"Water-colored Life (In Five Parts)," Nathan/Claire, R
Title - Water-colored Life (In Five Parts)
Rating - R
Pairing - Nathan/Claire
Written for - heroes50 19. Apathy
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man," heavy sexuality
Summary - He isn’t the one she wanted to see, but he stands before her anyway - a breathing reminder of her failure
Disclaimer - I don't own "Heroes" nor the characters, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to give them back relatively unharmed.
i.
Three weeks of sleepless nights, nightmares of the brilliant flash, and her days are watercolors of a life that used to be her own. She did not save the world; she didn’t even save her family. Her cuts still heal before her eyes, but the special life she never wanted keeps intruding on the normal life she cannot live, and she wonders what her life would be if she had saved them (and the world); yet it doesn’t matter now because she has the life she always wanted.
But a knock at her door changes it all. Barefoot, scraggly beard and heavily lidded eyes stands right in front of her, and she moves to shut the door, heart in her ears an insistent loud thundering, but he catches her hand and that is when she knows it is all real.
He isn’t the one she wanted to see, but he stands before her anyway - a breathing reminder of her failure and she tentatively touches his cheek, the stubbled skin grazes her fingertips, and all the dreams of a smoother, paler face wash away in the face of her reality.
“You died.”
“I know.”
But she moves aside, letting him through the door into her life anyway.
ii.
Her mother eyes him suspiciously, a wild, mangy dog in her perfectly groomed kennel, and her father sighs and listens to her explanation. She knows not why she wants (needs) him to stay, but the mere thought of him walking out of that door burns her heart and her head until she curls into a ball on the floor - heaving and sobbing.
He sits quietly by her side. He does not protest her actions, but he doesn’t support her either, and with each passing minute of silence while her parents communicate with silent looks and nods, she wonders if it is all for naught.
Only once her father proclaims he can stay, does he open his mouth. “Thank you.” His voice is still hoarse from disuse and without the emotion she knows runs deep in his blood.
Her parents both nod tightly before leaving the room, and he finally turns to her, brown eyes trained on her small form, and she is shy and uncomfortable like the first night they met and he said he wanted to care for her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
She lies, she knows exactly why he should stay, but she cannot find the words to say what it is she needs nor cannot find the courage to admit them aloud; and from there, she knows he’ll be her downfall - a spiraling, dizzying circle of descent into depths unknown.
iii.
A month has passed; he found work at a local printing office, copying, labeling and mailing. The man with great ambitions she knew never shows his face, and only the diligence and efficiency of his work prove he is a Petrelli.
She expected the dreams to dissipate, but since he arrived, they are only more vivid and brilliant than ever before. She dreams of rushing and popping and burning and falling until she comes into consciousness, sweating and shaking, and she curls under her covers, wishing she wasn’t so afraid to seek comfort.
The house is silent, only her father’s soft snores and the minute ticking of the hall clock disrupt the peace, and when she wanders down to the living room, he sits, still as a statue, watching the clouds cover and uncover the moon.
She does not speak, but by the way he shifts over on the loveseat, he knows she is there. So, she goes and curls into his side, resting her head on his chest - listening to the strong, sure heartbeat speed up and slow beneath her.
He traces meaningless patterns on her back, his hand is warm through the thin fabric of her camisole, and just for a moment, she wishes he would stop - slow down so she can catch up, but the hand moves over and over and over across her back, up her arms, back down, and all the while his heart thunders in her ear.
“Have you slept?”
“No.”
She snuggles deeper into his side, offering comfort she cannot afford to give, and they fit together until the sun crests into the sky and the birds serenade the start of the day.
iv.
The heated yells, cries and words attract her to the door. The solid door is closed but she can feel the anger from here. The accusations are horrific, and if any were true (in reality, not her dreams), any defense she might find would never hold strong against her father’s firm, steely voice.
All the answers are too soft to hear, but she slides down the walls and waits. Her life is decided behind an oak paneled door, and she has no say. She wants a voice, but her mother has wandered around cluelessly for days, unaware of her daughter’s late night rendezvous, and no one else would see nor try to understand her - her fathers’ little girl.
The door swings open, and her father storms past - bristled and tense unlike she has ever seen, and for just a minute, she considers following him, comforting like the girl she was would have, but he pulls her into the room, and his rumpled appearance and deadened eyes focus on her lithe, short frame.
