literature

9500 Kiriban for Icysapphire

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The 21st Century was as good a place as any to hide, but Peter really had to learn a thing or two about appropriate dress for the times.

Emi, in a rare showing of feminine camaraderie, had taken Andie shopping herself and helped to pick out only the most flattering and adorable maternity clothes the outlet mall had to offer. And poor Peter, fear of the big Polish brothers not-so-hidden in his heart, was left to make his own way through the racks. And, just his luck, he stepped into Swifty Thrift instead of the Men's Warehouse next door.

It had been a long time since Peter had tried to don clothing appropriate for the time period. He'd done careful research that amounted to little when he walked piteously through the thrift store like a lost puppy for what seemed like hours before a kind woman in a blue vest and a name tag shouting "DORIS" guided him to the right section.

Had he been in a different century, he might have fit right in. If he'd accidentally landed the Porter in scenic 1937, he'd have been swooped up in the hands of the proletariat and lauded as the next Valentino. Shining brown patent leather shoes, neatly-ironed tweed trousers, a creamy knit sweater, conservative tie and dark tweed blazer made him look, as Doris had said, "professorial". He shuddered at the thought of looking like Professor Slee from Howaldt University, that slimy-haired septuagenerian in his god-awful spats.

But, eyeing himself in the tri-fold mirrors, he came to appreciate the look and couldn't dissuade himself from buying it outright. He grinned out at the ladies from under the shepherd's cap, meeting their twin stares of disbelief and disapproval with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"Is twenty dollars a lot of money, Em?" Peter asked as he looped Andie's hand through his arm.

"It's... really not," Emi replied, still not over the vintage look and trying desperately not to let her jaw waggle incomprehensibly.

And with Andie bedecked in her finest pregnancy-wear, Peter decided that he was going to take the both of them on a self-guided tour of Greater Jackson. He snatched up a Visitor's Guide and whirled out the door and into the twilight.

They were having a passible time, strangely enough, most of the night stuck in the center square with Peter trying desperately to make sense of the wrinkled fold-out map from the guide and Andie's accompanying laughter. At least they had the fountain to keep them company, she thought, as they rounded it for the sixth time in Peter's attempt to find the "fancy lobster restaurant" they had been seeking out for near-on an hour now.

"They hide things in the cities, you know," Peter mumbled, tracing a blue line on the map with his fingertip. "They don't want the common folk to find their fancy lobster restaurants, so they hide them in with their chocolatiers and their... their... malt shops and sock-hops." Andie shook her head, just appreciating his eyes in the yellow, dappling light from the fountain.

On their next trip past the fountain, the two passed a handful of highschoolers who seemed to find amusement in something. One redheaded boy tossed a coin into the fountain as he straggled behind the others. He looked up as the couple passed, and both Peter and Andie caught the boy's eyes.

If they hadn't been so focused on finding the fancy lobster restaurant, they might have felt the fabric of time-space tear just a little bit.

A spark lit up in the boy's eye, and while Andie looked back to the map, Peter's gaze lingered. It was like a memory he shouldn't have had, like that strange déjà vu that nibbles at the back of the brain but can never be placed.

"You," the boy growled, his lip curling in a sneer.

Peter stopped completely, a full five feet from the boy and the fountain. "Excuse me?"

"Peter Halifax," the boy spat, in what was clearly a sarcastic imitation of Peter himself. The boy had a bandage wrapped around his wrist, smelled slightly of charred wood and smoke.

Peter exchanged a quick glance with Andie, who folded up the map and joined her man by his side. "I'm sorry," Peter said with a calm inflection. "Have we met?"

"Have we met?" The boy hissed, all of his hackles raised. His friends had stopped, a good ten feet away and clustered in a worried group. "I'd hope draining all the blood out of someone's arm 'd be memorable!"

Peter concernedly brought out his glasses to observe the boy more closely, but still nothing registered. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head, "I have a nasty habit of meeting people out of order. I suppose I should apologize in advance for whatever I'm going to do to you, but I'm sure it was for a good reason. I don't tend to bleed people without a good reason."

Had it gotten hotter?

"Maybe this'll jog your memory!"

The boy's fist flared with a burst of fire, and while Andie gave a short cry and jumped back a step, Peter was ready. He blocked the swift punch with his wrist, circle-parried to grab the boy's flaming hand by the wrist, then redirected the boy's weight almost effortlessly and tripped him into the cool water of the fountain.

