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mollymauk-teafleak · 5 years ago

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Benzaiten Steel and the Case of Mistaken Identity

Ben has a very awkward morning on the Carte Blanche...

Just a fun little scene from a happier, better universe where Ben is alive and happy and committing intergalactic crimes with his brother and their new family.

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment over on Ao3!

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Contrary to popular belief, there were a lot of differences between the Steel Twins.

Sure, there was the obvious stuff like the hairstyle and the general disposition, how you could tell which one you’d bumped into on any given day by whether they were smiling or scowling. There was the dress sense and the scars and the tattoos that didn’t match, except for the one. And, of course, the different number of eyes.

But Benten had always thought it was the smaller differences, the ones nobody noticed, that mattered. That made them Juno and Benzaiten, not just the Steel Twins. Not that he resented being seen as one of a matched set, of course not. It was wonderful to work with Juno on the Carte Blanche, to live in the same space as him again and see him every day, tired in the mornings and working furiously into the evenings, to sit with him and have meals as a family with the rest of their crew. To always have him in arms reach, to show him a funny video on his comms or hang off his shoulders as they stood together. To use their nearly but not identical faces in their work, making people believe there was only one of them and seeing their faces when it all fell into place.

Benten knew how it felt to lose his brother and he never wanted to go back to that.

Still, it was nice to have their own individual quirks even if they went unnoticed. Like this, like how Benten was always the early riser while Juno would stay in bed as long as decent society allowed him. He’d gotten used to it as a kid; the three buses he had to take to his dance class had meant getting up just before sunrise six days out of seven. Juno’s hobbies, which were what Ben charitably called his obsessions, his research or his work meant he stayed up late buried in files and data, seeing patterns in it that no one else would, with one eye or two. Often when they were teenagers, he’d be up and about to head out just as Juno was dragging his carcass to bed.

That had led to an intimate familiarity with another difference, how each twin took his coffee.

Benten had the kitchen of the Carte Blanche to himself, the SimSun lights just kicking into gear. Soon the ship would come to life, the noises of some mechanical fix going on from the cargo bay as Jet began his first task of the day, Buddy humming to herself as she sat in her cabin and made the impossible possible, the clatter of Vespa sharpening tools in the med bay either to hurt or to heal, the hammering of fingers on keys as Rita worked at her comms, over the too loud chatter of her stream. And Ransom...well, Ransom doing whatever he did on a morning with his usual eerie silence. All that would come but for now it was quiet, just the sound of his bare feet sticking to the tiles as he moved around and the song he was whistling.

Today was going to be a good day, Benten told himself triumphantly. They were back in charted space which meant he could video call Mick, hearing his boyfriend’s voice and seeing his beautiful, ridiculous grin for the first time in weeks. The thousands of miles between them would shrink to the width of a comms screen and everything would feel better.

And it would start with coffee. He did feel a little pang of guilt at only making two cups, one for him and one for Juno, but it was hard to break traditions that were decades old. He’d always left one waiting for his brother in their crappy little Oldtown kitchen, for when he’d reluctantly follow him into consciousness. He’d always wanted the first thing Juno knew when he woke up was that someone was looking out for him. And to drink some coffee because he probably looked like shit.

Juno liked to pretend he was the toughest, meanest lady around, making Benten wonder if anyone else knew he took his coffee with three sugars and enough cream to make it barely a few shades above white. He mixed in each spoonful of freeze dried coffee and powdered, stasis milk carefully, though it would never taste like the real stuff you got planetside. There was a lot about long haul space travel that sucked. The food was ninety percent of it.

Still, it was hot and sweet and prickling with caffeine, in the mug Rita had painted herself with ‘world’s best boss’ printed on the side, and Benten knew his brother would really appreciate it. It would make him smile in that rough, crooked way he did, the smile that didn’t come out very often but Ben wished it would. People deserved to see it.

