Swallowing hard, I tried to force my thoughts anyplace besides just following after Peter and...
Yes. No. Chicken needed to be taken out of the pan. That was a good distraction. Almost as good as burning my finger, to which I gave a small hiss of pain and immediately stuck it in my mouth. Claude started laughing, and I glared at him. Jerk.
Cutting up the chicken, dishing it up over the pasta and adding the sauce, I grabbed a tomato and some fresh basil from my windowsill and added them as garnish. Three plates were set on the table along with a pitcher of ice water and a plate of garlic bread. Claude grabbed a seat and shoveled a forkful in, grunting in thanks.
Okay, I could do this. There was no reason I needed to turn into a puddle of mush around Peter, and I was definitely strong enough to stop myself from being an idiot. Taking a seat, I crossed my legs and poured myself a glass of water, thankful for the liquid. Claude had given me quite a workout - first one I'd had since Ivy that had actually challenged me (and hadn't come from someone trying to take my head off).
Reappearing from changing, Peter practically threw himself into a chair, grinning at Rachel. "This looks good," he commented, eagerly picking up a fork and digging into the food. If Rachel kept up this caliber of cooking, Peter was going to have to reconsider his status as a good cook.
Shoveling food into his mouth, Peter glanced up at Claude, and absently wondered when the man had actually eaten decently. Living as Claude did probably didn't lend itself to eating hot meals, unless he wandered into restaurants and stole them.
"When was the last time you ate something decent and healthy?" Peter asked suddenly, eyeing Claude in concern. There were some serious physical drawbacks to not eating properly!
Rolling his eyes at Peter's concern, Claude ripped off a piece of his bread and used it to sop up some sauce. "Oh, mommy Peter's going to make sure the poor, helpless invisible man gets his veggies eaten, yeah? Going to follow me around and knit me a sweater, too?"
Claude ducked as Rachel flicked a piece of tomato at him, chewing his mouthful around a large grin. "Don't worry yourself, Petrelli, amazingly enough I can take care of myself just fine. Don't need you or your little girlfriend to make sure my belly's full or I've got a place to sleep. Whole lifetime of practice, and never once needed a keeper."
"Ivy and I had a deal," Rachel said abruptly, apparently sick of Claude's monologuing. "She'd go grocery shopping and I'd cook dinner." She paused, then grinned a little, fork halfway to her mouth. "Well, that had less to do with my cooking skills and more with the death threat that made it slightly difficult for me to leave the house. But still. Lots of experience in making meals. I like it. It's soothing."
"A lifetime of practice, huh? I didn't know you'd been living on the streets since birth," Peter replied mildly, sure that 'a lifetime' was an exaggeration. If it wasn't, he was going to feel pretty bad.
Despite his words, Peter still alternated between looking at his food and looking at Claude in concern. He couldn't help it, Claude was someone that mattered to him, and therefore someone he worried over. If he felt Claude needed sweaters, he probably would try to knit.
Wait, what. "Death threats?" Peter raised his eyebrows at Rachel. "Why did you have death threats? Do you still have death threats?"
"Oh, growing a backbone, this one," Claude smirked, pausing in his non-stop eating. "No, math wiz, not since birth. But I have been able to wipe my ass without help for quite some time now, so I'll thank you to stop giving me those cow eyes of yours so I can eat in peace."
He was silently laughing at me, though, when said cow eyes got turned on me. Grimacing, I pushed a bit of chicken around on my plate. Oh. Crap. I'd forgotten he didn't know. "Yeah," I shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "When I quit my job, they put out a death threat on me. Sent a demon after me, some fairy assassins, stuff like that. A few black charms aimed at me. I got out of it." With Ivy and Jenks - if not for them, my ass would have been grass the first day. "And, um, kind of? There's a few people who wouldn't mind if I turned up in the obits." Again I shrugged and offered him a smile. "It's not a big deal. Mostly they're back in Cinci. And I've got it covered."
Maybe he'd drop it if I just glossed over the nasty details?
