"I don't know," Peter said shortly, folding his arms over his chest and generally looking incredibly stubborn. "So I can empathize with people, get to know them easily, so what? How does that help anybody, if I'm just going to explode if I lose control over myself?"
Looking down at the floor, Peter studied his shoes and frowned. Being beaten around with a stick was easier than this... sort of. "I've only known about this for two and a half months, cut me a little slack," he continued, considerably calmed down.
"Oh, for the love of Jesus Christ and all his little children." Claude heaved out a huge sigh, actually having to walk away from Peter to calm himself down. Impossible. This was literally impossible. It was like beating a plastic spoon against the Hoover Dam and hoping to make a crack.
Returning to Peter, Claude rubbed his face with one hand and snorted a laugh. "Right. Okay. Let's start at the bloody beginning. Empaths don't just sympathize with people, Peter. They feel. They're psychically linked to the people around them. The more you care about a person, the closer you get to them, the more their moods affect you. Sure, you have your own feelings, too, but with someone as powerful as you, it all gets muddled up in your mind," he reached forward and tapped Peter's forehead sharply with one finger.
"You don't know how to control that. Takes time and effort and you've not put that in. But more importantly, you don't understand that. Listen, Peter, you keep thinking about your powers in terms of the individual things
( ... )
Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special
( ... )
'Building a muffler' sounded... really hard, actually. How was Peter supposed to do that? Of course, it would be helpful in the long run - he wouldn't be so sharply affected the mood of other people, but he was so used to it by now. Maybe, if he did what Claude said, he'd still be able to communicate with them, but be able to separate himself from getting too confused by their emotions?
...This was kind of confusing.
And Claude wanted him to pick his favorite? How was he supposed to pick a favorite when he'd never really used them for fun? This was going to be hard. But before he started thinking, he looked at Claude curiously, noticing the shifting and the looking towards the door. Why was he nervous? Or, scared, maybe. Oh god, was Claude nervous because of him? Peter almost didn't blame him
( ... )
Watching Peter intensely, Claude simply grunted. Ten bucks to him - no contest as to what the starry-eyed younger Petrelli would have picked for his favorite. "Feel that, then? That emotion, right in the pit of you? Some people see it as a color, some as a sound, maybe a random image that only makes sense in your head. Take that, link it up with flying. Like a button on a console. When you push the button, that feeling will trigger the ability. And the same button, when you push it, will turn it off."
He gave Peter some time to struggle through that thought process. "Right, then. Give me another ability. One that doesn't have such warm fuzzies attached to it. Give me a headache, all this love and affection. Bloody empaths, pain in my ass," Claude grumbled, arms folded.
"Wow, that actually makes sense," Peter grinned lopsidedly at Claude. "Where'd the really confusing metaphors go? I was waiting to be told I needed to put some fish in a bucket to make the Big Ben strike midnight, or something."
What was something he could link with Nathan? There was so many things he could choose from. Being that he tended to think in images, he shuffled through memories. Probably better to pick a more recent one, something clearer. The look on Nathan's face right before Peter exploded; that was uniquely Nathan, as Peter knew him. Determined, ambitious, caring to the point where he'd give something vital up to help other people
( ... )
"Of course it worked," Claude rolled his eyes. "And your metaphors don't make sense. Mine always do. You just don't have the right frame of reference. Just like most things in your life, you're looking at it from the top of the bloody mountain with no clouds."
And now he was wandering. Bloody freaking... "Oi! Artist boy. Can we keep on the topic on hand, please? Find the emotion, make a button. Use it to stop and start. Getting the drift now or should I paint you a sodding picture for that, too?"
He tossed the apple up and down in his hand a few times. "When you're done with that, I want you to think of an ability you find it hard to grasp, hard to hold on to. Let's see if you're more than a poodle with his little bag of easy tricks."