He stopped whistling as he balanced the mugs in his hands, trying really hard not to slop any over the sides. Sure the cleaning bots would take care of any spills but Benten had always felt mean about giving them any work to do. The kitchen door slid shut behind him, the mechanism not quite what it had been when the ship was new and making more noise than it should. Juno’s room wasn’t far, none of them had spread out much from the others even with all the rooms to choose from. He should only be a few doors down.

But as Ben moved past the bathroom door, he heard the sound of running water and his brother’s unmistakable rough voice, singing as he showered. Ben grinned to himself, pausing a moment to listen while Juno butchered a peppy, upbeat dance number that had come on the radio the other day. He had a good voice, though he’d never admit it, this just wasn’t his vibe. Still, he sang it cheerily and Ben could imagine him bouncing on the balls of his feet and swaying his hips in time to the beat as he soaped his hair.

Why was he up so early? What had him in such a good mood? Ben wondered briefly before realising he didn’t care all that much. What mattered was Juno smiling, singing, dancing, it didn’t matter why. Clearly, life on the Carte Blanche was doing him good, shaking him out of the dark place he’d been in ever since he’d lost the eye, regained it and lost it again. Just as Ben had hoped when he’d agreed to come with his brother and live as an interplanetary thief.

He had to take a few deep breaths so he didn’t cry then and there, just hearing his brother doing something as simply alive as singing in the shower.

Benten kept walking, thinking he would just leave Juno’s coffee in his room for him to come back to. And then maybe he’d ask him to play video games or watch a stream or ask if he could work on the stuff for their next job in his room. Anything just to be near him and see the light back on in his eye, to know for sure that he’d really got his brother back.

Benzaiten was still lost in his own thoughts as he approached the bunk Juno had claimed as his own, the one with the glitter covered sign that read ‘Mister Steel’s Room’ in Rita’s handwriting, the same as the ones she’d made for all of them on their first day aboard. He was so distracted, he couldn’t even be startled when the door opened before he was anywhere near it.

Or when Ransom stepped through, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts that covered very little and suggested very heavily what they did cover. That and a shirt of Juno’s that Ben recognised immediately, oversized so the neck draped to leave one shoulder bare. A shoulder covered in dark, mouth shaped shadows.

Ben stopped dead, eyes snapping wide. Every time he’d seen Ransom before now, he’d been perfectly made up and poised to the point of near absurdity, in his sleek, expensive outfits and coiffed hair and sharp smile. He’d been practically scared of the guy, not least because of how Juno reacted to him and wouldn’t say why, no matter how many times Benten tried to steer the conversation that way to find out more.

Now he wished he knew less.

Ben opened his mouth but couldn’t get any sound out, he was too stunned at the realisation that Ransom was actually human and not a perfectly styled doll of some kind. So Ransom just yawned, exactly like a cat would right down to the way he smacked his tongue after, and blinked, eyes useless with sleep and without his glasses.

“I thought you were showering, dear heart,” he mumbled, his slick accent muddied and rougher than it ever seemed.

And then, before Ben could make any kind of protest, Ransom closed the distance between them and kissed him languidly, hand slipping around his waist to grab a handful of...something that erased any doubt Ben had been clinging to as to what this man was doing in his brother’s bedroom.

Instantly, Ben froze solid, eyes wide with the kind of panic only rabbits facing down the headlights of oncoming cars and people in this exact situation could experience. A heartbeat later, Ransom did the exact same, unfortunately leaving him in that position for a handful of agonsing, painful seconds. When he finally jumped back, he looked very, very awake. In fact, he looked like he might never sleep again.

“So…” Ben cleared his throat, grimacing, “You’re sleeping with my brother, huh?”

Ransom’s blush was fearsome, more than a master thief’s really should be, “I...my sincerest apologies, Benzaiten, I was only...um, your brother...I…of you have any concerns about his...um, his virtue-”

Ben could have screamed cutting across him quickly, “I really do not want to hear the slightest thing about my brother’s virtue. Just...give him this,” he thrust the coffee at Ransom, “And never speak of this again. To him but especially to me. Agreed?”