"Want more bread?" I asked Peter with a hopeful smile, ignoring Claude's all out smirking. Jerk.
He didn't have cow eyes, did he? Peter almost wanted to go look into a mirror and check. "I'm just concerned, there's no need to insult me," he muttered, stabbing his fork into his pasta.
And he supposed the death threats were understandable, in Rachel's line of work. That they were 'mostly' back where she came from made Peter frown, but he didn't pursue it - she looked unhappy enough even talking about it. Great, he was stuck a table with two decidely unwilling to be emotional people. Not that he didn't appreciate it when Rachel reached out, but seriously, all of this non-emotional lack of contact was going to drive him insane.
"Thanks," Peter mumbled, grabbing some bread and dropping it on to his plate. He could probably eat enough for four - must have been all that energy he'd burnt during the work out.
"Don't need to," Claude agreed. "'S more of a stress reliever, really."
Oh, crap, now everyone was being all pissy. And after Peter and I had been doing so well. I was blaming it on Claude. Stupid human.
Nudging Peter's leg with my foot I shot him a quick smile, mentally searching for a topic. Something that had nothing to do with death threats or cows - which for me was actually way harder than it sounded.
Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, Peter raised an eyebrow and stared at Rachel. "You can? ...Huh," Peter said, clearly baffled, mostly from the complete randomness of the topic change.
Turning into an animal would be quite handy, he assumed. Maybe something awesome, like a crocodile. Or a lion. Or a T-Rex. Temporarily drawn off into dream land about which animal would be cool to turn into, Peter stared down at his pasta, frowning in thought.
Claude choked back a snort. "Can you also carry on normal conversation? Because that would be a trick and a half. Or maybe you could wear clothes that didn't charge by the half hour." Shoveling another forkful of pasta into his mouth, he gestured his fork at me. I, for my part, just stared at him, slightly stunned as he went on. "We get it, we do, you're a big bad witch who screws her way out of emotional entanglements. And you're trying to make Peter, here, feel all warm and tingly by having nice meaningful conversation, only you're too bloody damaged, so you throw out random tidbits and call it sodding intimacy. But the only intimacy you know is the kind with spread legs, isn't it? Not that I'd mind, but Peter here gets hives when he thinks about it. At least, where you're concerned. So you might as well stop trying."
Torn between blasting Claude into the ever after and just running away, I chose the latter. Without a word, face pale and hands shaking with rage and embarrassment, I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping nosily on the floor. Unable to even look at Peter, I mumbled something about a shower and fled into the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I sat on the edge of the tub and rested my head in my hands, trying to think of anything but the jeering sound of Claude's voice.
Once Rachel had fled, Claude huffed a sigh. "Well thank God for clean air and small favors, yeah? Never thought we'd be rid of her. Come on, then, you're not housebroken yet."
Damn. Dream land about cool animals had been so much better than the present reality.
Shocked, Peter stared after Rachel as she left the table, and then promptly turned that same look on Claude, with an edge of accusation. "Claude!" He sputtered, appalled. "That was- you- you didn't need to say that!"
He thought about going after Rachel and trying to talk to her, tell her that Claude didn't mean what he said (which was probably a lie). But he knew Rachel was too stubborn, and Claude had effectively pushed her past the point where kind words would work. With a low grown, Peter pushed his plate away and dropped his forehead onto the table.
"I'm not training any more today," he said to the table. And, as afterthought, added, "I'm surrounded by crazy people."
"Was one word I said not true?" Claude looked at Peter, eyebrows raised. "Anything in there you disagree with?" He smirked, standing up. "I'll take the fact you're not running after her with hugs and touchy-feely crap to mean that you agree. She's not worth it, friend, make no mistake, and you're better off realizing it now. So get your head out of the clouds and your bangs out of your face and let's go."
He paused, then his face fell into its usual scowl. "And you're done training when I say you are. Not going to get anywhere if you mope about like a kicked puppy when everyone isn't getting along. Besides, I'm going to try and show you how to stop being a giant mirror and actually figure out what voice in your head is you and what's just you picking up on other people. Got to get your head on straight or else you'll just go mad."
