". . . the shadows always return, stronger and darker than ever."
Title: Shadows
Fandom: Heroes
Character/Pairing: dark-future!Peter Petrelli, future!Claire Bennet, dark!Peter/Claire
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Angst, General
Spoilers: No real spoilers, mostly speculation for ep. 20.
Warnings: Mention of incest, AU-ish future setting
Word Count: 844
Notes: Written for my friend Joy, as part of a ficlet meme thing. Also, this is my first time actually writing something for this fandom, so be gentle? Please?
Summary: Inky darkness overtakes the light, extinguishing it as if it had never existed . . .
Shadows.
They lurk in all places, from the smallest corner of a room to the very center of the human heart. Inky darkness overtakes the light, extinguishing it as if it had never existed. Try and fight it all you want - the shadows always return, stronger and darker than ever.
Five years.
Five years since New York City was decimated, and so many friends and family died.
Five years since Peter Petrelli went nuclear, and ended the world as they knew it.
He still has the dreams, every now and then. Random nights, their significance to his previous life lost in the passage of time, he'll toss and turn in his bed, dreaming of those long gone, running from him in terror as the nightmare vision from so many years ago replays in his mind. He'll wake up screaming, sweatsoaked and unable to breathe, and won't settle back down until the woman at his side has calmed him again, bringing him back down to the bed.
She's as beautiful now as she was when he first met her, five years ago. She has aged, of course - they all have, since that time - but she's never lost her beauty. Youthful prettiness has given way to a more sensual, mature beauty, blonde curls replaced by soft brown waves. And those eyes - the same sad eyes he had commented on, so very long ago - have not changed. They've deepened, yes, the sadness growing with each additional death, but they're still the eyes that so captivated him from the start.
They are the eyes of the woman he loves.
His niece.
Even now, he occasionally wonders where it started; what had silenced his mind's continual whispers of Wrong, wrong, so very wrong. Niece, Nathan's daughter, wrong and sick and had driven them into bed the first time. Even now, he occasionally feels a pang of guilt for taking her as his own, when she was so young, so full of life . . . He stole that from her, as surely as he stole many other things. She has aged because of him; because of their life together.
Tonight is the five year anniversary of his explosion, and he feels it. He knows the significance of the day, in a way most others do not. Even she can't know what he feels, and he has no intention of explaining it.
He's silent as he leads a blindfolded Claire down a familiar hallway, their footsteps quiet on the concrete floors. He hasn't told her where they're going, the secret his and his alone. She squeezes his hand affectionately, her trust warming him just a tiny bit - just enough for the guilt to stir, for a split-second, before being promptly shoved back down. He won't tell her what he has in mind, and he knows better than to say anything at all, lest she read it in his voice. She's gotten too good at that, as of late . . .
"Where are we going?" Her voice is as sweet as it used to be, her soft Texan accent still there, after all this time.
"Can't tell you. That'd ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?" He tries to make sure his own is laughing just a bit, to put her at ease.
There's the sound of a door shutting as they slow, and he leads her inside another room, the door scraping along the concrete as it opens and closes. This is it - he knows it deep in his gut, and once more the guilt tries to worm its way out, only to be tramped down again. There's no time for guilt or feelings. Not this time.
The blindfold remains on her eyes as he leans in, pressing a heated, wanting kiss to her lips. She returns it in kind, as she always does, her arms starting to wrap around him again. He stops her, his hands taking hold of her wrists as he kisses her hard and long, memorizing the taste of her on his lips and tongue.
Both of their ears are greeted with the sound of a lock clicking into place, and the feel of cold metal closing around her wrist as he removes the blindfold.
The room is familiar, though not in a way either would like to admit; it's the same room her false father kept Sylar in, all that time ago . . .and there is a shackle attached to her wrist now, holding her in place against the wall. Her betrayed gaze is enough for Peter, and he pulls back, his hands burying themselves in his pockets as he moves to the window, where Thompson stands watching.
"Sorry, kiddo. It's just business . . . You understand."
With a rustle of fabric from his trenchcoat Peter's gone, the cell door shutting and clicking behind him.
The shadows are always there, in the corners of our mind. We run all we like, and deny them anything we can. But sooner or later, the shadows come back, and they always will.
They have all the time in the world.