The boy's group of friends didn't know whether to laugh or come running to his aid, but Peter was there first when he rose sputtering from the water. He met the boy eye to eye, gray to dark, serious brown.

"I don't know who you think you are or how you believe we've met, but this is 21st Century Earth; you have no right to go about flashing your flames around like everyone knows that elementals exist. Do you understand? I can make it clearer."

The boy wiped his wet bangs from troubled eyes, observing the man with a new sort of light.

"Yeah," he grumbled, eyeing the pregnant woman at the edge of their confrontation, "all right, old man."

They did not end up at the fancy lobster restaurant. The three of them ended up in a dimly-lit bar that smelt of mahogany and hops. Peter had ordered a round for himself and the young, sopping redheaded man. The barman had been kind enough to lend a towel, which rested around the boy's shoulders. Andie sat aside with her soda, watching the boys and ready to break up a fight if she had to.

Peter took one gulp of the dark beer and inspected the boy with scrutinizing eyes. "Well, Blaise, I do remember the Grimoire. It took me near-on two months to find, but I did have it, by God. And I was going to use it, too."

"You did use it," Blaise interjected, eyeing Peter warily over the top of his glass. "I fought you myself. No way I'd forget the guy who filled a cup with my blood."

Peter thought about it for some time, then nodded into his drink. "It's possible," he said quite calmly. "It all depends on how much introspection into the nature of time-space you're willing to sit through."

"About five seconds," Blaise muttered before taking another drink.

"All right," Peter said with a sigh, "the abridged version then." He set aside his drink and clapped his hands together in preparation. "Most people," he began, "have a single timeline on which they exist. It's simple enough for a normal human to go through an entire life without encountering a single time-space paradox. I, however, do not have that luxury."

Andie giggled on their periphery, and Peter extinguished a giddy little smile in favor of the seriousness he had adopted with the young Blaise.

"Because of something that happened on the timeline in which I apparently fought you, I met a rather sticky end. My life on that timeline ended, and—"

"Woah, woah, hold on," Blaise cut in, also setting aside his drink. "You died and you're sitting here talking to me?"

"Well, yes and no." Peter ruffled his hair in thought. "The Peter Halifax that you knew is dead, so you're not speaking with me in that sense. My girl over there," he nodded to Andie, who waved sprightly, "decided that she didn't want me dead and hijacked a... time-traveling machine in order to stop me from entering into that timeline in the first place."

"So," Blaise thought, furrowing his eyebrows in thought as he flicked his eyes between Peter and Andie. "Doesn't that mean you never fought me?"

"Again, yes and no. A version of me fought you and wronged you, but the actions of my lady friend caused a split-timeline for myself, and therefore a... small fracture in time-space. It gets far more complicated, but I'll spare you."

"Thanks," Blaise grumbled. He took a drink, dried his hair a bit further, then stared into his drink for a good handful of minutes. By the time he looked back up, Peter had finished most of his beer and was staring across at the redheaded woman with the bulging stomach. He waved at her, the stupid kind of wave that a middle-schooler gives his girlfriend when she has to sit at a different lunch table. The pathetic wiggle of his fingers, lazy smile, all the same.

Blaise didn't have to make many guesses. That place had been all about making one wish, the one that meant the most. It didn't take any detective work to guess what Peter had gone in wishing for, especially when his girl gave him the exact same stupid middle-schooler wave right back.

"All right," Blaise said, though his face was still written in ire. Peter looked up, halfway to surprise.

"All right what?"

"All right, you're forgiven," Blaise said after another drink. "I figure you're probably telling the truth, so if you didn't even cut me up, there's really nothing I got to be angry with you about." He took another drink and then pointed an accusatory finger at the blond man. "But I'm still pissed off at that other you."

Peter snorted a laugh and tried to keep his serious face. "He's dead," he reminded the redhead. "That's not really fair to him, is it?"

"He's you, ain't he?"

"Technically."

"And are you offended?"

"Not really."

"There you go." He topped off his beer and slid the glass away. "Now buy me another drink, Professor."

Peter finally gave up and laughed, ordering another round for the both of them.
This is the short story requested by *Icysapphire because she caught my 9,500 pageview! (the other kiribans are drawings, and I have no scanner here so you have to wait til I find one!)

She requested that I write her character Blaise and my character Peter meeting again after Desire, and we all know how effed-up Peter's timeline is 8D I hope this is good for you, Icy!

And, in case anyone in following them, this also counts for one of my 100themes: 27. forgiven
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