Fic: Tiny Revelations (Plaude)
Title: Tiny Revelations
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Note: I suppose that this could serve as another extremely belated response to englishmuffin2's prompt on the "Distractions" fic thread asking how Peter knew how long Claude's been using his powers. Though I tweaked canon a bit to fit my purposes.
Summary: Claude accepts to have lunch with Peter
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
“Break!” Peter cried out as he slipped on the concrete, smacking down on his ass for the umpteenth time that day, holding out his right arm in an urgent plea to ward off the pole raised over his head. “Can we take a break? Please?”
There was no shame in begging, he decided, as he purposely gazed at Claude with his most timid puppy eyes. The pole wavered from its threatening position thirteen inches above Peter’s head, and finally lowered as Claude regarded him with a disgruntled frown that expressed just how little he thought about Peter’s flagging stamina.
“Fine. We can rest for five minutes.”
“Five minutes? Can’t it be longer than that? We’ve been going steady for over an hour.”
“Alright. Ten.”
No way was the man serious. He couldn’t be. Oh come on. But there he stood, leaning against the pigeon coop, holding the pole casually in front of him, held by carefree, completely untired and carefree, observing Peter as if he were this pathetic little child who couldn’t hold up his head long enough to cry, “mommy.” Peter quickly scrambled off the floor, seeking to restore some measure of his dignity by at least standing up straight, though his legs were begging at him to sit back down again. Healing power or not, the human body could only take so much before the mind began to crack up and he started fleeing from runaway poles in his sleep.
“Can’t we have a real break? Maybe we could eat or something. Aren’t you tired?”
“You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Well, off you go, then,” Claude shooed him away with a careless flick of his left hand. “I’ll give you an extra half hour so you can do your proper digestion. I don’t want you puking all over my shoes. Though I suspect that wouldn’t be a problem with you.”
Had this exchange occurred any earlier in their acquaintance, Peter might have wondered if Claude really had so little regard for him or if his comments were merely the product of a sick, twisted sense of humor that didn’t know any better than to pick at his scabs. As it stood, he still couldn’t decide which one held true.
“Claude?”
“Mm?” Claude glanced back at him, having already turned away to set his stick amongst all the others that rested against the opposite wall, his little torture collection.
“This is probably going to seem like a revolutionary concept for you, but maybe we could eat together. People do that sometimes.”
Clearly this concept was foreign to Claude’s comprehension, for he stared at Peter as if he’d just proclaimed that he was God and that his shoes were made of mice fur.
“I don’t do social calls, Peter. I’m only sticking around to train you, that’s all.”
“I know, but it’d be nice. You don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to. Just eat.”
The incisive look Claude was currently piercing with made Peter’s nerves twitch, his survival instinct yelling at him to run, run! But he held firm, back straight, head held high, fingers not twisting themselves in a knot in his pockets as he struggled to appear confident and not like the chastised puppy Claude was always accusing him of being.
“Or we could just meet up later,” Peter didn’t quite mumble. “It’s fine.”
“Alright.”
Huh? He gaped as Claude strolled past him, steps so quick that Peter had to rush to catch up with him.
“I’ll eat with you since you’re so desperate for company,” Claude continued, already starting down the stairs. “But you’re buying.”
||||
Yay for small victories, Peter thought when he finally wrangled Claude into coming over to his apartment to eat their sandwiches (purchased by him, of course, barely managing to keep Claude from snatching them from right under the vendor’s nose. Since the park was too far away and a sidewalk spilling with people who blindly crashed into them every two seconds wasn’t the most comfortable venue to chew food without biting one’s lip, Peter managed to convince Claude to accompany him to a quieter setting, though the quiet aspect fell by the wayside as soon as Claude strolled in, grabbed the remote (after lifting a beer from the fridge), and started flipping channels, settling himself on the couch. Peter almost expected him to kick off his shoes and stretch his legs on the coffee table, but Claude thankfully held on to at least that common courtesy and restrained himself down to merely ignoring Peter’s presence. But Peter didn’t appreciate this persistent ignoring and set out to make himself noticed by sitting next to Claude and casting him sideway glances in his direction so often that any normal man would have turned on him with an ill-tempered “what?” but Claude browsed on, munching his sandwich without a word, showing as much interest in Peter as if he were a teacup. Hell, a teacup might have actually gotten more attention from him. A curious look at least.
