Damn, he had gotten dressed up for this?
Surprise marriageStill, Peter Petrelli was hardly a man to fight fate - he tended to run face first into it - so he just calmly collected himself and headed down to the tent village. At least, by the looks of the rather large crowd, he wasn't the only person roped into this
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So, no. I was not hurt. It did not make my throat ache to be so easily rejected. I felt nothing. Rejection wasn't possible when you didn't give a shit in the first place.
Standing, eyes down, I said in a flat tone, "It's all right. Let me know if you need anything." Then I walked back into the training room.
Emotions were worthless unless they were actions. Unless they were fuel to be used. Setting back up my training dummy, I proceeded to kick the shit out of it. Not stopping, not slowing down, not holding back, I pounded the grief and frustration and confusion that I refused to feel into it. Until my fists were bloody and my legs were bruised and I could barely stand up I was shaking from exertion. I sparred with it until I couldn't breathe. Then I paused, hands on my knees, and gulped in huge breaths of air, heart thundering so loud I couldn't have heard anyone else if I tried. Straightening up, I attacked again.
I didn't do emotions. I didn't know how. I could do actions. That was all. Simple, easy, clean actions. You do one thing, there's a reaction. You take that reaction, and you use it to clue you in on the next action. You punch, they block, you kick. Simple.
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Eventually, after an unknown amount of time passed, Peter lifted his hands free of the ice, watching as blood circulation was restored. Dimly, he could hear Rachel in the side room, the muffled thuds of what he assumed were here fists hitting the practice dummy.
From the sound of her voice when she'd left, Rachel had cut off again. Peter was almost coming to expect these times. Emotional unavailability was something he'd grown up with, but still never quite got used to. It didn't seem right for people to be able to cut off like that. He'd never really mastered it himself.
The temptation was there - to just leave Rachel alone and indulge in his own little pity party. But Peter couldn't leave it like that.
Wandering into the side room, Peter watched Rachel for a while, frowning. He didn't know what he could do to make this better, but he knew how to start. Coming up behind her, Peter put a hand on Rachel's shoulder - if that got him a startled kick, then so be it. "I don't think it's going to be fighting back any time soon, you've kicked the shit out of it pretty good," he spoke up, trying to inject some humor into his voice.
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Shaking those thoughts aside, chest heaving as I struggled to find air to talk, I looked up at Peter. Just in that one second, maybe because I was tired, maybe it was that I wasn't expecting anyone to come after me, but all that hurt and rage and confusion lay naked in my eyes. Completely vulnerable for him to see. Then I blinked it away, wiping a shaking hand over my face, grimacing when I saw what I'd done to the backs of my hands. "Yeah."
My skin slicked over with sweat and my hair half falling out of its holder, I was sure I looked horrific. Eyes going to the dummy and then back to the floor, I said, quietly, "Your hands probably won't make that great of Popsicles. Unless we covered them in cherry flavor or something." Random humor - or at least a lame attempt at it. Me going 'God, look away, look over there, look anywhere but me because I'm tired and I'm beaten, and this last week has almost broken me, and if you look to closely, you might actually see something'. I hoped it worked.
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"I dunno, I could taste great," Peter smiled crookedly, licking his thumb and pretending to give deep thought about the issue. "Tastes like ice. Okay, not as good as cherry," he allowed, and began guiding Rachel over to the chair that he had been sitting in not long ago. Even though she was glaring at him, Peter brooked no arguments and sat her down, vanishing briefly. He still felt like week old crap, but he wasn't going to do anything without looking after Rachel first.
Old nurse habit; he always had a first aid kit stashed somewhere. Returning to the living room with the kit and a bowl of warm water, Peter knelt down at Rachel's feet and gently took her hands, examining the knuckles. He barely paused at the odd-looking scar on her left wrist, choosing to start sponging off the blood instead of asking questions. "If this is what you look like, I'm glad I didn't get a look at the dummy," Peter commented quietly. "Sorry if this hurts, by the way. I don't want to leave these untreated."
