Chapter Text
Arthur Lester has always been the type of man to fall in love with strangers.
The not-knowing is what sparks his interest, thousands of unknowns building into the fire of curiosity that keeps him in place and keeps him chasing that newness in every person that captures his attention.
However, this time is different. This time the stranger approaches him.
And the timing of this encounter is, in all truth, utterly abysmal. On-edge and in half a fight for his life, Arthur stands in the corridor of a hospital trying to keep his final connection to his old life alive. He and Daniel could both be dead before the day is out—Oscar, too—yet he stops to hunt the flame after a person he doesn’t know calls themselves golden.
He isn’t sure what keeps him rooted enough to hear this stranger out. Maybe it's just that John is golden, too.
John, who’s recent unsureness has let Arthur down, who Arthur is no longer sure he can trust, who is only doing the best he can, is clearly displeased as Arthur stands his ground and greets this stranger. “Can I ask who you are?”
And this stranger is clever, with a silver tongue snapping back a reply in an instant: “Absolutely. If I can do the same.” That’s a dangerous offer, almost more so than the threat of the Butcher himself. Names mean a lot in their world now, requiring trust of the utmost degree, which Arthur is not quite yet ready to give to this man.
“Who are you?” Arthur takes the bait and tries to force the other’s hand.
It doesn’t work. He knew it wouldn’t, is already sure this man knows better than he’s let on in their brief conversation, but—well. It can’t hurt to try.
It can’t hurt until it does, until the stranger scoffs and pauses for a long, delicate moment, then answers, “You first.”
Arthur’s first instinct is to tell the truth this time. He isn’t sure why, doesn’t have time to really consider what about this man makes him so eager to loosen his tongue, but instinct wins out amidst the looming threats dancing in his head.
He was an honest man, once. That man has been dead for a very long time.
“Parker,” Arthur says, honey voice careful as he speaks the word without stumbling. A borrowed name that was never meant to be carried by him.
Not borrowed; stolen, taken in cold blood with the edge of a knife against his throat.
It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his fault and he didn’t have a choice but Arthur Lester has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and has never been able to offer himself the same grace he gives to others.
So he calls himself Parker and hates himself a bit more each time, even if it is for his own good, even if most folks will never be given the opportunity to know it was a lie. He knows, and that is punishment enough.
“Parker,” the man repeats, slow and practiced as if tasting the way the word sounds between his teeth. Arthur thinks he can almost hear the wolfish smile on his lips as the stranger continues, voice lowering to a harsh sound just on the south side of a whisper. “You know, it’s funny you say that; I was under the impression that Parker was my name, Arthur Lester,”
His name is said with a bitter inflection, a curse forced out between gritted teeth. Arthur takes a shocked step backwards, fighting to find a reply amidst John’s incessant, panicked commentary now rapid-fire in his head.
“Paker,” Arthur says again, a dull echo of his prior inflection. It feels different, now; the panicked lilt catches on the later half of the name that is no longer his, was never his. He feels like he is falling apart, yet he can’t do anything except waver in place and wait for the fire to burn out.
This man is not a stranger.
“You killed me,” the man continues, shoes clicking once, then twice on the linoleum tile as he takes a pace closer to Arthur. It’s nothing more than a statement, a simple truth said with too much casualty considering the gravity Arthur’s life had taken on since then.
Since Parker died, bled out on the floor of their office with the ugly sort-of-gray carpet and the coffee stain underneath Arthur’s desk and the blood, soaking in to the throw rug and the pages of the book and spilling around Arthur’s shoes and—
“Arthur,” Parker snaps, redirecting the investigator’s attention back to the man in front of him. The man he killed and left for dead. The man John killed and left for dead, the man Arthur loved and lost and had no time to mourn, who was standing in front of him with probably the same look in his eye he always got when they were working a hard case and he hadn’t slept for a few days, but the cups of coffee from the bodega down the street could only do so much in the way of really keeping him going.