"She is worth it, so stop talking about her like that," Peter scowled into the table. But, with a rather uncomfortable silence, Peter had to admit that Claude was right. Not in the derogatory sense that he had worded it, and not that she wasn't worth it, but the base idea. That she preferred sex over emotional intimacy - which, Peter knew, derived from her own opinion that she wasn't good enough for a long-term relationship, and that everybody would leave her.
Christ. Was that why Rachel liked making innuendo at him and touching him whenever possible? Because she would much rather sleep with him than get to know him?
Peter sighed hopelessly and considered smashing his head into the table so many times that it would take a few hours for his brain to heal. It seemed like a better alternative than thinking about anything.
"Great, tell me how that goes, then. I'll be the guy that's passed out as soon as I try and use anything more," Peter replied. "Good luck with that." Couldn't Claude wait until tomorrow, at least?
Claude smirked, watching it all sink in. "Ah, so now he gets it. Go to the front of the class." Stealing another piece of bread, he propped one hip on the table and pointed the crust at him. "Now, if you were a smart man, which I have my doubts about, you'd run in the opposite direction. But since I know you're not, I'll give you this advice - you're not speaking her language. Also, you're asking the wrong question. It's 'why'. You want to know 'why'."
Lesson on people - a subject Claude considered himself an expert on - done, he shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and hopped back up. "Stop whining or I'll get out my stick," he grinned savagely. "You're not going to be using anything but your brain. Most underused muscle in your body, and that's saying something." Nudging back Peter's chair with one foot, Claude led the way back into the training room. "Besides, if we're lucky, your girlfriend will slink out while we're busy and we won't have to see her again."
Even though his chair had been nudged back, Peter didn't move, he just watched Claude go back into the training room. Disgruntled, Peter heaved a sigh and pushed himself out of the chair.
He detoured to the bedroom, and ripped a piece of paper from his sketchpad, scribbling a quick message on it. Peter thought about trying to talk to Rachel, but he'd give her some time alone. So he just slipped the note under the bathroom door:
Sorry. Sometimes I wish I could muzzle him. Do you think they make muzzles for people? We should buy one, so he can still help but be quiet.
With that, Peter made his way into the training room, casting the occasional annoyed glance at Claude.
Ignoring the looks being sent his way - Claude didn't consider it a full day unless someone realized how much they hated him - Claude settled himself on the floor, sitting down, and nodded for Peter to do the same.
"Right, so, you're an empath," he started abruptly. "And that means you've got your sticky little fingers in everyone else's feelings. Which is a good thing, mostly, except you have no idea how to control it. So you're smearing everything all together and calling it your own and not doing a damn bit of good to anyone. So we're going to shove everything of you into a glass fishbowl in your brain, so that all your own emotions can swim about without getting lost in everyone else."
He paused. "Think you can handle that? Or should I get big brother in here to hold your hand?"
"I don't need people to hold my hand," Peter protested, sounding a lot more sulky than truly angry. At least it wasn't the untrained dog metaphors, he hated those ones.
After Claude finished his explanation, Peter relaxed in relief - good, no more powers today - and settled down into a sitting position. Should his joints really be cracking like that at his age? God, it had been a long day.
But this sounded okay; a lot more like meditation or something similar. Just a mental exercise. And he was beginning to trust more in Claude's methods. Even though being pushed certainly wasn't fun, it was helping.
"So, focusing my thoughts and emotions, I get it," Peter nodded. To his credit, he didn't crack a smirk when he continued, apparently quite seriously. "Is there going to be pilates as well? Do we need candles, or crystals? I think Rachel has herbs."
Yes. No. Chicken needed to be taken out of the pan. That was a good distraction. Almost as good as burning my finger, to which I gave a small hiss of pain and immediately stuck it in my mouth. Claude started laughing, and I glared at him. Jerk.