Ransom took a deep breath, taking the coffee and hiking the shirt up to his neck, like that would erase the hickeys from existence, “Agreed.”

Eventually Benzaiten would realise he was happy about this. He would recontextualise a hundred glances between him and Ransom, he would learn to read the emotion in Juno’s voice whenever he talked about him, what was masked in the intensity of it. He would realise that finally someone loved Juno exactly how he deserved to be loved.

But for now, he was going to lock his door, call his boyfriend and scream into a pillow and wish with all his heart that more people would learn to see the differences between him and Juno.

#the penumbra podcast #jupeter #ben lives au #tpp #juno steel #benzaiten steel #peter nureyev #aurinko crime family #gonna write more for this ben lives au so if you have an requests send em in #please comment or reblog #pwease...

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gerrystamour · 5 years ago

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kiss away young thrills and kills

For: @daily-thots-ofhistory

@daily-thots-ofhistory said: for the fic request, Nureyev's first birthday with Juno (whether that's really his birthday or Juno just giving him a birthday or something else! Whatever you'd like!)

So I took a few liberties, with it being super introspective and whatnot, and not super focused on jupeter. Hopefully, the requester likes it! ;p

Peter woke up in Juno’s bed, yet the former detective was nowhere to be found. However, the sheets next to him were still warm when he slid his cool fingers across the soft linen. Juno had probably gotten up to get a head-start on his morning, maybe even secure a shower first before the other ladies aboard the Carte Blanche beat him to it.

With a tired yawn and a languid stretch, Peter rolled over to grab his comms off of the bedside table to check the time. When he did, he also caught the date and froze.

Thirty-eight.

Peter Nureyev had turned thirty-eight, and he had slept through it. Well, he hadn’t quite slept through it, given the ache in his thighs and hips and the pleasant memories of the night before. But midnight had come and gone, and he had forgotten to mark it with every bit of melodrama he could muster.

It had been the closest thing to a “tradition” he had for his birthday, watching the seconds tick down until the clock read four zeroes and the date moved forward. Then he would turn his gaze to a mirror and study his face, his hair, the skin of his throat and chest, looking for the evidence of his body failing him, as if the difference between 23:59 and 00:00 would change him as much as a full decade would have.

Peter would stare for what felt like hours, pulling his sagging face tight, poking at the dark bags under his eyes, sliding his tongue along his yellowing teeth. Objectively, he knew all along most of this worry had been in his head, that his face was still mostly smooth, his teeth perfect and white, and the bags under his eyes easily concealed. Objectively, he knew that even if all of those ideas had been true, they hardly actually mattered, least of all to his beloved detective.

Thirty-eight.

Peter was all of a sudden too old to round down to thirty-five, but still too young to round up to forty—not that he wanted to round up. He was officially, completely, in his late thirties, and he wasn’t sure where that left him emotionally.

At present, he was lying in his lover’s bed, rubbing the still-warm spot where Juno had been laying, and pondering linear time. He wondered whether it made sense to rail against it so hard, and if he should feel bad for being the way he was about his age and appearance.

But when he’d been travelling alone, all he had were his looks.

Sure, Peter had wit and charm, too, but it was mostly looks that got him in the door. Nothing disarmed a rich idiot like a pretty face.

But as he aged, Peter had quickly learned the unspoken rule the hard way. Rich idiots didn’t just want a pretty face to own and call theirs, they wanted pretty and young faces.

The first time a mark had scoffed at him for attempting a seduction when there were softer, younger, more inexperienced young men to choose from, Peter wasn’t sure who he was more disgusted with; the near ancient art dealer chasing after people only a quarter of his age, or himself for thinking he could compete. Later he had known it was the former, if the liberal use of his knife had been anything to go by, but there was still a fair bit of shame due to the latter.

It had been after that job when he began his entire routine of painstakingly covering up every single flaw he found.

Thirty-eight.

The same age Juno had been when they met. Things had… shifted after meeting Juno Steel.

