22. Talk

Beverly was gentle, even now. She understood his pain and respected it. Perhaps she felt it, too, deep in her bones. She'd been dead for longer, after all.

Her caresses were wondrous and frightened, as if she'd long forgotten the feel of human skin, and Peter Lake wondered if time worked the same way, up here, in the sea.

How long had she screamed and wept around him? Without so much as a reaction to compensate for her suffering?

Don't cry…

She kissed him once, and then again, and again, and Peter Lake kissed her back, and he trembled deliciously when her hold on him tightened.

She said his name, maybe, but her words were a mumble. She had tears in her eyes.

Please…

And she was here, and he had no idea how long they'd be allowed this unfair privilege, to be together in one place, in spite of it all.

You're my life… You're the best person I know…

So he kissed her, held her, though the effort only thickened the pain. He stroked her beloved face with both hands, nuzzled her nose with his own, kissed her fallen eyelids, the scratches on her cheeks…

Beverly…

She pushed his wet hair away, over his forehead, her musical hands quivering. Peter Lake tasted the salt on her skin. The water. The stardust.

She dug a hand into his jacket, pressed her hand to the space between his shoulder-blades, steadying him against her. And now she did say his name, unmistakingly.

"Peter…"

Though the tears cracked through the syllables. He rained a second string of kisses across her face. He could have devoured her whole. Beverly breathed raggedly.

"Talk to me," he murmured, then. "Tell me anything… Before we run out of time again…"

"This is death…" Another kiss. A shared, tremulous breath. "We have nothing… but time…"

It was no wonder, that every part of him ached.

He remembered the clatter of the silver on the satchel. And the sound of the fence. That horrible sound… He thought he had escaped it…

It was all orders….

His bones clattered now. She'd stolen him away.

Thief.

She was no thief. She was no runner, either.

She would be caught.

Magpie…

"Talk," he said again. "Please…"

Beverly took his other hand in her own, lifting it gently, bringing it to her lips. She kissed it in the same manner. At the center of the web. Where it ached the most.

She nodded, at last. She seemed to understand his terror, though she didn't share it.

I never told you about the fence…

He'd taken so long to say Athansor's name… To tell her he loved her… How long would it take him, to speak of death? Or fences? Or knives?

I killed one of Pearly's men… He was chasing me, he would have murdered me… But he was begging when I struck him down, and that will haunt me forever…

He hated this particular guilt… He did, truly… A guilt that was not even fully warranted…

Petes… Pete…

He felt childish, absurd, for even subjecting her to it. For all that he'd just told her.

Why can't you hate me?

Those were the bastards who poisoned her. Why did he still feel sorry for killing one of them? In an act of self-defense?

Peter…

"What do you want me to talk about?"

Why this guilt? Why? It only gave her more pain.

Why did he fear now, so deeply, like he'd never feared before, that he would never deserve a chance to hold her in his arms, to kiss her, to listen to her hoarse, sweet voice, or a chance to never be able to forget her altogether? To see her face every day, so he would never be denied every detail, every hue and shape that made her who she was. Her name would never unspool into oblivion, with the passage of time.

She was with him, in a streetless ocean, forever, and her tent was unlit.

And he loved her so deeply. And she loved him, loved him. And Beverly wasn't an idiot. If she loved him, there was reasoning behind it.

You offend yourself, and offend me too…

She'd told him this before. Dressed in purple. In her own words. And he had forgotten already… How dare he… How could he…

I promise never to offend you again, Beverly…

Why was he spoiling her happiness with his own stubborn shame? His own need for pain? He'd been through so much, all his life, that in its lack, he hurt himself. And through that, he hurt Beverly. The woman he loved… For poisons he hadn't poured, and deaths he had merely reacted to…

I promise…

Why was her star unlit? It was daytime, yes, but stars never fade, their glimmer never vanishes. They only become overshadowed by the sunlight.

No matter… No matter…

She'd been all alone, screaming for him, and he hadn't heard a word. And he would listen now.

"Tell me what you've seen," he said. "What you've done… Anything you feel comfortable with telling me, really…"

She curled herself toward him, closer, closer.

He offered his arm and she pillowed her head there. Her hair was absorbing the moisture that had bathed it, crimson curls curving thickly, framing her death-pale face.

The first time he'd seen her, her hair had looked exactly like this. Wet and frenzied, absorbing the crisp winter morning…

She was colder than ever. He felt her through the layers of fabric, his jacket, his shirt.

"You're beautiful," he found himself breathing.

She shivered, a pained chuckle shaking her bones. "You are, too…"

I'm sorry for making you cry… Sorry… Sorry…

He held her closer.

"I met someone…" she told him. "Your… Your friend… Cecil…"

Cecil.

His cat-like brown eyes. The warmth in his hugs. His erratic bursts of poetry…

"Cecil?" Peter murmured, his voice trembling.

"Yes…"

It took some effort for him to ask his follow-up question: "He's… He's here…?"