“Are you going to settle on a channel?” Peter asked, wincing at his own lame excuse for a conversation starter.
“In a bit.”
“It’s making me a little dizzy.”
Claude let out a short snort, the right corner of his lip curling for a moment and Peter chomped on his bottom lip as he lowered his sandwich, his question lost in a sharp yelp.
“You okay?”
What’s this? Concern? From Claude? No. It couldn’t be.
“I’m fine," Peter mumbled, tenderly massaging his torn lip. "What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Come on, there’s something.”
“Are you always this needy or is it just for my benefit?”
Peter slumped back against the couch, giving up. there was no hope. Why did he insist on wishing that there was?
“Fine. Don’t get all mopey on me. You’ll give me a headache. You reminded me of someone. He couldn’t stand it when I switched channels, either.”
“He?”
“He.”
“Well, who’s he?”
“Oh come on. You don’t think just because I agreed to break bread with you that I’m suddenly going to spill all my innermost secrets, do you?”
“I’m not asking you to spill your secrets. It’s just a little question.”
“And what if the answer to this little question involved a greatly traumatic event from my past?”
“Oh,” Peter babbled, suddenly chagrined. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Oh, calm down. I’m just messing with you. No broken glass to weep over. It’s just an old boyfriend of mine. Nothing tragic.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No, no. of course not. I just didn’t know. Since you don’t tell me anything.”
“Fine, then. I’m telling you now. But don’t start and lay the inquisition on me. I’m not here for sharing time.”
“Okay,” Peter said, but the word ‘boyfriend’ hopped inside his head like a drunk-happy bunny. Boyfriend. Claude had had a boyfriend. Which meant he was gay. Or at least bi. Which meant... Well, it didn’t mean anything since the man was so obviously disgusted by Peter’s very presence that he didn’t deign himself to even glance in his direction unless annoyed into it. And he made it very clear every available breath that Peter was no more than a pitiful waste of space who’d be better served secluding himself in Disney World since he so joyfully ignored reality in Claude’s opinion, so it’s not like there was even the slightest glimmer of a chance of anything. Not that Peter was interested. Except maybe a little. In the sad corner of his mind where he was attracted to men who threw him off roofs. Right, the roof incident. Focus on that, not his blue, blue eyes that flashed turquoise whenever the sun struck them at the right angle or the rich, melodious sound of his voice whenever he let go and allowed himself to laugh, mostly at Peter’s expense. Do not think of him that way. Do not think of him that way. Do not think of him that way.
“You know... I’m kinda...” he trailed off, the word ‘bisexual’ getting stuck in his throat as his mouth went a little too dry and he chickened out, but Claude was already staring at him, expecting some sort of comment and shutting his mouth like a fool would only increase the ridicule. “Wondering how long you’ve had your ability.”
The frown remained on Claude’s brow for a moment longer, as if he didn’t quite believe that this was really what Peter wanted to ask and Peter gave him points for perceptiveness. Not that Claude wasn’t perceptive most times.
“Since I was sixteen,” he said, tossing his sandwich empty wrapper on the coffee table. “I disappeared in class one day. Couldn’t get visible again. The teacher accused me of sneaking out cause I wasn’t seen until the next day. Lucky I sat on the back row so no one actually saw me disappear, save for this one kid, but he had his head fried half the time so I got him to blame it on the drugs. Another kid the next year wasn’t so understanding.” His thumb tightened around the bottle neck as he lifted it to his mouth, taking a long swallow. “He didn’t try to snitch on me, though. Who’d believe him? And I had my power controlled by then, so it wasn’t a problem, but I left town for a while. Went down to London, got lost in some job until things settled down.”
He lowered the bottle onto his thigh and flipped the tv a channel over. The serious drone of some news program echoed in the room, but Peter couldn’t focus on it.
“Did you have any problems after that?”
“Course I did. We all do. The trick is staying out of trouble. Knowing how to handle yourself when the world decides to screw you over.”
“Is that why you came to the States? Staying out of trouble?”
“Nah. I just needed some fresh air.”
Well, that was as vague as a fog cloud, but Peter doubted he’d be able to get anything any clearer than that. Just the disappearing in a classroom anecdote was shockingly revealing. He’d expected to have to wheedle and coax for a while before getting anything substantial.