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"I told someone I loved them," I suddenly found myself saying. Why, I didn't know. God, I didn't know, but I was, and the words just kind of spilled out as I tried to keep myself from flinching out of his hands. "Or that I thought I did. And he just walked away. Well, I did, but he didn't come after me. He doesn't want me. And I don't..."
Taking a breath, I forced my eyes up to lock on his. "I don't get close." As if he hadn't figured that out by now. "And two of the three people I actually have...have felt anything for have just..." Shaking my head mutely, I just gave Peter a helpless look. "I'm not very good. At emotions. I'm sorry."
Sorry that he had to deal with me, sorry that I couldn't be more articulate, sorry that I had tried to reach out to him. Finally, I could take it no longer. Pulling my hands out of his grasp, whether he was done with taking care of them or not, I wrapped my arms around myself and allowed my gaze to drop. "I'm fine. They're fine. But thanks."
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But this was a step forward. Peter was actually surprised; short of telling her about his job or his abilities, she'd been the one to open up first, emotionally. Even though she said she wasn't good at them.
Should he say something in reply? Honestly, Peter couldn't think of anything that would help. Instead, he just smiled sympathetically, understanding lurking in his eyes.
Then, Peter just held out his hands, palm up, and raised an eyebrow expectantly. "Give your hands back," he prompted patiently. "Seriously, otherwise I'll turn into Nurse Hardass and I won't stop following you around until you let me help you."
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Standing, I gave him a tight little smile. "I'm fine," I repeated. "I'm going to go shower and then brew some potions. You should sleep." After all, he'd been the one that nearly gave me a heart attack a hour ago. If I couldn't handle skinned knuckles, of all things, I needed to switch careers.
My entire body was held stiffly, tense, as if I was ready to run. I didn't understand Peter. Maybe that was my problem. Not that he reminded me of Nick, but that the coping methods I'd developed slowly over my years of living with Ivy didn't work with him. One second he'd be so open that it scared me, the next he'd be closed off and dangerous.
...Okay, maybe that was exactly like Ivy, only I doubted Peter had a book on what I should and shouldn't do around him. God, how pathetic was that? I needed a book in order to deal with people.
Whatever. See, this is why I should work alone. Live alone. Just...be alone. As soon as you got another person in the mix, I screwed things up. I was screwing things up with Peter, right then, and I didn't even understand why. I'd fucked things up with Ivy so badly I didn't know how we were ever going to fix that. With Dean I'd let my emotions get carried away, seen something there that simply hadn't existed. All within the last month or so. Hell, Jenks was probably the only person I knew here who was still talking to me.
So thanks, Pete. But no thanks. He didn't speak my language; or, rather, I sure as hell didn't speak his. "Take the bed," I said as I started to move away. "I don't want to wake you."
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As Rachel started to move away, Peter let out a measured, pent-up breath. Talking to people, helping people only worked two ways, and he could only try and connect with Rachel if she was willing to give something back. She had opened up briefly, told him about the fact that she'd told someone she loved them. And what had Peter been supposed to say to that? He had the feeling that whatever he said - whether encouraging for hope, or an insight on human behaviour - it would be reacted to badly.
So he'd said nothing, and she was still reacting badly. Peter didn't want to believe that some people couldn't be helped, but Rachel was sorely testing that. It didn't help that his faith in humanity had been developing cracks in it for the last few months.
"Sure," he replied softly, sliding the first aid kit over so that it wasn't somewhere it would be tripped over. Resigned, Peter stood, and made his way over to the couch, where he promptly curled up facing the back cushions.
Between nearly overloading and suffering what felt like emotional whiplash, he could probably sleep for a week. Which, actually, might be useful, seeing that it would keep him out of Rachel's way. Especially useful seeing as all he seemed to be doing was making her more miserable.
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In any case, I felt better when I padded back out into the living room, dressed in my pajamas, hair still falling in wet, wild ringlets around my face. Catching sight of Peter, I sighed. Of course he'd still be on the couch.