"I don't know where he is now… He told me he would meet you on the road back to New York…"

"No…"

"But he didn't appear… He's vanished completely…"

"How- How lo-" The tears were rising again. Cecil's dark face, the winking firelight dancing on his skin, his contagious grin. "How long has…?"

Beverly's colorful eyes moved tenderly along his features.

"I can't comprehend it, either," she said. "It's all very strange… But… you've known him in life and in death alike… He's been dead for a long time… In fact, he… he told me he only managed to return up here because… you gave him back his coins…"

She winced, embarrassed.

It was similar to the glance she'd cast upon him, some days before, when both of their hearts still beat. He'd been lain down, too, even then. And she'd been seated beside him, holding his filthy hands, and she'd told him that the sky was an ocean and that the dead were the stars.

Peter Lake kissed her fingers as they danced along his chin. He shook his head.

"Keep talking… I'm listening…"

"It's a lot for you to know… So many things you must believe…"

"Don't worry, love, I'll believe you… I promise I-"

He didn't reassure her for long. Because, at that moment, miraculously… Beverly burst out laughing.

And Peter Lake swore to hear a sharp exhale of gas, somewhere in the tent. The lamp had flickered, momentarily, before sinking back into darkness.

It's odd… But then again, stars are fire and gas... They need both to shine…

"Oh, Peter," she giggled, tears dancing between his fingers. "My mother is a fireplace… You don't- You don't- have to believe me…"

"What?" A stupid reply, all he could muster.

And Beverly laughed again, through tears, through hiccups, through pain she hadn't confessed to. She laughed…

She was life, even in death.

My love…

The color returned to her cheeks. She glowed, there, on the floor, in his arms, dressed in green, her beautiful eyes flooded, and Peter Lake smiled.

Yes, smiling hurt, and his heartless chest ached for her.

Most likely, he didn't belong here. He was a satchel full of silver, a needle trapped in an unfinished tapestry, a wingless magpie whisked off mid-descent, rescued from a blinding pain…

But he didn't care, not at this particular instant.

I regret many things… but I don't regret making you happy…

She was laughing again… What else mattered?

I regret not a second of my life that I dedicated to you…

The sky was bright and grey outside, the waters gentle. He could hear bells somewhere, as well…

Not a choice I made that brought you joy, or relief, or fulfillment…

He dipped his head, kissed her lips. Her smile melted against his mouth, and she caressed his face, drew little paths on his flesh with the tips of her fingers.

I love you… You know this… I love you so much…

"I believe you…"

Beverly trembled. He pressed his forehead to hers.

"Tell me anything, Beverly… I'll believe you."

So, in due time, she told him everything. Embraced to him, on the floor of a tent, floating in an ocean of starlight.

And Peter Lake kept his word.

I love you…

He believed her.


Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

Here it is, the second half. I don't have time to write an over-elaborate Author's Note here, not today.

But I will say that I love giving Peter these complicated feelings about his own future in death: that he is still not as optimistic as Beverly, in spite of everything, that he fears he will only have a handful of hours with her before he is brought to the place he truly deserves to be in, but he chooses to believe her anyways.

He doesn't feel like he deserves to spend time with Beverly again, or to get a chance to be with her every day, so that he never actually forgets her (this is both a little reference to Peter's amnesia in the film AND maybe some foreshadowing? Given that Peter's amnesia is one of the aspects of the movie that frustrates me the most - well, most amnesia plots, in general, tend to frustrate me - I don't think I'll include it, because my plans for his arc are very different from the way the last third of "Winter's Tale" plays out, at least regarding the memory loss. I may incorporate some amnesia elements in another way... We'll just wait and see...), but at the same time he is happy to make her happy, cause he sees her as worthy of happiness. So yes. I'm very proud of this chapter :3

I'm also so happy with the last line he says to Beverly here, "Tell me anything, I'll believe you", I feel like it's such a wonderful thing to hear from your significant other, that they are willing to overlook their own cynicism for your sake - Peter would be like that, I think. That's why I love the dynamic between these two - the pessimist, the optimist, the realist, the dreamer, etc.

I'll see you again soon. Here is your hug, and my thanks. I'm so glad you're here. *hug* Take care.


January 23 2023 - I edited Peter's inner thoughts and conclusions because I feel like I'm making him a little too guilt-ridden and I'm trying to make his contemplation on the nature of his own guilt and his own demons more 3-dimensional than simply going like "he's sad." I feel like making him too much of a guilt-ridden character can be a little exhausting (as well as kind of simplistic and downright offensive to this character that I really love, and part of why I love him is because he possesses humanity in spite of the circumstances he was raised by, so I should make him more aware of that fact, in his own way: in seeing that Beverly loves him and that she has a reason to love him, for example, I think that's completely justified AND in-character for Peter to realize, and that this is why he decides to re-evaluate which aspects of his guilt are warranted and which ones he is over-feeding with his own pessimistic mind). Basically: I made him suffer too much these last few chapters and I need to correct this, because I feel like Peter Lake is much more than his own pain.