He draws his eyes up and down her figure in a careful, considering manner until she wants to scream, cry or kiss him to make the drowning feeling go away, and she takes four steps forward, hoping to stop it all, but his hand reaches forward catching her by the waist and keeping her at arm’s length.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
His soft, sad nod is the answer to the question neither asked, and her father divined, and all she wonders is how long before her circus act fails and she hits the ground - shattered and broken, without a net or an ability to save her.
v.
He is frantic, and she has less control than she ever believed possible, but his hands tell her that this is so right, and the popcorn ceiling is so sharp, focused and alive she has to believe he is right because the electric sparks on his skin as she grips hard into the unyielding muscle make it impossible to say no.
She wants to kiss him, like he kisses her neck (feather light), her breasts (insistent, demanding), her abdomen (caressing, possessive); she wants to feel every part of him until she pops, screaming and keening for more, but his lips are tracing a map over her skin as he lies heavy against her thigh and her body keeps on demanding more and more, but he strokes her one, two, three, and then he is kissing her - swallowing the screams that would have shattered the world.
The pain is less than she expects and the stars more brilliant than she could ever imagine, and she can do nothing more than move with and against him - a dizzying race to the finish. The shadows create images on his face - an illusion of peace and tranquility she has not seen since he died, but that only lasts a moment before he pushes and tightens and forces more, and he is kissing her again because it distracts them both before the world goes white - and the scream she might have had could have saved the world.
They lay together now, touching and stroking, and reveling the last few minutes. In the morning he will be gone, fade to an ashen memory with the rising sun like a vampire, and she’ll be alone for the first time since it all became too much. But she’ll have the memories, and as he carefully gathers his things and redresses - a dancer’s grace in the light of the moon - she wishes the moment would just stop and she could make it right.
“I wish this wasn’t goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye, Claire. It’s the beginning.”
His teeth flash white in his dark face, and for the first time she thinks that he might be alive, more than a ghost that is part of her watercolor world. She sits up, the sheet sliding away, and her skin isn’t as translucent in the moonlight as she thought, and she wonders if it is a sign.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kisses her one last time before he exits into the silent house broken by her father’s snoring and the tick-tock of the clock, and she falls back against the sheets, passing out until morning when she wakes without the echoes of screams and light haunting her, and she smiles softly into the pale gold of the new morning, where the clouds are defined and far from the water-colored mist of yesterday.
Rating - R
Pairing - Nathan/Claire
Written for - heroes50 19. Apathy
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man," heavy sexuality
Summary - He isn’t the one she wanted to see, but he stands before her anyway - a breathing reminder of her failure
Disclaimer - I don't own "Heroes" nor the characters, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to give them back relatively unharmed.
i.
Three weeks of sleepless nights, nightmares of the brilliant flash, and her days are watercolors of a life that used to be her own. She did not save the world; she didn’t even save her family. Her cuts still heal before her eyes, but the special life she never wanted keeps intruding on the normal life she cannot live, and she wonders what her life would be if she had saved them (and the world); yet it doesn’t matter now because she has the life she always wanted.
But a knock at her door changes it all. Barefoot, scraggly beard and heavily lidded eyes stands right in front of her, and she moves to shut the door, heart in her ears an insistent loud thundering, but he catches her hand and that is when she knows it is all real.
He isn’t the one she wanted to see, but he stands before her anyway - a breathing reminder of her failure and she tentatively touches his cheek, the stubbled skin grazes her fingertips, and all the dreams of a smoother, paler face wash away in the face of her reality.
“You died.”
“I know.”
But she moves aside, letting him through the door into her life anyway.
ii.
Her mother eyes him suspiciously, a wild, mangy dog in her perfectly groomed kennel, and her father sighs and listens to her explanation. She knows not why she wants (needs) him to stay, but the mere thought of him walking out of that door burns her heart and her head until she curls into a ball on the floor - heaving and sobbing.
He sits quietly by her side. He does not protest her actions, but he doesn’t support her either, and with each passing minute of silence while her parents communicate with silent looks and nods, she wonders if it is all for naught.
Only once her father proclaims he can stay, does he open his mouth. “Thank you.” His voice is still hoarse from disuse and without the emotion she knows runs deep in his blood.
Her parents both nod tightly before leaving the room, and he finally turns to her, brown eyes trained on her small form, and she is shy and uncomfortable like the first night they met and he said he wanted to care for her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
She lies, she knows exactly why he should stay, but she cannot find the words to say what it is she needs nor cannot find the courage to admit them aloud; and from there, she knows he’ll be her downfall - a spiraling, dizzying circle of descent into depths unknown.
iii.