Seeing the way the lady held himself in his oversized trench coat and thick turtleneck sweater, the way he had worn every single minute of his own thirty-eight years on his face and his shoulders had moved something into focus. The time they spent in Miasma’s tomb, the days he went without his make-up, without the touch-up dye for his roots, even without a toothbrush. Yet without fail, every time he caught Juno looking at him, Juno had seemed… stunned, blown away. His desire for Peter had been unmistakable.

Even during that terrible time, Juno had wanted him.

Of course, that hadn’t cured him of his anxiety regarding his continued usefulness and success with his waning appearance.

For a time—a period of forty-eight hours cumulatively—he had considered letting his silver hair grow out, as Juno’s had been allowed to. If his beautiful, dear detective could look his age, why not Peter? Together, he didn’t have to depend on his appearance, his desirability on its own.

Then Juno had left, and Peter was back to his old ways. There was no avoiding it, he told himself, and so he returned to dying his hair, doing up his face in oppressive layers of concealer and other make-up, to working his body through long hours or stretches, work-out routines, and yoga.

Things had changed again when he joined the crew aboard the Carte Blanche. With Juno’s return. He had found himself the youngest on the crew, the “baby” as Rita would exclaim when it was brought up, and suddenly every fear and anxiety he had seemed… petty, and even mean to say aloud, even jokingly.

How could he think himself ruined by a grey hair when their captain had half of her face rotting from radiation? How could he complain about the self-inflicted ache in his neck and shoulders when the rest of the crew had their own plentiful aches with far less room to criticize themselves for it yet never make a sound about them?

It had been a startling revelation during one of his nightly conversations with Juno that his fixation with his appearance had begun when he was with Mag. There had been different heists where they had depended on Peter’s baby-face, and when he began growing out of said baby-face, those jobs were jeopardized. He could remember the day his appearance had sharpened enough that Mag decided it was better to age him up with his presentation and adjusted their jobs accordingly. It was something Mag had claimed required sacrifice, and discomfort even.

Peter hadn’t realized just how far he had carried that man’s teachings in that regard. It had been so tightly packed away in the farthest reaches of his mind, something he kept hidden away since he was seventeen.

Ultimately, it had been a comment from Vespa of all people that had made him truly think about his nonsense.

They were preparing for a heist, something small for some money, just fleecing some rich idiot for as much as they could. It was just after his leg had healed and they got off that planet, and he and Juno were going in as a married couple. Peter had questioned Buddy’s insistence on that cover every time, but she had blown off the question, instead informing him that they were executing their plan the following day.

Peter had, largely without pausing to consider his words, idly mention needing dye, that all of his existing stores had been destroyed when the ship crashed into the ocean.

“The hell do you need hair-dye for, Ransom?” Vespa had bit out around her mouthful of dinner.

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, my roots have grown in quite a bit and—” Peter had started, pointedly ignoring Juno’s grumbling.

“You’re s’posed to look like a married couple,” Vespa interrupted with an eye-roll. “You can’t go in there looking twenty-five when Steel looks forty.”

“But I—why—I don’t look twenty-five,” Peter argued, furrowing his brow.

“It doesn’t matter how old you look, Ransom! We get it, you’re used to working alone, whatever,” Vespa snapped before she took a breath. “When you’re working with someone else, it’s better to match. So if you dye your hair, Juno has to dye his.”

“But—”

“For this job, you can’t look like a trophy husband, Pete,” Buddy said, seemingly annoyed by the interruption to the family meeting. “You would stand out. I will gladly pick you up some dye after the job to sooth your ego, but not before. Now, can we get back on track?”

They were right, of course. That didn’t mean he particularly liked it. But he couldn’t continue to get away with making himself look younger and younger while he ran with a band of thieves who were all clearly older than him.

Peter wasn’t exactly graceful in his allowance for aging, of course, but he was working on it. He started by allowing the silver in his hair to grow in, and wearing less concealing make-up around the Carte Blanche. He hadn’t thought he had made much progress in the “being okay with aging” angle of his growth and unpacking of his emotional baggage.