Cutting up the chicken, dishing it up over the pasta and adding the sauce, I grabbed a tomato and some fresh basil from my windowsill and added them as garnish. Three plates were set on the table along with a pitcher of ice water and a plate of garlic bread. Claude grabbed a seat and shoveled a forkful in, grunting in thanks.
Okay, I could do this. There was no reason I needed to turn into a puddle of mush around Peter, and I was definitely strong enough to stop myself from being an idiot. Taking a seat, I crossed my legs and poured myself a glass of water, thankful for the liquid. Claude had given me quite a workout - first one I'd had since Ivy that had actually challenged me (and hadn't come from someone trying to take my head off).
Ah, awkward silences.
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Shoveling food into his mouth, Peter glanced up at Claude, and absently wondered when the man had actually eaten decently. Living as Claude did probably didn't lend itself to eating hot meals, unless he wandered into restaurants and stole them.
"When was the last time you ate something decent and healthy?" Peter asked suddenly, eyeing Claude in concern. There were some serious physical drawbacks to not eating properly!
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Claude ducked as Rachel flicked a piece of tomato at him, chewing his mouthful around a large grin. "Don't worry yourself, Petrelli, amazingly enough I can take care of myself just fine. Don't need you or your little girlfriend to make sure my belly's full or I've got a place to sleep. Whole lifetime of practice, and never once needed a keeper."
"Ivy and I had a deal," Rachel said abruptly, apparently sick of Claude's monologuing. "She'd go grocery shopping and I'd cook dinner." She paused, then grinned a little, fork halfway to her mouth. "Well, that had less to do with my cooking skills and more with the death threat that made it slightly difficult for me to leave the house. But still. Lots of experience in making meals. I like it. It's soothing."
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Despite his words, Peter still alternated between looking at his food and looking at Claude in concern. He couldn't help it, Claude was someone that mattered to him, and therefore someone he worried over. If he felt Claude needed sweaters, he probably would try to knit.
Wait, what. "Death threats?" Peter raised his eyebrows at Rachel. "Why did you have death threats? Do you still have death threats?"
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He was silently laughing at me, though, when said cow eyes got turned on me. Grimacing, I pushed a bit of chicken around on my plate. Oh. Crap. I'd forgotten he didn't know. "Yeah," I shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "When I quit my job, they put out a death threat on me. Sent a demon after me, some fairy assassins, stuff like that. A few black charms aimed at me. I got out of it." With Ivy and Jenks - if not for them, my ass would have been grass the first day. "And, um, kind of? There's a few people who wouldn't mind if I turned up in the obits." Again I shrugged and offered him a smile. "It's not a big deal. Mostly they're back in Cinci. And I've got it covered."
Maybe he'd drop it if I just glossed over the nasty details?
"Want more bread?" I asked Peter with a hopeful smile, ignoring Claude's all out smirking. Jerk.
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And he supposed the death threats were understandable, in Rachel's line of work. That they were 'mostly' back where she came from made Peter frown, but he didn't pursue it - she looked unhappy enough even talking about it. Great, he was stuck a table with two decidely unwilling to be emotional people. Not that he didn't appreciate it when Rachel reached out, but seriously, all of this non-emotional lack of contact was going to drive him insane.
"Thanks," Peter mumbled, grabbing some bread and dropping it on to his plate. He could probably eat enough for four - must have been all that energy he'd burnt during the work out.
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Oh, crap, now everyone was being all pissy. And after Peter and I had been doing so well. I was blaming it on Claude. Stupid human.
Nudging Peter's leg with my foot I shot him a quick smile, mentally searching for a topic. Something that had nothing to do with death threats or cows - which for me was actually way harder than it sounded.
"Did I ever tell you I can turn into a mink?"
I was so the queen of random.
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Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, Peter raised an eyebrow and stared at Rachel. "You can? ...Huh," Peter said, clearly baffled, mostly from the complete randomness of the topic change.