By the time he was finished sketching, having spent a good ten minutes hunched over his sketchpad and scribbling furiously, Peter honestly didn't know what he ended up drawing. He recognized the Sorting Hat, oddly enough, and a group of people. But what that had to do with anything he just didn't know.
Finally, he wandered back into the training room, looking sheepish. "Sorry, that one's kind weird. It's like I get in a trance, or something." But while he'd been sketching, he'd figured out a 'button', so hopefully the job was done.
Something he found hard to hold on to? That was easy; the telepathy. Peter had no decent memories of the cop he'd picked it up from, only a minute worth, really. Nothing meaningful. And he'd never really tried to switch it on. Searching around for the memory, Peter found it, latched on to it, and tried to hold on. Now he just had to find a way to know if it was still there
( ... )
Bursting into an apartment, seeing a woman go up in flames, hearing a baby crying from the next room.
Gunshots piling into him, disbelief, shock, betrayal.
Watching as people, people like him, people he'd help find, were vivisected by scientists in shiny white coats.
'It's a brave new world, friend.'
Thoughts, an instinctive response to the prompt, tumbled through Claude's head unchecked. His expression was neutral, only the smallest twitch of an exasperated smirk betraying what he thought of that line of questioning.
'Because people betray you. Because if you get too close, you die.'Luckily, all his thoughts were in Japanese, a trick picked up when working for the Company. After a few seconds, though, Claude jerked back, eyes narrowing. His fingers curled into fists and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch Peter
( ... )
Maybe that hadn't been the smartest thing to try and do, but Peter was curious, dammit, and he wanted to know. Not for his own satisfaction, but because he wanted to know how to work better with Claude, and how not to trip any of the wires that would send him into a big 'people suck' rant. Japanese, though. Strange. He hadn't known Claude knew Japanese. And why would Claude think in Japanese?
Peter probably shouldn't be thinking about trying to remember what he'd heard so that he could find a translator.
He'd never really gotten used to seeing Claude angry, so when the other man came back into the room after possibly smashing something, Peter still looked incredibly nervous. At least Claude hadn't started hitting him with the nearest object.
"Um, I don't- I can't... really. I don't even know the guys name," he stammered. "I can't connect with him and hold onto it. It's... kinda hard."
Still furious, but reigning it in (for now), Claude rolled his eyes and hopped up onto a windowsill. "You're over thinking it again. Trying to match up the little numbers all in a row. That's why you blew up, that's why you keep failing."
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better
( ... )
"I'd like to see you try to do this, if it's so goddamn easy," Peter muttered venomously - not intending to start a fight, but it made him feel a little better anyway
( ... )
Suddenly moving forward with a grace that seemed almost out of place on a man his age and size, Claude lifted Peter up by the neck and slammed him into the wall. "Listen here, Petrelli," he hissed, anger clearly reflected on his face. "You're a whiny little shadow of a man and it's no one's fault but your own. I am trying to help you, against my better judgment, and you're nothing but a pain in my ass. So shut up and work, or else tell me you're done trying and I can remove the threat right here and now." His fingers tightened slightly on Peter's throat as he stared the other man down.
Why did Claude seem to like shoving him against walls so much? Peter was going to figure this out, as soon as Claude let him go and Peter actually got his breath back. For now, all he could was trying to separate Claude's hands from his neck, and it wasn't working that well.
"Sylar tried that last week, it didn't stick," Peter forced out, laughing breathlessly. Why was Claude still trying to help him if he hated him so much? That was a question that was going to drive Peter positively insane.
Rolling his eyes, Claude leaned in further. "Answer the question. Or is the decision too hard? I'm not going to waste my time if you'll just lie down and give up at the next opportunity. You have to have a reason. Have to want to be better, to control it, to live your life. But all I've seen is you wandering around, moaning and groaning and wishing you were different. Well thin soup's you supper, mate, and there's only two choices. You can be who you are and like it. Or you can die. Your call, right now, but you go no further without deciding."