“And when was that?”
“Are you practicing to be an interviewer? Cause you’re doing a pretty good impression pestering me with all those questions even after I said I wasn’t in the mood for sharing.”
“But you just told me you disappeared in a classroom. That’s sharing.”
“I was giving you a freebee since you looked so desperate. I knew you wouldn’t shut up about it unless I gave you something. And now I have. So we’re done.”
“Oh come on. It’s not like you’re in the Witness Protection Program.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
Peter peered into Claude’s eyes, doubting for a second.
“You’re not. You’re just an antisocial hermit who hates everything except pigeons.”
“I don’t hate everything.”
“You certainly hate people.”
“Them I can’t live with. But I like pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“Mushrooms, peppers, and sausage, preferably stuffed under a second crust.”
“Stuffed pizza.”
“Giordano’s is the best, by the way. They started in Chicago. You wanted specifics. I’m giving you specifics.”
“About pizza. Not about... Oh never mind.”
“I also love a hamburger straight from the grill. But it’s got to be real beef from a real barbeque, not that Burger King crap.”
“Right.”
“Chips are great, too. Sorry, French Fries. Nothing French about them, though. Or is it Freedom fries you lot are calling them now?”
Peter took another bite out of his sandwich, giving up on his ‘get to know Claude better’ mission. What was the point? Though at least he’d know what to feed him if he ever held a barbeque in his nonexistent lawn or went to Chicago for the weekend. He chewed on, trying to immerse himself into the fascinating weather forecast for the next few days. Tomorrow: Sunny with chance of showers and most certain beatings. Wednesday: less showers but more beatings piled with extra helpings of snark and taciturn avoidance.
“1985,” Claude said.
Peter lowered his sandwich.
“I came over here in 1985. Lived in Chicago for a bit. There. I answered your question. Happy now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Peter smiled, breathing easier.
“Great. Cause that’s all I’m going to give you now so no more questions.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
°°°°°
*ahem* I just feel the need to say that unlike Claude, I think that the best pizza is from Uno's, not Giordano's. Just felt the need to say that. Pizza is very important in my culture.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Note: I suppose that this could serve as another extremely belated response to englishmuffin2's prompt on the "Distractions" fic thread asking how Peter knew how long Claude's been using his powers. Though I tweaked canon a bit to fit my purposes.
Summary: Claude accepts to have lunch with Peter
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
“Break!” Peter cried out as he slipped on the concrete, smacking down on his ass for the umpteenth time that day, holding out his right arm in an urgent plea to ward off the pole raised over his head. “Can we take a break? Please?”
There was no shame in begging, he decided, as he purposely gazed at Claude with his most timid puppy eyes. The pole wavered from its threatening position thirteen inches above Peter’s head, and finally lowered as Claude regarded him with a disgruntled frown that expressed just how little he thought about Peter’s flagging stamina.
“Fine. We can rest for five minutes.”
“Five minutes? Can’t it be longer than that? We’ve been going steady for over an hour.”
“Alright. Ten.”
No way was the man serious. He couldn’t be. Oh come on. But there he stood, leaning against the pigeon coop, holding the pole casually in front of him, held by carefree, completely untired and carefree, observing Peter as if he were this pathetic little child who couldn’t hold up his head long enough to cry, “mommy.” Peter quickly scrambled off the floor, seeking to restore some measure of his dignity by at least standing up straight, though his legs were begging at him to sit back down again. Healing power or not, the human body could only take so much before the mind began to crack up and he started fleeing from runaway poles in his sleep.
“Can’t we have a real break? Maybe we could eat or something. Aren’t you tired?”
“You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Well, off you go, then,” Claude shooed him away with a careless flick of his left hand. “I’ll give you an extra half hour so you can do your proper digestion. I don’t want you puking all over my shoes. Though I suspect that wouldn’t be a problem with you.”
Had this exchange occurred any earlier in their acquaintance, Peter might have wondered if Claude really had so little regard for him or if his comments were merely the product of a sick, twisted sense of humor that didn’t know any better than to pick at his scabs. As it stood, he still couldn’t decide which one held true.
“Claude?”
“Mm?” Claude glanced back at him, having already turned away to set his stick amongst all the others that rested against the opposite wall, his little torture collection.
