's wounds and put him in the guest bedroom, where he had sat at his side for the better part of two hours, just watching him breathe, constantly fearing that each stuttering inhale might be Peter's last.

Eventually he had gone and showered, rinsing Peter's blood from his own skin before kissing Nadia goodnight. He instructed the nanny to do the impossible, and clean the blood from Peter's clothes immediately. Before leaving them in the laundry room, Roman had sucked at the dried and flaking stains on Peter's shirt, his eyes fluttering and heart thundering in his chest.

As expected, Roman found Peter's freshly cleaned clothes folded with the other laundry on top of the table in the laundry room. Peter reached for the stack, but Roman pushed it out of Peter's reach. Peter glowered at him attractively, but Roman just pushed the clothes further away.

Peter smelled like Roman's shampoo, woody and citrusy, and it was intoxicating. And Roman was hungry. He could feel it scratching at his throat and boiling beneath his skin. It made him reckless. Roman was confident Peter could see it in his eyes because he hesitated briefly before pushing up against him, grinding his hips against Roman. Roman's breath hitched in his throat and he released his grip on Peter's clothes, instead winding his arms around Peter's waist, his lips at Peter's ear.

Peter darted out of Roman's embrace and snatched the bundle of clothing off the table.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, holding his pants triumphantly over his head.

Roman snarled and stalked toward Peter. A tiny spark of fear flickered behind Peter's blue eyes, but it only excited Roman more. The hunger curled and knotted in his stomach. Peter backed up against the wall, bracing himself against it like a cornered animal. Roman lashed out, ripping the towel from Peter's waist with a sharp snap.

"Hah." Roman said, dangling the towel between them.

And then they were kissing, if you could call it that. It was probably closer to devouring, all teeth and tongues. Peter had Roman pinned against a wall, fingernails clawing at his chest and scalp. Roman returned his fervor, pressing his hips against Peter's naked erection while licking and biting his way down his neck, leaving imprints of his teeth on Peter's flesh. Roman could feel Peter's blood burn hot beneath his skin and Roman could barely breathe from the glorious smell of it. He wanted to tear at Peter's throat and taste his blood while fucking him on top of all the clean laundry, staining it permanently with Peter's blood. He wondered if Peter would stop him, if he could stop him.

Someone cleared their throat in the doorway. Roman's fingers were still tangled in Peter's hair, his mouth at his throat when he noticed the nanny standing in the doorway, holding a basket filled with laundry and looking particularly disapproving.

"What the fuck do you want," Roman said, his voice low and dangerous.

Peter turned slightly and when he realized they weren't alone, leapt backwards. Cursing loudly and grabbing at the laundry stacked on the table to cover himself.

"Pardon me, Mr. Godfrey," the woman said unapologetically.

"What is it with people's timing in this house? Is there some kind of cock-blocking phone tree? Do you get a call to come interrupt whenever my dick gets hard?" Roman snarled, tossing the jeans Peter had dropped over to him, which he caught, at the cost of dropping whatever coverage he had managed.

"The child is getting hungry, sir," she said, straightening her back and drawing herself up to her full height. Roman towered over her anyway.

"So, feed her."

"Mr. Godfrey," the woman looked affronted. "The child does not drink formula."

Peter gave Roman a horrified look. Of course Roman Godfrey's daughter wouldn't drink formula like a normal baby. Roman was going to have to see Pryce right away. He was going to have to talk to Miranda.

"Jesus fuck, alright. I'll deal with it. Thank you," he said, his voice edged with venom.

She left the room, dropping the laundry basket at the door. Roman turned to Peter, who had somehow gotten his pants on and zipped and was burning crimson red from his chest to his face. He carded his fingers through his hair nervously.

"I better go," Peter said, avoiding Roman's eyes and focusing on collecting his clothing from where he had dropped it to the floor.

Roman sneered and adjusted himself in his pants. God damn it. Roman found Peter's shirt on the ground in front of him and held it out to him. Peter reached for it hesitantly, probably expecting Roman to snatch it away from him again.

"Go ahead, Charlie Brown, I won't pull it away."

Peter dressed himself while Roman watched. He tried to come up with a reason to make Peter stay, but came up short. Roman would have to go to the Godfrey Institute alone. He would have to face Olivia without Peter by his side.

"Stop pouting," Peter said, looking at Roman out of the corner of his eye while adjusting his jacket over his shoulders.