Arthur shifts, lifting his head to blindly meet Parker’s gaze. Parker doesn’t need to know he’s blind—can’t know, not right now, not when everything and more is on the line.
Nothing he can say will make this hurt any less. Still, he doesn’t have any other choice. “You’re not dead, Parker— how…?”
“Some things are…better left unsaid, right now,” The investigator’s voice sounds hollow, all the spark he once carried gone in an instant, like a candle with the flame snuffed out.
John has gone quiet since the two had begun speaking, but begins again now, falling easily back into his colloquial description. “He looks like he’s hiding something, Arthur. This man—Parker—is studying us with a practiced eye, almost…cataloging our injuries, I think. He’s staring at the scar on our throat now…wait—”
Arthur startles as John’s words are cut off, startles as what can only be Parker’s finger presses into the scar tissue across the hollow of his throat. John told him once the now-old injury looked like a river breaking through the holler, splitting the land in two. Parker tells him nothing.
“I’ve had—ah—some trouble, since you’ve been gone,” he offers by way of explanation. It’s not the truth, not exactly, but it’s all that Arthur can give.
He would give Parker the world if he could, though.
“Sounds like a bit of an understatement, hm, English?” The nickname comes as easy as it always did, Parker’s voice sounding much closer now as his fingers flit and dance across the marred map of scarring Arthur’s skin now carries. “What happened to you?”
“You always said our line of work was dangerous, didn’t you?” Despite himself, a smile tugs at the corners of Arthur’s mouth, picturing a younger version of himself, who ran headfirst into everything even when it hurt. He isn’t sure when he stopped running, when the goal faltered into nothing except survival.
John chooses this moment to chime in again, a sharp edge to his voice as his words vibrate in the back of Arthur’s skull. “There’s a dark look in Parker’s eyes, Arthur. He’s not satisfied with that answer, and he’s staring at us again, like he can see right through us…”
“I don’t know how you’ve ended up so far in over your head, Arthur, but…” Parker pauses for a long moment, and Arthur can hear the slow exhale of air before he continues, hesitant; “I have made my fair share of mistakes, too. They kept me alive, but that doesn’t mean we both don’t carry regret. You don’t have to carry it alone, remember that,”
Arthur shakes his head stiffly in response, looking down and away from Parker. “There’s a lot you don’t understand about this. About me. I–I can’t risk knowingly putting you in further danger, not after what happened last time.” His voice breaks, then, shattering like a mug dropped onto the kitchen floor. “If you knew the things I’d done, you’d hate me for it,”
“I could never hate you,” Parker answers automatically, and Arthur is reminded of the corner booth in Jack’s bar, of quick questions and slow answers and the citrus bite of gin in the air between them. He is reminded of opening up but not regretting it and stolen kisses against unmarred skin and Parker, Parker who should be dead but isn’t, who should despise Arthur for all the pain he caused but doesn’t.
Arthur swallows, hand coming up to brush over the scar at his own throat. Blind eyes snap back to Parker’s now, hunting for something he knows he won’t find in the darkness of his sight. “I hate myself enough for the both of us. Just…how are you here? I…I killed—”
“No, Arthur, I know enough of the truth. We both have our secrets, and that’s fine, but you aren’t responsible for the things that happened to me. There are…things, creatures, in this world that don’t belong here. They seek only for their own gain, and we got caught in the crossfire. But we can fix this, you and I. We were always a rather good team,”
The investigator almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I’m long past saving, Parker Yang. Please don’t get involved any more in this— I don’t know if I can lose you again… friend.”
John growls, the sound rumbling and reverberating through Arthur’s mind. “This man is no longer your friend, Arthur. The way he’s looking at us…we can’t trust him, Arthur. He’s dangerous, he—”
Parker is quiet for a moment as John’s words die in his nonexistent throat. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow, concerned and curious, until Parker breaks the silence. “Arthur, you don’t understand. I don’t have a choice; the music… I hear it too,”