Disclaimer- Santa obviously didn't get my letter in time, so I didn't find the rights to CJ in my stocking. Oh well, on with the fic.

Author's Note- This super fast update is a thank you to jtbwriter and Floating On Cloud 9, who have reviewed so faithfully and promptly.

Several hours later, Peter sat in his parents' living room waiting for them to come downstairs. The butler had given him a cold look as he showed him in and Peter expected more of the same from his stepfather. He stood and began pacing, as the wait grew longer. The calm, satisfied feeling from his talk with Marta had evaporated the moment the front door opened and he'd stepped inside this mausoleum. The house had always felt cold and unwelcoming to Peter with the exception of his mother's sitting room, which was as warm as she was.

"Petya, you are finally home." His mother entered the room, took his hands and kissed his cheeks, calling him by the name she'd always used. For a moment, at the sound of the Czech diminutive, he thought again about not telling them, but before his conscience could start to berate him, his stepfather entered.

"Peter." He nodded toward him and held out his hand. Peter crossed the room and shook it. Thomas Winslow never walked over to greet someone. Like Mohammad, the mountain came to him.

"How are you, sir?"

'Okay they're both here, so tell them.'

He'd hoped his conscience would stay out of this

"Better now that you are back, your mother has been quite distracting with her concerns over you." Thomas Winslow was possibly the stiffest, coldest man Peter had ever known, but his one redeeming characteristic was the fact that he loved Peter's mother completely. "Where are your bags? I'll have the butler take them to your rooms."

"I won't be staying here, sir. I've already found a place."

'Get it over with, Winslow.'

'Butt out.' He thought.

"I see and have you found work as well? You know Robert Hampton is still looking for a partner for his practice." Winslow would have as a matter of course made certain word of Peter's whereabouts had been suppressed.

"Yes sir, I'll be returning to the coroner's office, starting Monday." He could see the displeasure in his stepfather's eyes at that announcement, but wasn't concerned. The man would have more to be displeased about soon enough.

'DO IT!'

'Shut up.' The voice finally seemed to listen.

"Mother, sir, I have something I need to tell you." Peter took a deep breath. "It's about where I'm staying. I'll be living with someone very special to me."

"Oh, Petya, I'm so glad to hear that. You must bring her to dinner. Why didn't you bring her tonight, you naughty boy?" His mother was beaming. "What is her name? You know I don't approve of living together, you really should marry the girl, if you love her."

"Well I'm glad to see you've gotten past mourning Allison." Thomas said. "Who is this girl? Who are her family?"

"Please just sit down and listen." Peter said with more vehemence than he'd intended.

His mother and stepfather looked stunned, but sat down quietly, looking at him expectantly. His stomach was in knots. He was certain this would be his last conversation with his parents. The tension became so great that he paced, running his hands through his hair as he began. "I... I... SHIT! I'm gay alright; the someone I'm living with is a man. I know you're not going to approve, but I love him."

Peter knew he was babbling, but needed to try and make them understand before they had a chance to pass judgment. "He's strong and smart and gentle and perfect, Damnit! He's the most wonderful, beautiful person I've ever known and he loves me in spite of how screwed up I am, so go ahead and tell me how disappointed you are and get it over with, but I'm not crazy and I'm not high, I'm in lo–"

Peter stopped short as his stepfather rose from the sofa, looked at his wife and left the room without a word. Peter turned to his mother and fought back the tears that threatened to spill out.

"Matka?" His voice broke as he used the name he'd called her when he was small without even realizing it.

"Peter, I think you should go." Peter felt the English form of his name like a knife; he'd never been Peter to his mother, even when she'd learned of his drug problem, she'd called him Petya.

She stood and walked to the door of the living room. She grasped the doorframe for support and Peter rushed to her side. She shrugged off his hand and looked at him as though he were diseased, a leper. "You know that you must no longer come here. If you decide to come to your senses, we will of course welcome you home. Until that time…" She walked away without another word.

For several hours, Peter drove without thinking, paying no attention to where he was. There was no point going to the apartment, Garret would probably be busy with the Titleman case. He drove over most of Boston Proper aimlessly, alternating between crying and cursing.

Suddenly he realized he'd cruised the same block in Southie four times. He recognized the buildings and knew where he was. He had driven to the last place he'd scored before going into rehab. He pulled over to the curb and sat shaking and crying, his hands close to putting permanent indentations in the wheel.

He waited for his conscience to kick in and start ordering him to a meeting, but it was strangely silent; somehow, that only scared him more. As he sat on the verge of getting out and going into the bar he'd gone to the last time he'd come here, there was a knock on the window. He looked out at the man standing there and rolled the window down an inch.

"Yeah."

"You looking for a ticket to fly, man?"

A/N- Just makes you want to smack Peter, doesn't it?