Silence (Fic, Angela/Peter)
Title: Silence
Pairing: Angela/Peter, mention of Nathan/Peter
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, Slight dub-con (sort of), Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or its characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.
Spoilers: Anything up to Volume 4, Episode 22 “Turn and Face the Strange”
Summary: While spending time in the desert waiting for Nathan and Claire to arrive, Angela remembers just how much she loves her younger son.
A/N: Betaed by karaokegal. This story is for rtwofan; it's because of her I finished this. Enjoy, leave comments.
The desert is cold at night, so cold the chill has taken permanent residence deep in my bones. The silence is so complete all I can hear is my son's breath as he lays beside me. I listen to the even, measured sound of it, feel the warmth radiating from him, and I pull him closer. He does not resist. I place a gentle kiss on his forehead, and he stirs, but he does not wake.
My younger child has always been my favorite; Nathan was, and still is his father’s son. Peter reminds me of myself when I was young, even younger than he is, before I was forced to take off my rose-colored glasses and cast them into the winds of change. Somehow, he has managed to hold onto his, even considering the adversity he has experienced in his young life. He is still a dreamer, still idealistic. He still believes in the inherent good of the world and the people in it, and despite what I’m about to tell you, he is still innocent.
When I learned my husband took away his natural ability, I was furious. Not only had Arthur taken away everything Peter had ever been, but he also took part of what I shared with Peter. He inherited his first ability from me.
Most of the younger generation’s abilities had appeared suddenly in conjunction with the solar eclipse that occurred about two years ago. That is not true in Peter's case. Even though he was unaware of it, Peter was a precognitive dreamer as early as his college years. I know this because he told me about one in particular.
When Peter said he’d never had a dream like it before, I knew his ability had finally manifested. He wouldn’t have had to say another word. I wasn’t surprised at the images of his dream either. I, after all, had dreamt the same thing.
***
There is a tentative knock at the door, and I tell him to come in. I’m the only one here inside the expanse of this house. His father and his brother aren't here, and won't be for another few days.
“I had a dream, Mom," he says. “About you.”
Peter is pale, and I know he's afraid of what he has seen, where his mind has taken him while he slept.
I motion for him to sit down next to me, but he is frozen in place, and he won't meet my eyes. I reach for his hand and take it, and gently pull him closer. He sits, and says nothing for a long while. I wait. I wait for him to tell me what he has seen, what I already know.
I put my arms around him, and his body is rigid; he is not comfortable in my embrace, and it breaks my heart. My little one opens his mouth and words spill forth. When he finishes, he is speaking in a whisper, and close to tears. I can tell he feels better with this confession, because his body has relaxed, but he still isn't able to raise his eyes to look at me.
He is ashamed of himself. I know how he feels; I am well aware of the guilt that accompanies the desire to consummate a relationship like the one he has just described. And although I know Peter has a relationship similar to this with Nathan, he is not fully aware of the predisposition that runs in our blood. He's so upset at this moment that now is not the time for a cold, clinical explanation for all of this. When is the time, really?
I hold him close to me, and the room is so silent I can actually hear his tears fall onto my shoulder. I pull away and I look at him; he is beautiful, he is nervous, and he is shaking. “Peter. Look at me.”
He looks up. His eyes finally meet mine.
"I'm your mother, Peter. Nothing you could ever tell me will change that.” I deliberate for a moment. I need to choose the right words here. “Not even this…secret desire you have.”
"It's not a secret desire,” he insists. “I don’t know…what it is.”
“All right, then it’s not. Is that all you have to tell me?” I ask, wiping the last of the tears from his face.
At these words, he almost looks disappointed, as if that is not what he expected me to say. As if he thought this would shock me. He stares at me expectantly, as if he is asking my permission, my blessing.
I say nothing. Suddenly, he blushes and apologizes, and it is all I can do to keep myself from laughing. I never thought it would be this difficult for Peter to admit he is curious.
I say, “All right, Peter. Go on back to bed.” I take his face in my hands once again and lean in to kiss his cheek, intending to send him off, but he turns his head, and his lips touch mine, chastely at first, much like the way I kissed him as a child. I don’t move, and I do this purposefully. I won't force this on him. He has to decide if this is what he wants.
He does want this. I know, when I feel his tongue run along my lips. I let him in, and as my tongue brushes his, I feel his last bit of resistance break, like a rubber band pulled so taut it finally snaps. His spine straightens, and I feel his hands on my shoulders, my neck. He reaches up and pulls the barrette that holds my hair, and he runs his fingers through it, sending a chill down my back. He pushes the straps of my nightgown off and places a kiss on my shoulder.
