"The Pigeons, the Purse, the Pretzel, and Peter"
My most recent Plaude fic; a slightly crack!fic (but only slightly, because I'm not used to writing humor) written for trippypeas on her recent birthday. I wrote this quickly but it was fun. :)
Title: The Pigeons, the Purse, the Pretzel, and Peter
Author: Saena
Rating: PG
Fandom, Pairing: Heroes, Peter/Claude
Also Posted At: peterandclaude
Seven years is a long time to be alone. Claude had done a lot of standing on the outside looking in, and he knew better than anyone else that all that time apart from human contact did a serious number on a person’s mind. But worse than the loneliness and defensiveness that the whole experience had left him with was the realization that Claude had nearly given his heart to a bunch of pigeons. That was the most terrifying thought of all.
The birds in question cooed familiarly at him as he replaced the feed in their cages, but Claude could only scowl. He was still fond of them, but it kind of disturbed him when he considered that they’d been the closest thing he had to a best friend for a long time. I mean, whose best friends were pigeons? Honestly. Pathetic was what he was.
But no more pathetic, he thought, than Peter and that ridiculous purse. He had tossed it into the boy’s hands as a test, a challenge to see if he could sustain his invisibility. But to Claude’s great chagrin, he had actually kept the thing. It just sat there in his flat, looking suspicious and out-of-place. Claude threw his coat on top of it every time he came over, and kept trying to cover it with things so he wouldn’t feel like it was looking at him. One day he was just going to get rid of it- steal it when the empath wasn’t around and throw it out a window or something. Then again, he didn’t know if it was worth the whining he’d hear from Peter when the theft was discovered.
The boy liked pretzels too. This was another thing Claude had learned on their walks through the city. He got so excited about stopping at pretzel stands that Claude was sure someone would mistake him for a tourist, instead of a New Yorker who had probably seen pretzel vendors every day on his way to work for years now. Peter liked his pretzels plain, with just a little salt. When he got one that was too salty, he would make a face which the British man found so purely adorable that he had to work hard to stop from staring. Consequently, anytime Claude bought pretzels he made sure Peter’s had a little more salt than he’d like.
He knew more about Peter than he’d expected to know when starting out. Aside from the pretzels, Peter also liked browsing through used bookstores for really cheesy romances and mysteries. Claude swore the empath read the worst books he’d ever heard of. He would come find Claude in the Literature section and show him his latest find, and no matter how much the other man protested, he would lean in close and read passages with the floweriest phrasing and most god-awful dialogue. And then he would laugh under his breath, and the laughter would concentrate in his eyes. Again, Claude would have to fight to look away.
The pigeons didn’t do those sorts of things. They ate, and they cooed, and they flew around, and they left messes on people’s windows. They weren’t as cute as Peter. It was sunrise, and the poodle was currently standing by the rooftop ledge. Last time Claude had checked, he had been staring down at the city below him. Now, though, he turned to see Peter’s eyes fixed on the sky, fascinated. And the boy was smiling. His face was lit up brighter than the horizon at that moment, consumed with some happy thought that no one else could see. This time, Claude couldn’t tear his gaze away.
It took Peter several seconds to realize that he was being stared at. When he did feel Claude’s eyes on him, he turned his head and grinned at the British man, then bounded over and threw his arms around him. “Beautiful day,” he exhaled, practically giggling.
Claude wondered briefly if Peter was drunk, but he couldn’t smell any alcohol on his lips. And he should know, because said lips were certainly close enough to his own at this point. Suddenly, he didn’t care what had gone to the pup’s head, because it was so bloody adorable that there was nothing else to do but kiss him right then. There goes your self-control, mate, he thought.
Pathetic.
~*~*~*~*~
Note: I've been really good about the html for italics and bolding so far, remembering to close the brackets and all that. But if I ever make a typo and miss one, let me know and I'll fix it so it looks nice. ;)
Sarah
Title: The Pigeons, the Purse, the Pretzel, and Peter
Author: Saena
Rating: PG
Fandom, Pairing: Heroes, Peter/Claude
Also Posted At: peterandclaude
Seven years is a long time to be alone. Claude had done a lot of standing on the outside looking in, and he knew better than anyone else that all that time apart from human contact did a serious number on a person’s mind. But worse than the loneliness and defensiveness that the whole experience had left him with was the realization that Claude had nearly given his heart to a bunch of pigeons. That was the most terrifying thought of all.
The birds in question cooed familiarly at him as he replaced the feed in their cages, but Claude could only scowl. He was still fond of them, but it kind of disturbed him when he considered that they’d been the closest thing he had to a best friend for a long time. I mean, whose best friends were pigeons? Honestly. Pathetic was what he was.
But no more pathetic, he thought, than Peter and that ridiculous purse. He had tossed it into the boy’s hands as a test, a challenge to see if he could sustain his invisibility. But to Claude’s great chagrin, he had actually kept the thing. It just sat there in his flat, looking suspicious and out-of-place. Claude threw his coat on top of it every time he came over, and kept trying to cover it with things so he wouldn’t feel like it was looking at him. One day he was just going to get rid of it- steal it when the empath wasn’t around and throw it out a window or something. Then again, he didn’t know if it was worth the whining he’d hear from Peter when the theft was discovered.
The boy liked pretzels too. This was another thing Claude had learned on their walks through the city. He got so excited about stopping at pretzel stands that Claude was sure someone would mistake him for a tourist, instead of a New Yorker who had probably seen pretzel vendors every day on his way to work for years now. Peter liked his pretzels plain, with just a little salt. When he got one that was too salty, he would make a face which the British man found so purely adorable that he had to work hard to stop from staring. Consequently, anytime Claude bought pretzels he made sure Peter’s had a little more salt than he’d like.
He knew more about Peter than he’d expected to know when starting out. Aside from the pretzels, Peter also liked browsing through used bookstores for really cheesy romances and mysteries. Claude swore the empath read the worst books he’d ever heard of. He would come find Claude in the Literature section and show him his latest find, and no matter how much the other man protested, he would lean in close and read passages with the floweriest phrasing and most god-awful dialogue. And then he would laugh under his breath, and the laughter would concentrate in his eyes. Again, Claude would have to fight to look away.
The pigeons didn’t do those sorts of things. They ate, and they cooed, and they flew around, and they left messes on people’s windows. They weren’t as cute as Peter. It was sunrise, and the poodle was currently standing by the rooftop ledge. Last time Claude had checked, he had been staring down at the city below him. Now, though, he turned to see Peter’s eyes fixed on the sky, fascinated. And the boy was smiling. His face was lit up brighter than the horizon at that moment, consumed with some happy thought that no one else could see. This time, Claude couldn’t tear his gaze away.
It took Peter several seconds to realize that he was being stared at. When he did feel Claude’s eyes on him, he turned his head and grinned at the British man, then bounded over and threw his arms around him. “Beautiful day,” he exhaled, practically giggling.
Claude wondered briefly if Peter was drunk, but he couldn’t smell any alcohol on his lips. And he should know, because said lips were certainly close enough to his own at this point. Suddenly, he didn’t care what had gone to the pup’s head, because it was so bloody adorable that there was nothing else to do but kiss him right then. There goes your self-control, mate, he thought.
Pathetic.
~*~*~*~*~
Note: I've been really good about the html for italics and bolding so far, remembering to close the brackets and all that. But if I ever make a typo and miss one, let me know and I'll fix it so it looks nice. ;)
Sarah