“This is probably going to seem like a revolutionary concept for you, but maybe we could eat together. People do that sometimes.”
Clearly this concept was foreign to Claude’s comprehension, for he stared at Peter as if he’d just proclaimed that he was God and that his shoes were made of mice fur.
“I don’t do social calls, Peter. I’m only sticking around to train you, that’s all.”
“I know, but it’d be nice. You don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to. Just eat.”
The incisive look Claude was currently piercing with made Peter’s nerves twitch, his survival instinct yelling at him to run, run! But he held firm, back straight, head held high, fingers not twisting themselves in a knot in his pockets as he struggled to appear confident and not like the chastised puppy Claude was always accusing him of being.
“Or we could just meet up later,” Peter didn’t quite mumble. “It’s fine.”
“Alright.”
Huh? He gaped as Claude strolled past him, steps so quick that Peter had to rush to catch up with him.
“I’ll eat with you since you’re so desperate for company,” Claude continued, already starting down the stairs. “But you’re buying.”
||||
Yay for small victories, Peter thought when he finally wrangled Claude into coming over to his apartment to eat their sandwiches (purchased by him, of course, barely managing to keep Claude from snatching them from right under the vendor’s nose. Since the park was too far away and a sidewalk spilling with people who blindly crashed into them every two seconds wasn’t the most comfortable venue to chew food without biting one’s lip, Peter managed to convince Claude to accompany him to a quieter setting, though the quiet aspect fell by the wayside as soon as Claude strolled in, grabbed the remote (after lifting a beer from the fridge), and started flipping channels, settling himself on the couch. Peter almost expected him to kick off his shoes and stretch his legs on the coffee table, but Claude thankfully held on to at least that common courtesy and restrained himself down to merely ignoring Peter’s presence. But Peter didn’t appreciate this persistent ignoring and set out to make himself noticed by sitting next to Claude and casting him sideway glances in his direction so often that any normal man would have turned on him with an ill-tempered “what?” but Claude browsed on, munching his sandwich without a word, showing as much interest in Peter as if he were a teacup. Hell, a teacup might have actually gotten more attention from him. A curious look at least.
“Are you going to settle on a channel?” Peter asked, wincing at his own lame excuse for a conversation starter.
“In a bit.”
“It’s making me a little dizzy.”
Claude let out a short snort, the right corner of his lip curling for a moment and Peter chomped on his bottom lip as he lowered his sandwich, his question lost in a sharp yelp.
“You okay?”
What’s this? Concern? From Claude? No. It couldn’t be.
“I’m fine," Peter mumbled, tenderly massaging his torn lip. "What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Come on, there’s something.”
“Are you always this needy or is it just for my benefit?”
Peter slumped back against the couch, giving up. there was no hope. Why did he insist on wishing that there was?
“Fine. Don’t get all mopey on me. You’ll give me a headache. You reminded me of someone. He couldn’t stand it when I switched channels, either.”
“He?”
“He.”
“Well, who’s he?”
“Oh come on. You don’t think just because I agreed to break bread with you that I’m suddenly going to spill all my innermost secrets, do you?”
“I’m not asking you to spill your secrets. It’s just a little question.”
“And what if the answer to this little question involved a greatly traumatic event from my past?”
“Oh,” Peter babbled, suddenly chagrined. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Oh, calm down. I’m just messing with you. No broken glass to weep over. It’s just an old boyfriend of mine. Nothing tragic.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No, no. of course not. I just didn’t know. Since you don’t tell me anything.”
“Fine, then. I’m telling you now. But don’t start and lay the inquisition on me. I’m not here for sharing time.”
“Okay,” Peter said, but the word ‘boyfriend’ hopped inside his head like a drunk-happy bunny. Boyfriend. Claude had had a boyfriend. Which meant he was gay. Or at least bi. Which meant... Well, it didn’t mean anything since the man was so obviously disgusted by Peter’s very presence that he didn’t deign himself to even glance in his direction unless annoyed into it. And he made it very clear every available breath that Peter was no more than a pitiful waste of space who’d be better served secluding himself in Disney World since he so joyfully ignored reality in Claude’s opinion, so it’s not like there was even the slightest glimmer of a chance of anything. Not that Peter was interested. Except maybe a little. In the sad corner of his mind where he was attracted to men who threw him off roofs. Right, the roof incident. Focus on that, not his blue, blue eyes that flashed turquoise whenever the sun struck them at the right angle or the rich, melodious sound of his voice whenever he let go and allowed himself to laugh, mostly at Peter’s expense. Do not think of him that way. Do not think of him that way. Do not think of him that way.