Turning into an animal would be quite handy, he assumed. Maybe something awesome, like a crocodile. Or a lion. Or a T-Rex. Temporarily drawn off into dream land about which animal would be cool to turn into, Peter stared down at his pasta, frowning in thought.
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Torn between blasting Claude into the ever after and just running away, I chose the latter. Without a word, face pale and hands shaking with rage and embarrassment, I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping nosily on the floor. Unable to even look at Peter, I mumbled something about a shower and fled into the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I sat on the edge of the tub and rested my head in my hands, trying to think of anything but the jeering sound of Claude's voice.
Once Rachel had fled, Claude huffed a sigh. "Well thank God for clean air and small favors, yeah? Never thought we'd be rid of her. Come on, then, you're not housebroken yet."
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Shocked, Peter stared after Rachel as she left the table, and then promptly turned that same look on Claude, with an edge of accusation. "Claude!" He sputtered, appalled. "That was- you- you didn't need to say that!"
He thought about going after Rachel and trying to talk to her, tell her that Claude didn't mean what he said (which was probably a lie). But he knew Rachel was too stubborn, and Claude had effectively pushed her past the point where kind words would work. With a low grown, Peter pushed his plate away and dropped his forehead onto the table.
"I'm not training any more today," he said to the table. And, as afterthought, added, "I'm surrounded by crazy people."
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He paused, then his face fell into its usual scowl. "And you're done training when I say you are. Not going to get anywhere if you mope about like a kicked puppy when everyone isn't getting along. Besides, I'm going to try and show you how to stop being a giant mirror and actually figure out what voice in your head is you and what's just you picking up on other people. Got to get your head on straight or else you'll just go mad."
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Christ. Was that why Rachel liked making innuendo at him and touching him whenever possible? Because she would much rather sleep with him than get to know him?
Peter sighed hopelessly and considered smashing his head into the table so many times that it would take a few hours for his brain to heal. It seemed like a better alternative than thinking about anything.
"Great, tell me how that goes, then. I'll be the guy that's passed out as soon as I try and use anything more," Peter replied. "Good luck with that." Couldn't Claude wait until tomorrow, at least?
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Lesson on people - a subject Claude considered himself an expert on - done, he shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and hopped back up. "Stop whining or I'll get out my stick," he grinned savagely. "You're not going to be using anything but your brain. Most underused muscle in your body, and that's saying something." Nudging back Peter's chair with one foot, Claude led the way back into the training room. "Besides, if we're lucky, your girlfriend will slink out while we're busy and we won't have to see her again."
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He detoured to the bedroom, and ripped a piece of paper from his sketchpad, scribbling a quick message on it. Peter thought about trying to talk to Rachel, but he'd give her some time alone. So he just slipped the note under the bathroom door:
Sorry. Sometimes I wish I could muzzle him. Do you think they make muzzles for people? We should buy one, so he can still help but be quiet.
With that, Peter made his way into the training room, casting the occasional annoyed glance at Claude.
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"Right, so, you're an empath," he started abruptly. "And that means you've got your sticky little fingers in everyone else's feelings. Which is a good thing, mostly, except you have no idea how to control it. So you're smearing everything all together and calling it your own and not doing a damn bit of good to anyone. So we're going to shove everything of you into a glass fishbowl in your brain, so that all your own emotions can swim about without getting lost in everyone else."
He paused. "Think you can handle that? Or should I get big brother in here to hold your hand?"
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After Claude finished his explanation, Peter relaxed in relief - good, no more powers today - and settled down into a sitting position. Should his joints really be cracking like that at his age? God, it had been a long day.
But this sounded okay; a lot more like meditation or something similar. Just a mental exercise. And he was beginning to trust more in Claude's methods. Even though being pushed certainly wasn't fun, it was helping.
"So, focusing my thoughts and emotions, I get it," Peter nodded. To his credit, he didn't crack a smirk when he continued, apparently quite seriously. "Is there going to be pilates as well? Do we need candles, or crystals? I think Rachel has herbs."
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