"I'm not. This is just what my face looks like," Roman said dryly, pouting even more.

Peter snorted and walked out of the room to retrieve his boots and coat from the foyer. Roman sulked behind him. He yanked his coat off the hook and checked the pocket for his keys. Peter looked at him questioningly.

"Well, you need a ride, don't you?" Roman said, twirling the jingling key ring between his fingers.

"I can just call Destiny. Don't worry about it," Peter said, eyes downcast.

Oh here we fucking go again. Annoyance and anger tore through Roman and he crushed his keys in a white knuckled fist. Peter was pulling away. Roman could feel him recoiling; feel him clawing for an escape. He withdrew every time Roman was sure he had wormed his way into Peter's heart, or at least his pants.

"Get in the fucking car, Rumancek."

Peter obeyed, albeit reluctantly and walked through the door Roman held open. He settled himself stiffly into the passenger seat and Roman pulled out onto the damp and quiet road. The late afternoon sunlight stung his eyes and the hunger left him feeling fuzzy and nauseous.

Peter gave him a few sideways glances as they drove, but he didn't speak. Roman chain smoked for the whole drive, his only intake and exhale of breath clouded with smoke. He turned on the radio in attempt to drown out the sound of Peter's blood thrumming through his veins, but it didn't help. The steady vibration wasn't something he could hear through his ears, it sung through his brain waves, inside his heavily beating heart. The hunger had come on quickly and violently, compounded by the ache that remained neglected between his legs.

When they arrived outside Destiny's place, Roman didn't bother to turn off the car. He just waited for Peter to get out, leaving him to his walk of shame.

Peter cleared his throat nervously, his hand hovering over the door release. "Um, I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah, fine." Roman kept his eyes forward. "Talk to you later."

"Jesus Christ," Peter mumbled and got out of the car. Roman watched him shuffle up the stairs to the doorway in his peripheral. Feigning aloofness was agony. In fact, he was sure he was doing a terrible job of it. He couldn't have been more obviously crushed when Peter told him he wanted to go home. His rage at even the hint of rejection was so clearly bubbling just beneath the surface that Peter would have to be blind not to see it. Peter was rarely fooled by Roman and this inescapable transparency angered him and left him feeling vulnerable.

Roman allowed himself one last glance after Peter, who was standing at the doorway. He gave Roman an awkward wave before Roman sped away.

He headed toward Godfrey Mansion.

Peter closed the door quietly behind him and slumped against the door frame. He pressed his fingers against his eyes until he saw stars. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

His mistakes were so glaringly obvious. Roman's moods were changing faster than the tides. He was constantly teetering on the edge between rage filled violence and unadulterated sweetness. In fact, it was the gentleness that was so disarming, so unpredictable. The irrational bouts of anger were not out of character for Roman, as annoying as they were. But he kept giving Peter these looks. He had seen flashes of them before, particularly when they had exchanged friendly touches or Peter had complimented him in some way. It was like he glowed. Not the way Shelley did, like a nightlight in a dark room, but in a way that made light shine behind his eyes and wiped the smirk from his lips. It was a disarming look that always left Peter a little dazed and red in the face.

But Roman was unstable. He was not going to take fucking all night lightly. And truthfully, Peter couldn't either. He had broken Roman's trust once and getting it back hadn't been easy. If he did it again, there would be no second chances. He would lose the only friend he'd ever had and the only person who had ever truly known him. God, it all sounded so dramatic in his head.

"Oh my god, Peter," Destiny was standing in front of him. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes in a sort of prayer before reaching for him. "You're alive. And you look so guilty. But also alive, which is all that matters."

She hugged Peter tightly to her and he held her back, the tension falling from his shoulders at her familiar and soothing touch. Destiny dragged Peter into the kitchen by the hand and he trailed after her with little resistance. She placed a joint between his lips and lit it. Peter inhaled automatically.

"You took quite a beating. You must be sore," Destiny said, worry creasing her brow.

Peter snorted, sending smoke puffing out his nostrils. "Yeah, pretty sore." He smiled in spite of himself passing the joint to his cousin between two fingers.

Destiny gave him a funny look, but took a deep drag off the joint, holding the smoke in her lungs until it squeaked out in little choking coughs before she released it with a huff.