“I always thought you were so beautiful, Mom,” he sighs. The touch of his lips on my skin becomes more confident, his hands so gentle, gentler than his father ever was. His lips trace the swell of my breast, and his finger slides beneath the low neckline of my nightgown, grazing my nipple slightly. I know what he wants.
I can think of nothing I want more. But I will not rush him. I will not scare him. I place a hand on his thigh and squeeze very lightly. “Go on, Peter.”
He flickers his tongue under the satin, a quick flash of heat, and I inhale sharply. He does it again and again. He’s playing with me. He wants me to touch him. I move my hand up the inside of his thigh, and his body jerks forward. He presses up into my palm and with a moan, his mouth finally closes on my breast. The nightgown falls and gathers around my waist.
He suckles there, and I can’t help but remember him as a baby, sucking just like this. This image should disturb me, but it only excites me more. I remember his huge eyes just looking up at me, his little hand grabbing at one while he sucked at the other. I open my eyes, and those beautiful brown eyes are there, my son, a grown man now.
He lets go, and he is breathing hard. Any pretense of shyness has evaporated. His eyes never leave mine, except when he pulls his shirt over his head. Without hesitation, he slides his fingers underneath the waistband of his pants and they drop to the floor.
Last time I saw him fully unclothed, he was a slender adolescent; now he has filled out, his white skin tight over the planes of his chest, his stomach. He has hardly any hair on him, and he looks considerably younger than he really is. I have to look away.
He notices my sudden apprehension. Peter smiles suddenly, and I don’t like the look in his eyes; too much like his father now.
Unlike Arthur, Peter knows nothing of being in control of his actions. I have spread his life out before him. He really is just a hapless prisoner in this house where I have raised him, the schools I've sent him to, the sacrifices I've made for him. With this final action, no matter how he seizes control of his destiny in the future, I will always wield this over him.
I smile back at him, betraying nothing else, especially not the sudden shot of anger I feel at allowing him to see my weakness. I will not let him know how our positions had temporarily reversed. He surely cannot be allowed to continue standing above me.
“Sit,” I command.
He obeys.
I stand.
He has given himself to me, and now I will show him what that really means.
Peter’s dream is unfolding before his eyes, and his fear returns, because he knows that we cannot change what we see in our dreams.
***
Peter is awake now; I felt him stirring while I was in the midst of my memory. But his arms are still tightly wrapped around me, his body so warm and so close, and I wonder if he possibly remembers any of what I asked his father to make him forget long ago.
He is still innocent. I could have it no other way.
Pairing: Angela/Peter, mention of Nathan/Peter
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, Slight dub-con (sort of), Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or its characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.
Spoilers: Anything up to Volume 4, Episode 22 “Turn and Face the Strange”
Summary: While spending time in the desert waiting for Nathan and Claire to arrive, Angela remembers just how much she loves her younger son.
A/N: Betaed by karaokegal. This story is for rtwofan; it's because of her I finished this. Enjoy, leave comments.
The desert is cold at night, so cold the chill has taken permanent residence deep in my bones. The silence is so complete all I can hear is my son's breath as he lays beside me. I listen to the even, measured sound of it, feel the warmth radiating from him, and I pull him closer. He does not resist. I place a gentle kiss on his forehead, and he stirs, but he does not wake.
My younger child has always been my favorite; Nathan was, and still is his father’s son. Peter reminds me of myself when I was young, even younger than he is, before I was forced to take off my rose-colored glasses and cast them into the winds of change. Somehow, he has managed to hold onto his, even considering the adversity he has experienced in his young life. He is still a dreamer, still idealistic. He still believes in the inherent good of the world and the people in it, and despite what I’m about to tell you, he is still innocent.
When I learned my husband took away his natural ability, I was furious. Not only had Arthur taken away everything Peter had ever been, but he also took part of what I shared with Peter. He inherited his first ability from me.
Most of the younger generation’s abilities had appeared suddenly in conjunction with the solar eclipse that occurred about two years ago. That is not true in Peter's case. Even though he was unaware of it, Peter was a precognitive dreamer as early as his college years. I know this because he told me about one in particular.
When Peter said he’d never had a dream like it before, I knew his ability had finally manifested. He wouldn’t have had to say another word. I wasn’t surprised at the images of his dream either. I, after all, had dreamt the same thing.
***
There is a tentative knock at the door, and I tell him to come in. I’m the only one here inside the expanse of this house. His father and his brother aren't here, and won't be for another few days.
“I had a dream, Mom," he says. “About you.”
Peter is pale, and I know he's afraid of what he has seen, where his mind has taken him while he slept.
I motion for him to sit down next to me, but he is frozen in place, and he won't meet my eyes. I reach for his hand and take it, and gently pull him closer. He sits, and says nothing for a long while. I wait. I wait for him to tell me what he has seen, what I already know.