Looking down at the floor, Peter studied his shoes and frowned. Being beaten around with a stick was easier than this... sort of. "I've only known about this for two and a half months, cut me a little slack," he continued, considerably calmed down.
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Returning to Peter, Claude rubbed his face with one hand and snorted a laugh. "Right. Okay. Let's start at the bloody beginning. Empaths don't just sympathize with people, Peter. They feel. They're psychically linked to the people around them. The more you care about a person, the closer you get to them, the more their moods affect you. Sure, you have your own feelings, too, but with someone as powerful as you, it all gets muddled up in your mind," he reached forward and tapped Peter's forehead sharply with one finger.
"You don't know how to control that. Takes time and effort and you've not put that in. But more importantly, you don't understand that. Listen, Peter, you keep thinking about your powers in terms of the individual things ( ... )
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Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special ( ... )
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...This was kind of confusing.
And Claude wanted him to pick his favorite? How was he supposed to pick a favorite when he'd never really used them for fun? This was going to be hard. But before he started thinking, he looked at Claude curiously, noticing the shifting and the looking towards the door. Why was he nervous? Or, scared, maybe. Oh god, was Claude nervous because of him? Peter almost didn't blame him ( ... )
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He gave Peter some time to struggle through that thought process. "Right, then. Give me another ability. One that doesn't have such warm fuzzies attached to it. Give me a headache, all this love and affection. Bloody empaths, pain in my ass," Claude grumbled, arms folded.
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What was something he could link with Nathan? There was so many things he could choose from. Being that he tended to think in images, he shuffled through memories. Probably better to pick a more recent one, something clearer. The look on Nathan's face right before Peter exploded; that was uniquely Nathan, as Peter knew him. Determined, ambitious, caring to the point where he'd give something vital up to help other people ( ... )
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And now he was wandering. Bloody freaking... "Oi! Artist boy. Can we keep on the topic on hand, please? Find the emotion, make a button. Use it to stop and start. Getting the drift now or should I paint you a sodding picture for that, too?"
He tossed the apple up and down in his hand a few times. "When you're done with that, I want you to think of an ability you find it hard to grasp, hard to hold on to. Let's see if you're more than a poodle with his little bag of easy tricks."
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Finally, he wandered back into the training room, looking sheepish. "Sorry, that one's kind weird. It's like I get in a trance, or something." But while he'd been sketching, he'd figured out a 'button', so hopefully the job was done.
Something he found hard to hold on to? That was easy; the telepathy. Peter had no decent memories of the cop he'd picked it up from, only a minute worth, really. Nothing meaningful. And he'd never really tried to switch it on. Searching around for the memory, Peter found it, latched on to it, and tried to hold on. Now he just had to find a way to know if it was still there ( ... )
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Gunshots piling into him, disbelief, shock, betrayal.
Watching as people, people like him, people he'd help find, were vivisected by scientists in shiny white coats.
'It's a brave new world, friend.'
Thoughts, an instinctive response to the prompt, tumbled through Claude's head unchecked. His expression was neutral, only the smallest twitch of an exasperated smirk betraying what he thought of that line of questioning.
'Because people betray you. Because if you get too close, you die.'Luckily, all his thoughts were in Japanese, a trick picked up when working for the Company. After a few seconds, though, Claude jerked back, eyes narrowing. His fingers curled into fists and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch Peter ( ... )
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Peter probably shouldn't be thinking about trying to remember what he'd heard so that he could find a translator.
He'd never really gotten used to seeing Claude angry, so when the other man came back into the room after possibly smashing something, Peter still looked incredibly nervous. At least Claude hadn't started hitting him with the nearest object.
"Um, I don't- I can't... really. I don't even know the guys name," he stammered. "I can't connect with him and hold onto it. It's... kinda hard."
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Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better ( ... )
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"Sylar tried that last week, it didn't stick," Peter forced out, laughing breathlessly. Why was Claude still trying to help him if he hated him so much? That was a question that was going to drive Peter positively insane.
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