A month has passed; he found work at a local printing office, copying, labeling and mailing. The man with great ambitions she knew never shows his face, and only the diligence and efficiency of his work prove he is a Petrelli.
She expected the dreams to dissipate, but since he arrived, they are only more vivid and brilliant than ever before. She dreams of rushing and popping and burning and falling until she comes into consciousness, sweating and shaking, and she curls under her covers, wishing she wasn’t so afraid to seek comfort.
The house is silent, only her father’s soft snores and the minute ticking of the hall clock disrupt the peace, and when she wanders down to the living room, he sits, still as a statue, watching the clouds cover and uncover the moon.
She does not speak, but by the way he shifts over on the loveseat, he knows she is there. So, she goes and curls into his side, resting her head on his chest - listening to the strong, sure heartbeat speed up and slow beneath her.
He traces meaningless patterns on her back, his hand is warm through the thin fabric of her camisole, and just for a moment, she wishes he would stop - slow down so she can catch up, but the hand moves over and over and over across her back, up her arms, back down, and all the while his heart thunders in her ear.
“Have you slept?”
“No.”
She snuggles deeper into his side, offering comfort she cannot afford to give, and they fit together until the sun crests into the sky and the birds serenade the start of the day.
iv.
The heated yells, cries and words attract her to the door. The solid door is closed but she can feel the anger from here. The accusations are horrific, and if any were true (in reality, not her dreams), any defense she might find would never hold strong against her father’s firm, steely voice.
All the answers are too soft to hear, but she slides down the walls and waits. Her life is decided behind an oak paneled door, and she has no say. She wants a voice, but her mother has wandered around cluelessly for days, unaware of her daughter’s late night rendezvous, and no one else would see nor try to understand her - her fathers’ little girl.
The door swings open, and her father storms past - bristled and tense unlike she has ever seen, and for just a minute, she considers following him, comforting like the girl she was would have, but he pulls her into the room, and his rumpled appearance and deadened eyes focus on her lithe, short frame.
He draws his eyes up and down her figure in a careful, considering manner until she wants to scream, cry or kiss him to make the drowning feeling go away, and she takes four steps forward, hoping to stop it all, but his hand reaches forward catching her by the waist and keeping her at arm’s length.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
His soft, sad nod is the answer to the question neither asked, and her father divined, and all she wonders is how long before her circus act fails and she hits the ground - shattered and broken, without a net or an ability to save her.
v.
He is frantic, and she has less control than she ever believed possible, but his hands tell her that this is so right, and the popcorn ceiling is so sharp, focused and alive she has to believe he is right because the electric sparks on his skin as she grips hard into the unyielding muscle make it impossible to say no.
She wants to kiss him, like he kisses her neck (feather light), her breasts (insistent, demanding), her abdomen (caressing, possessive); she wants to feel every part of him until she pops, screaming and keening for more, but his lips are tracing a map over her skin as he lies heavy against her thigh and her body keeps on demanding more and more, but he strokes her one, two, three, and then he is kissing her - swallowing the screams that would have shattered the world.
The pain is less than she expects and the stars more brilliant than she could ever imagine, and she can do nothing more than move with and against him - a dizzying race to the finish. The shadows create images on his face - an illusion of peace and tranquility she has not seen since he died, but that only lasts a moment before he pushes and tightens and forces more, and he is kissing her again because it distracts them both before the world goes white - and the scream she might have had could have saved the world.
They lay together now, touching and stroking, and reveling the last few minutes. In the morning he will be gone, fade to an ashen memory with the rising sun like a vampire, and she’ll be alone for the first time since it all became too much. But she’ll have the memories, and as he carefully gathers his things and redresses - a dancer’s grace in the light of the moon - she wishes the moment would just stop and she could make it right.
“I wish this wasn’t goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye, Claire. It’s the beginning.”
His teeth flash white in his dark face, and for the first time she thinks that he might be alive, more than a ghost that is part of her watercolor world. She sits up, the sheet sliding away, and her skin isn’t as translucent in the moonlight as she thought, and she wonders if it is a sign.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kisses her one last time before he exits into the silent house broken by her father’s snoring and the tick-tock of the clock, and she falls back against the sheets, passing out until morning when she wakes without the echoes of screams and light haunting her, and she smiles softly into the pale gold of the new morning, where the clouds are defined and far from the water-colored mist of yesterday.