Yet there he was, lying in bed on his thirty-eighth birthday, stunned he had missed it. He hadn’t just missed it, he realized, but he had forgotten it was coming up at all.

Peter was startled from his thoughts as an arm slid around his waist, skin warm and damp from a shower. “Sorry, babe,” Juno whispered against his shoulder blade. “Didn’t realize you were that far away.”

That was one of Juno’s probing statements; when Juno had a question and wanted the answer, but would have dropped if Peter didn’t respond. That simple statement was equal parts apology for the startle, and inquiring after what had him so distracted. It would have been so easy to say he had just been daydreaming, to roll over and distract Juno with kisses and gentle touches, but…

“It’s my birthday,” Peter whispered, and if it hadn’t been for the way Juno stiffened against his back, he would have thought the former detective hadn’t heard him.

“It is?” Juno’s voice was strained as he asked it, and Peter realized belatedly his error.

“Don’t you worry your pretty head, my love,” Peter reassured him gently, covering the hand splayed over his lower abdomen with his own and tangling their fingers together. “I hadn’t said anything about it. I usually don’t—this is the first birthday in a very long time I haven’t been alone for.”

“Oh,” Juno whispered, and Peter shivered at the kiss pressed to the centre of his back. “Is there anything you wanted to do?”

“Mm,” Peter hummed, rolling over in Juno’s arm to kiss him chastely, warmth bursting in his chest at the hesitance in Juno’s voice. “Perhaps we can… stay in bed? Together?”

Juno smiled against his lips and laughed. “Yeah, Nureyev, I think we can,” he replied and then asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”

“You’ve already done more than enough, love,” Peter replied softly, tucking his head under Juno’s chin. “Just being here is perfect.”

“Sap,” Juno grumbled, and Peter laughed.

“And you love me for it,” he replied, smirking as he felt the heat of Juno’s flush crawl down his neck.

“So what if I do?” Juno grumbled petulantly, and Peter laughed at that.

“Say it,” Peter said, but it was more of a question, really. A request for reassurance. At the last moment, he softened it with a quiet, “Please?”

“Fine,” Juno grumbled jokingly, pulling back so his mismatched eyes met Peter’s own. The prosthetic for his implant was always a few shades different than his natural eye, which Peter was fairly convinced was an intentional choice of Juno’s.

With a grin, Juno added, “Peter Nureyev, I love you, and I love that you’re a sap, and no I will literally never stop complaining about it.”

Peter smiled at that and accepted the kiss Juno had for him, sighing as it deepened and allowing himself to be rolled onto his back, Juno slotting in between his legs with a soft sound of his own.

“Hey,” Juno said, pulling back and biting his lip nervously. “How about I make that one dish I made a few weeks ago? The one with the flatbread thing you like so much?”

“Why would you make something so time-consuming?” Peter asked, truly puzzled. “Plus, we had decided it uses too much of our supplies, but doesn’t make enough for the crew.”

“I wasn’t going to make it for the crew, Nureyev. I want to make it for you,” Juno replied with a laugh.

Peter blinked at him a bit dumbly, before asking, “For… me? But why?”

“It’s your birthday, babe. I want it to be a nice one,” Juno said, seeming a bit puzzled. “I mean, I get not liking your birthday, but that doesn't mean I can’t do something nice, right?”

“Oh, you’ve already done enough for me, love,” Peter sighed, pulling Juno into a solid kiss to distract him from the tears that had filled his eyes.

Yes, he still hated that time moved ever forward, and yes, he had another year at least of unpacking to possibly be “okay” with it. There was a chance he would always have the nagging voice of Mag in his head pointing out each new wrinkle, every new patch of silver hair growing in.

But he had his beautiful detective in his arms, and a family out in the halls of the Carte Blanche if he would reach out and accept them… he couldn’t reasonably ask for much more on his thirty-eighth birthday.

#the penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #jupeter #juno steel #junoverse #complete fic #gerry writes #gerry requests #jupeter requests

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