People That You Must Remember

A/N: So this is a little ficlet I wrote for Hemlock Grove. In case you don't know, Hemlock Grove is TV show based on a book by Brian McGreevy. Unfortunately, this story will make no sense unless you've watched the show or read the book. The good news is that all thirteen episodes are currently available on Netflix. Roman and Peter were made to be shipped. Romancek feels, people. FEELS. So if you have Netflix, go watch it.

The title is from the song of the same name by Zulu Winter (episode 13)

It was a quiet evening in Hemlock Grove, past curfew. The streets were empty and houses were full. Still, after all this time, people were afraid to be outside after dark.

Not Roman Godfrey. Lately, it was hard for Roman to give a fuck about anything or anyone—even himself.

Leaning back in the driver's seat of the too-small, red Jaguar, Roman took a long, slow puff and waited.

"Is this like, a new hobby of yours?" Peter laughed, but it was a bitter, accusing laugh, the laugh he used when he found something funny, yet completely not—a laugh Roman had heard way too much.

"Is what a new hobby?"

"Don't play dumb. Why the hell are you at Jenny Fredrick's house? Do you have a thing for going through dead teenagers' rooms?"

Roman didn't answer. He focused on the cigarette, at the embers glowing at the tip, the smoke rising and filling his dead father's car.

Dead. Everyone was dead.

Except those that were just… gone.

"We've got the vargulf, Roman. Let the dead dog lie."

"Why the fuck do you care what happens in this town?" It was, after all, his town. Hemlock Grove might as well be Godfrey Grove. Roman whispered the words out loud, testing them out. He could change it, if he wanted to.

"Just… leave it alone, Roman."

"Leave it alone?" Roman asked, then twisted to face Peter, leaning in as he spit out the words. He looked Peter in the eyes. Lying, thieving gypsy eyes. "Why is it that you get to make all the decisions? Why do you get to decide when to leave anything alone?"

He wasn't exactly being subtle.

"It was time to move on." Peter glanced away, staring up at the Fredrick house and its neglected yard. It was late spring, almost summer, yet, remnants of fall still covered the lawn. Skeletal leaves, leaves that might have even fallen on the day of Jenny's death, sat in dry, depressing piles pressed up against the house.

"Right," Roman scoffed, leaning back again in his seat. Peter said the same thing every time they spoke, as if it were an acceptable reason. As if Roman should understand.

"It didn't have anything to do with you, Roman."

And that's what he was afraid of. Peter leaving, Peter staying—Roman factored in exactly nowhere.

"Roman, look at me."

He did, eventually, after taking another long drag on his quickly shortening cigarette, then turned his lanky frame sideways in his seat.

"What?" Roman demanded, hands flinging outward. "What?"

Irritated, he crushed the bloody cigarette butt into the ashtray.

"It's just our way."

"Hemlock Grove isn't a cage you know, you act like you'd be trapped here."

Peter leaned forward and reached for Roman's face. His hand curved around Roman's cheek, then his thumb swiped at the dripping blood. He took a sniff, then his eyes closed reverently.

"Shee-it."

For the first time in a long, lonely time, Roman smiled.

"Shee-it," he whispered, then took Peter's wrist and guided Peter's thumb into his mouth. He sucked slowly, his tongue wrapping around the digit once, twice, before letting go.

"You're a loose canon, Godfrey." Peter's tone was accusing, but he leaned even closer, so their foreheads touched. "I worry about you."

His eyes cast downward, Roman sighed.

"I have to go in there, Peter. For Shelley. I have to find her. She needs me." Roman choked on those last words, words he'd repeated so often they had their own taste.

Desperation.

"You don't understand. You think I'm wasting my time."

"I never said I thought she was dead."

"You never said she's alive either." Roman pushed Peter away, roughly at first, then more slowly as the distance between them grew. He didn't want more space between them, not really. He never had.

Peter leaned back against the passenger door and sat silently for a minute, his eyes studying Roman's face.

"You're getting pretty good at this," Peter said with a glance at the mirror sitting on the dash.

Roman shrugged. He guessed he was.

A knock on the window made Roman turn around, then roll the glass slowly down. The deputy stared down at Roman, annoyance quickly turning into surprise. She glanced over at the empty passenger seat, as if looking for an explanation, before staring at Roman again.

"Mr. Godfrey, you're bleeding."

Roman just nodded.

He always was.