Going to the kitchen, I quietly brewed up a pot of coffee, digging through the cupboard for the cookies I'd found earlier. When it was ready, I poured too mugs, tucked the box under my arm, and headed out to Peter.
"Hey," I said, nudging him gently. "Peter." Sitting down near his head, I studied his unmoving form for a second. Putting the cups and the cookies down, I rested my head on my hand and watched him. A sad, rueful kind of smile lifted one corner of my mouth. God, I wanted this to work. Some form of this. I really did. I just didn't know how. Or how to keep myself from getting hurt when it inevitably failed.
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Confused, he opened his eyes groggily, finally catching on to the sight of Rachel sitting next to him. Huh. For a moment he just stared, confused, until the smell of coffee hit him. A dreamy smile worked its way over his face. Mmmm, coffee.
"It's not morning already is it?" He asked, trying to push himself up into a sitting position. But halfway through, Peter decided he couldn't be bothered sitting, and slumped back down, his cheek resting on Rachel's leg. "Mmm, comfy pillow," he mumbled, dazed.
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My fingers went to idly push back some of his hair, combing it behind his ear. "And to ply you with coffee and cookies not to hate me?" I added lightly, hopefully, with a tiny smile. "It's been a long time since I've lived with someone. I plead being rusty."
That little something was stirring again, wisping against my defenses and struggling to get in. But I shoved it away, just as firmly, and refused to let my brain even go there.
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He never was the most coherent person when he woke up.
Eyes still closed, Peter inhaled deeply, willing the smell of coffee to wake him up. "You're forgiven if you can figure out some way to get caffeine into my blood while I'm lying down," he replied slowly. "I think I have an IV kit in my bag somewhere."
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And he wasn't flinching away from me, so I indulged in playing with his hair like I'd wanted to since I'd first seen him. "Sorry," I said softly, voice dipping into the husky range. "Afraid I don't do IVs. And you're not nearly rich enough for me to do the whole peeled grapes and palm fronds feeding you thing. So either you'll just have to stay laying down and not have coffee, or sit up."
He could do either, really. I shouldn't be enjoying this, but I was. Because I didn't have to warily watch him for eyes going soulless black, and because Peter didn't sell me out to a demon. He was just...him, and other than the usual emotional issues, he was harmless. That was a nice feeling. My fingers gently brushing through dark strands of hair, I let my head thump back and my eyes half-shut. Yeah. We could stay like this.
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"Fine, fine," he grumbled, forcing his eyes open. His brain was slowly beginning to start working again, and Peter tried to look at his watch - which, crap, wasn't there because Sylar had stolen it. Bastard. Slowly pushing himself upwards, Peter sank into the back of the couch once he was upright and sitting.
God, how long had he slept? It seriously didn't feel like long at all - half an hour, maybe. If he stayed awake much longer he was going to topple over and pass out. But Peter reached for his coffee, holding the mug in both hands and wasting no time in practically inhaling it. "Christ, that's good," he sighed appreciatively. Finally taking stock and glancing over at Rachel, Peter raised his eyebrows. "Nice pajamas," he teased. "I haven't seen that shade of pink favored by anybody since my sister-in-law thought she was having a girl. Eye-blinding room, I tell you."
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Huffing in mock indignation, I reached forward and grabbed a handful of cookies, settling back on the couch. My pjs were just fine. ...Weren't they?
Pulling one leg up so I could rest my chin on my knee, I waggled freshly painted toenails - hey, moping in your room for a week left some free time - absently and took another drink of coffee.
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Staring absently into his coffee, and having to blink whenever the steam hit his eyes, Peter tried to get his brain to wake up finally. He had a feeling he wouldn't be thinking right until he got at least 10 hours of sleep.
"I had the weirdest dream," Peter suddenly spoke up, half out of wanting to fill the silence, and half out of amusement at himself. "I dreamed that I picked up the power to produce this weird pink custard out of nowhere, from this really strange looking machine. Most useless power ever."
Little did he know.
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