“You know... I’m kinda...” he trailed off, the word ‘bisexual’ getting stuck in his throat as his mouth went a little too dry and he chickened out, but Claude was already staring at him, expecting some sort of comment and shutting his mouth like a fool would only increase the ridicule. “Wondering how long you’ve had your ability.”
The frown remained on Claude’s brow for a moment longer, as if he didn’t quite believe that this was really what Peter wanted to ask and Peter gave him points for perceptiveness. Not that Claude wasn’t perceptive most times.
“Since I was sixteen,” he said, tossing his sandwich empty wrapper on the coffee table. “I disappeared in class one day. Couldn’t get visible again. The teacher accused me of sneaking out cause I wasn’t seen until the next day. Lucky I sat on the back row so no one actually saw me disappear, save for this one kid, but he had his head fried half the time so I got him to blame it on the drugs. Another kid the next year wasn’t so understanding.” His thumb tightened around the bottle neck as he lifted it to his mouth, taking a long swallow. “He didn’t try to snitch on me, though. Who’d believe him? And I had my power controlled by then, so it wasn’t a problem, but I left town for a while. Went down to London, got lost in some job until things settled down.”
He lowered the bottle onto his thigh and flipped the tv a channel over. The serious drone of some news program echoed in the room, but Peter couldn’t focus on it.
“Did you have any problems after that?”
“Course I did. We all do. The trick is staying out of trouble. Knowing how to handle yourself when the world decides to screw you over.”
“Is that why you came to the States? Staying out of trouble?”
“Nah. I just needed some fresh air.”
Well, that was as vague as a fog cloud, but Peter doubted he’d be able to get anything any clearer than that. Just the disappearing in a classroom anecdote was shockingly revealing. He’d expected to have to wheedle and coax for a while before getting anything substantial.
“And when was that?”
“Are you practicing to be an interviewer? Cause you’re doing a pretty good impression pestering me with all those questions even after I said I wasn’t in the mood for sharing.”
“But you just told me you disappeared in a classroom. That’s sharing.”
“I was giving you a freebee since you looked so desperate. I knew you wouldn’t shut up about it unless I gave you something. And now I have. So we’re done.”
“Oh come on. It’s not like you’re in the Witness Protection Program.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
Peter peered into Claude’s eyes, doubting for a second.
“You’re not. You’re just an antisocial hermit who hates everything except pigeons.”
“I don’t hate everything.”
“You certainly hate people.”
“Them I can’t live with. But I like pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“Mushrooms, peppers, and sausage, preferably stuffed under a second crust.”
“Stuffed pizza.”
“Giordano’s is the best, by the way. They started in Chicago. You wanted specifics. I’m giving you specifics.”
“About pizza. Not about... Oh never mind.”
“I also love a hamburger straight from the grill. But it’s got to be real beef from a real barbeque, not that Burger King crap.”
“Right.”
“Chips are great, too. Sorry, French Fries. Nothing French about them, though. Or is it Freedom fries you lot are calling them now?”
Peter took another bite out of his sandwich, giving up on his ‘get to know Claude better’ mission. What was the point? Though at least he’d know what to feed him if he ever held a barbeque in his nonexistent lawn or went to Chicago for the weekend. He chewed on, trying to immerse himself into the fascinating weather forecast for the next few days. Tomorrow: Sunny with chance of showers and most certain beatings. Wednesday: less showers but more beatings piled with extra helpings of snark and taciturn avoidance.
“1985,” Claude said.
Peter lowered his sandwich.
“I came over here in 1985. Lived in Chicago for a bit. There. I answered your question. Happy now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Peter smiled, breathing easier.
“Great. Cause that’s all I’m going to give you now so no more questions.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
°°°°°
*ahem* I just feel the need to say that unlike Claude, I think that the best pizza is from Uno's, not Giordano's. Just felt the need to say that. Pizza is very important in my culture.