I put my arms around him, and his body is rigid; he is not comfortable in my embrace, and it breaks my heart. My little one opens his mouth and words spill forth. When he finishes, he is speaking in a whisper, and close to tears. I can tell he feels better with this confession, because his body has relaxed, but he still isn't able to raise his eyes to look at me.
He is ashamed of himself. I know how he feels; I am well aware of the guilt that accompanies the desire to consummate a relationship like the one he has just described. And although I know Peter has a relationship similar to this with Nathan, he is not fully aware of the predisposition that runs in our blood. He's so upset at this moment that now is not the time for a cold, clinical explanation for all of this. When is the time, really?
I hold him close to me, and the room is so silent I can actually hear his tears fall onto my shoulder. I pull away and I look at him; he is beautiful, he is nervous, and he is shaking. “Peter. Look at me.”
He looks up. His eyes finally meet mine.
"I'm your mother, Peter. Nothing you could ever tell me will change that.” I deliberate for a moment. I need to choose the right words here. “Not even this…secret desire you have.”
"It's not a secret desire,” he insists. “I don’t know…what it is.”
“All right, then it’s not. Is that all you have to tell me?” I ask, wiping the last of the tears from his face.
At these words, he almost looks disappointed, as if that is not what he expected me to say. As if he thought this would shock me. He stares at me expectantly, as if he is asking my permission, my blessing.
I say nothing. Suddenly, he blushes and apologizes, and it is all I can do to keep myself from laughing. I never thought it would be this difficult for Peter to admit he is curious.
I say, “All right, Peter. Go on back to bed.” I take his face in my hands once again and lean in to kiss his cheek, intending to send him off, but he turns his head, and his lips touch mine, chastely at first, much like the way I kissed him as a child. I don’t move, and I do this purposefully. I won't force this on him. He has to decide if this is what he wants.
He does want this. I know, when I feel his tongue run along my lips. I let him in, and as my tongue brushes his, I feel his last bit of resistance break, like a rubber band pulled so taut it finally snaps. His spine straightens, and I feel his hands on my shoulders, my neck. He reaches up and pulls the barrette that holds my hair, and he runs his fingers through it, sending a chill down my back. He pushes the straps of my nightgown off and places a kiss on my shoulder.
“I always thought you were so beautiful, Mom,” he sighs. The touch of his lips on my skin becomes more confident, his hands so gentle, gentler than his father ever was. His lips trace the swell of my breast, and his finger slides beneath the low neckline of my nightgown, grazing my nipple slightly. I know what he wants.
I can think of nothing I want more. But I will not rush him. I will not scare him. I place a hand on his thigh and squeeze very lightly. “Go on, Peter.”
He flickers his tongue under the satin, a quick flash of heat, and I inhale sharply. He does it again and again. He’s playing with me. He wants me to touch him. I move my hand up the inside of his thigh, and his body jerks forward. He presses up into my palm and with a moan, his mouth finally closes on my breast. The nightgown falls and gathers around my waist.
He suckles there, and I can’t help but remember him as a baby, sucking just like this. This image should disturb me, but it only excites me more. I remember his huge eyes just looking up at me, his little hand grabbing at one while he sucked at the other. I open my eyes, and those beautiful brown eyes are there, my son, a grown man now.
He lets go, and he is breathing hard. Any pretense of shyness has evaporated. His eyes never leave mine, except when he pulls his shirt over his head. Without hesitation, he slides his fingers underneath the waistband of his pants and they drop to the floor.
Last time I saw him fully unclothed, he was a slender adolescent; now he has filled out, his white skin tight over the planes of his chest, his stomach. He has hardly any hair on him, and he looks considerably younger than he really is. I have to look away.
He notices my sudden apprehension. Peter smiles suddenly, and I don’t like the look in his eyes; too much like his father now.
Unlike Arthur, Peter knows nothing of being in control of his actions. I have spread his life out before him. He really is just a hapless prisoner in this house where I have raised him, the schools I've sent him to, the sacrifices I've made for him. With this final action, no matter how he seizes control of his destiny in the future, I will always wield this over him.
I smile back at him, betraying nothing else, especially not the sudden shot of anger I feel at allowing him to see my weakness. I will not let him know how our positions had temporarily reversed. He surely cannot be allowed to continue standing above me.
“Sit,” I command.
He obeys.
I stand.
He has given himself to me, and now I will show him what that really means.
Peter’s dream is unfolding before his eyes, and his fear returns, because he knows that we cannot change what we see in our dreams.
***
Peter is awake now; I felt him stirring while I was in the midst of my memory. But his arms are still tightly wrapped around me, his body so warm and so close, and I wonder if he possibly remembers any of what I asked his father to make him forget long ago.
He is still innocent. I could have it no other way.