"I didn't want to leave you there, with him, you know. I wanted to take you home with me but there was just so much blood and every time we tried to move you, you just bled more, like a goddamn blood geyser" She clasped her hands around Peter's writs. "I hope you don't hate me. I didn't know what to do. I fucking hate myself for it."

Peter pulled his wrists from her prying fingers and placed his hands on her shoulders, steadying her reassuringly. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"That was some fucked up shit that went down out there, Peter."

Peter sighed. "Yeah. It was."

He took another hit off the joint, the paper crackling quietly as it burned. It made Peter feel warm and swimmy, halos forming around the kitchen lights. It soothed his ravaged nerves. He placed the joint in an ashtray and watched the thin trail of smoke curl up toward the ceiling from the still smoldering cherry.

Destiny looked at him, expectant. "So, what now?"

Peter was confused at first until he saw Destiny's bags still packed and sitting in the corner. There were piles of clean laundry, both hers and Peter's, in stacks around the room and she had pulled a variety of snacks from the cupboard and fridge and had loaded them into a cooler, which sat next to two six packs of beer. She wanted to leave.

"Destiny, I can't," Peter stuttered.

"Peter, it's over. You got Letha's baby back. She is safe to grow up to be a proper monster with the Godfreys for a family. You've done everything you needed to do. Why the hell do you still want to stay?" Destiny searched Peter's face for a moment. Peter must have gotten that guilty look again because her expression hardened.

"You didn't," she said flatly.

Peter took a long, deep breath and fixed his eyes somewhere over Destiny's right shoulder. Lying to her was impossible. He didn't even have to open his mouth before she knew the truth.

Destiny smashed Peter's face between her thumb and forefinger, drawing her nose close to his and forcing him to look her in the eyes. She spoke in a harsh whisper. "Peter Rumancek you fucking idiot." Her voice began to escalate. "You stupid, horny little bastard. What the hell were you thinking? What is it with you and this family? What is this magic power they hold over you?" Her voice had gone shrill with panic.

"I can't explain it! It's just…something." Peter mumbled. He felt sick with guilt. He never meant to put Destiny's life in danger. He had never meant to drag her into this mess between him and Roman Godfrey. He would not allow her to be the collateral damage when this volatile relationship went up in flames.

"Just something? Real articulate, Peter. I'm going to need something better than that. At least try and prove to me that you're not completely insane?"

Peter just shook his head. He wasn't entirely sure he wasn't completely insane.

"Honey, I know it's hard to be who we are. It can be lonely. But this thing you're doing, it's dangerous. I wouldn't be doing right by you if I didn't try and stop it. I mean, c'mon. There are plenty of pretty, pouty blondes out there that aren't named Godfrey and don't inherently want to destroy you. Please, Peter. Be rational."

Peter tried not to hear the condescension in her voice, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He recoiled when she reached for him and he saw the hurt in her eyes.

"You know what it is?" Peter started. "You know why I can't stay away? Why I keep going back to him even though I know it's a risk? Because he fucking sees me. Yeah, Roman is unstable and definitely dangerous. But he knows who I am, what I am. Sometimes, I just get tired of running and hiding."

"Oh, Peter" Destiny said, her voice full of pity. Peter couldn't blame her. It sounded pathetic. And it was only a half truth, watered down like weak tea.

There was more to it, a sharper edge, but Peter didn't dare try to explain why he felt drawn to Roman like a magnet. How his ears buzzed and his mind went fuzzy with static every time he they got close. He didn't want to tell her about the fire that consumed him when Roman touched him or the reckless abandon with which they fucked. Peter hadn't even considered exercising that kind of brutality with anyone else. And with Roman, it was just the tip of the iceberg. They were the same. Two monsters trapped in human skin, pretending to be something less dangerous than they were.

"He's in love with you, you know."

Peter shook his head. He didn't want to hear it. He wished he could shove the words back into her mouth so he didn't have to listen to them echoing in his ears.

"I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he lights up whenever you joke with him, or even just stand near him. He thinks you hung the moon, Peter."

Peter had had enough of the scolding and walked away from Destiny toward the spare room he now called his own. Roman wasn't in love with him. Peter was still fairly certain he wasn't capable of it. Love didn't govern the lives of the Godfreys the way it did everyone else. Their motivations lay elsewhere, with power, blood and lust. Peter was all those things to Roman.

And he could live with that.