All the shadows have to do is wait.
Fandom: Heroes
Character/Pairing: dark-future!Peter Petrelli, future!Claire Bennet, dark!Peter/Claire
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Angst, General
Spoilers: No real spoilers, mostly speculation for ep. 20.
Warnings: Mention of incest, AU-ish future setting
Word Count: 844
Notes: Written for my friend Joy, as part of a ficlet meme thing. Also, this is my first time actually writing something for this fandom, so be gentle? Please?
Summary: Inky darkness overtakes the light, extinguishing it as if it had never existed . . .
Shadows.
They lurk in all places, from the smallest corner of a room to the very center of the human heart. Inky darkness overtakes the light, extinguishing it as if it had never existed. Try and fight it all you want - the shadows always return, stronger and darker than ever.
Five years.
Five years since New York City was decimated, and so many friends and family died.
Five years since Peter Petrelli went nuclear, and ended the world as they knew it.
He still has the dreams, every now and then. Random nights, their significance to his previous life lost in the passage of time, he'll toss and turn in his bed, dreaming of those long gone, running from him in terror as the nightmare vision from so many years ago replays in his mind. He'll wake up screaming, sweatsoaked and unable to breathe, and won't settle back down until the woman at his side has calmed him again, bringing him back down to the bed.
She's as beautiful now as she was when he first met her, five years ago. She has aged, of course - they all have, since that time - but she's never lost her beauty. Youthful prettiness has given way to a more sensual, mature beauty, blonde curls replaced by soft brown waves. And those eyes - the same sad eyes he had commented on, so very long ago - have not changed. They've deepened, yes, the sadness growing with each additional death, but they're still the eyes that so captivated him from the start.
They are the eyes of the woman he loves.
His niece.
Even now, he occasionally wonders where it started; what had silenced his mind's continual whispers of Wrong, wrong, so very wrong. Niece, Nathan's daughter, wrong and sick and had driven them into bed the first time. Even now, he occasionally feels a pang of guilt for taking her as his own, when she was so young, so full of life . . . He stole that from her, as surely as he stole many other things. She has aged because of him; because of their life together.
Tonight is the five year anniversary of his explosion, and he feels it. He knows the significance of the day, in a way most others do not. Even she can't know what he feels, and he has no intention of explaining it.
He's silent as he leads a blindfolded Claire down a familiar hallway, their footsteps quiet on the concrete floors. He hasn't told her where they're going, the secret his and his alone. She squeezes his hand affectionately, her trust warming him just a tiny bit - just enough for the guilt to stir, for a split-second, before being promptly shoved back down. He won't tell her what he has in mind, and he knows better than to say anything at all, lest she read it in his voice. She's gotten too good at that, as of late . . .
"Where are we going?" Her voice is as sweet as it used to be, her soft Texan accent still there, after all this time.
"Can't tell you. That'd ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?" He tries to make sure his own is laughing just a bit, to put her at ease.
There's the sound of a door shutting as they slow, and he leads her inside another room, the door scraping along the concrete as it opens and closes. This is it - he knows it deep in his gut, and once more the guilt tries to worm its way out, only to be tramped down again. There's no time for guilt or feelings. Not this time.
The blindfold remains on her eyes as he leans in, pressing a heated, wanting kiss to her lips. She returns it in kind, as she always does, her arms starting to wrap around him again. He stops her, his hands taking hold of her wrists as he kisses her hard and long, memorizing the taste of her on his lips and tongue.
Both of their ears are greeted with the sound of a lock clicking into place, and the feel of cold metal closing around her wrist as he removes the blindfold.
The room is familiar, though not in a way either would like to admit; it's the same room her false father kept Sylar in, all that time ago . . .and there is a shackle attached to her wrist now, holding her in place against the wall. Her betrayed gaze is enough for Peter, and he pulls back, his hands burying themselves in his pockets as he moves to the window, where Thompson stands watching.
"Sorry, kiddo. It's just business . . . You understand."
With a rustle of fabric from his trenchcoat Peter's gone, the cell door shutting and clicking behind him.
The shadows are always there, in the corners of our mind. We run all we like, and deny them anything we can. But sooner or later, the shadows come back, and they always will.
They have all the time in the world.
All the shadows have to do is wait.